An author visit with added sock

Yesterday I was at Stamford High School for my first author visit of 2020; I'd been asked back three years after my first visit, to speak to Year 7 about writing and to run a short exercise on creative writing.

It was a glorious drive over the hills to Stamford - spring green in the fields nearer to Leicestershire, (though that was probably grass - the ground's still far too wet in places to plough and plant yet) and a deep red in Lincolnshire, (must be drier higher up) with the road undulating up and down like tarmacked waves. I always drive with music when I'm on my own - my CD of choice yesterday was a compilation by Fat Boy Slim, and as 'Bird of Prey' began to play, I saw not one, but two buzzards. Gosh, but they are HUGE!

I had no problem finding a place to park in Stamford, and stood watching what I think was a red kite soaring over the park. It had a deep red-brown underside and forked tail, anyway. The walk up to the school was a bit blustery, but I stopped off at St Martin's Church on the way up the hill. Last time I visited the school I sat on the church steps to eat pizza for lunch - this time, the church was open so I popped inside. It's a beautiful and peaceful building, with some really beautiful stained glass and monuments.

As to the visit itself...I had lunch with Miss S, who'd organised the visit, and a couple of other staff members. (Worth mentioning the conveyor belt to take the trays of plates away...could've played with that for a while!) And then we went to the library to meet the Book Club.

Now I've received little gifts in the past from students, but the Book Club showered me with things they'd made. The girls had been encouraged to read the Scribbles to find out a bit about me before I visited, so there were plenty of links to books, liquorice and socks!

little books (including a teensy tiny one!), origami, bracelet, cherryade,
beginnings of stories, envelopes, fortune teller and sock!

And to prove that the sock I was given fitted, here it is on my foot:

We had squash and biscuits and lots of questions, then it was time to head down to the hall (a different one to last time) to meet the whole year group. A fair few girls were presented with their merit badges before we began, then I was introduced.

I did the usual 'this is me, how I got into writing and how I go about writing' talk, then we got creative. Last time, I used my paint samples to inspire; this time I decided to use a character to spark ideas. At this point, I must credit the lovely Julie Cohen, because I attended her character workshop at York some years ago, and used some of the ideas from that but simplified them for the girls.

Eighty-seven girls got to work - and eighty-seven new characters were created. The hardest bit of the entire session wasn't getting them involved, it was getting my voice to carry. The hall was large, and my voice is still affected by this coughing virus I've had. (Six weeks and counting, but yes I've had it checked and my chest is clear...) There were some lovely ideas shared; Caleb, the slight ten year old boy who wore an oversized red sweatshirt. The object of importance which was the key to the character's heart. (Imagine, an actual key to your heart.) A cat as a character - which meant the student had to think about how to convey dialogue when it came to the character 'speaking'. Quite a few of the girls went above and beyond what I'd set them to do, and the pantsers got to work creating whole storylines...

It never ceases to amaze me how, when students are given free rein in writing sessions, so many of them can pick up an idea and run with it, without internal censoring or second guessing themselves. There's a freedom that I don't think our educational system allows students to have, which a visit like mine can allow - at least for a short time.

I really enjoyed myself - and I think the vast majority of the girls did, too. I hope that some of them will keep on writing, and one day I'll be reading their stories!

With thanks to Miss S for inviting me, to the Book Club for asking the best questions and for all my gifts, and for the whole of Year 7 for engaging so well in the workshop.

When a picture paints (not quite) a thousand words...

Late posting this - life seems to be running away with me rather at the moment, but I'm working on the view that it's better late than never!

Last week's NIBS meeting was all about pictures. Each of us took a picture prompt to the meeting and when we'd seen all of them, chose one to write about. There was a magnified damsel fly's head, a monk-scribe, ladies at Ascot wearing fabulous hats, a fantasy castle, and a tray set out with a teapot and cups. Mine was a picture of a robot, surrounded by piles of books and reading a large book, which in spite of some other interesting pics, I decided to use. The piece isn't finished or very polished, but you can see the shape of it and what it might become;

The order came through to Z38's digi-brain at 26:03.1. 

CLEAR LEVEL MINUS THIRTY TWO.

ACKNOWLEDGED Z38 shot back to digicentral, before beginning its descent. By 28:13.2, it had reached its destination. Without hesitation, it pulled the incinibin towards the first pile to be destroyed.

Z38 worked methodically, selecting precisely a 3 span measurement to fit the incinibin's opening. Even if that meant taking a portion of a whole; the programme would not allow a deviation in thickness of more than 0.1 span.

Alone on the level, Z38 worked on, clearing pile after pile, until the inbuilt timescan hit 30:03.0.
Somewhere in the circuitry, a new connection was made. Z38 froze. And accepted a new order.
Then, it selected 0.765 span of material, a measurement precisely contained within two battered but still solid retaining boards. 

Z38 lowered itself onto a pile measuring 2.5 span and flipped the top retaining board open. Inside were thin sheets of material, covered in an unfamiliar code...which Z38 assimilated and sent to a computer system beyond digicentral's reach, where a printer began churning out the assimilated code.

'IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES, IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES...' 


Our second exercise was to write using the same picture for everybody. I'd chosen two along similar themes, and couldn't decide, so I asked the group 'black and white, or colour?' They chose black and white. Here it is:

We had all sorts of pieces resulting from just this image... A dark world, where the mask was used to suck juice - but if the juice touched your lips, the penalty was death; a dialogue between the crow and the man with eyes to the right and nose to the left; a museum of mannequins, with the murder victim hidden behind the mask; a devious plot which used the mechanical crow as a device; a masked fancy dress celebration, where the eyes gave away the identity of the person... And then I wrote something really dark! (With a nod to Rod Duncan, whose novel The Queen of All Crows gave me the idea for the title of the man...)

The Keeper of Crows surveyed the land from the same knoll where previously, the King had stood and watched too. Royalty had long since departed - round about the same time it became obvious that victory lay with The Elite, not the peasantry.

There would be few spoils of note on this field, for the peasants had had little. In fact - and a low chuckle sounded in The Keeper's throat at the thought - they had much less now, for even their lifeblood was leaving them, draining into the soil and turning it to red-brown mud.

Even so, The Keeper would send the automaton to lead the flock and find what petty pickings there might be. The royal side had not been completely unscathed; Sir Arndal had fallen, and Count D'Eakk. Their jewel studded armour would be stripped soon enough if the birds went in fast.

The battle was drawing to a close. The Keeper could sense it. If he waited much longer, the human scavengers would begin the crows' work, chancing their sight on plucking loot from the dead and dying before his feathered conspirators descended to snatch back the treasure...and maybe an eye or two while they were at it.

The Keeper scratched the place where the mask's edge always caught his cheek, thankful that his true identity was contained behind the golden beak. Then he flicked the switch on the automaton and threw it into the air, his heart leaping as it took flight. A million black birds responded, erupting from the tree tops behind him. 

It feels to me like there's more to this particular story...I may turn it into a longer piece, as I have a challenge coming up and I can sort of see where my tentative ideas for that might benefit from a character like this...

Getting reaquainted

I've been having some issues with the plot of my WIP - working title Black Diamond - recently. Even given that it's been too hot to really think, and I know I'm more of a pantser than a planner, all the threads just weren't coming together.

I blogged about it on the Word Cloud, and received some really helpful suggestions. (You can read about them here, in Plotting Panic)

As you'll see if you read the blog, I finally recognised that I'd had a similar problem before; I caught myself writing 'I know what happens...I know what my characters will do.' The important bit there is 'I' knew. I wasn't giving my characters enough room to breathe and do their own thing, tell their own story. I was trying to force my version of the story upon them.

Once I'd realised that, I apologized to my MC, Tilda, and decided to reaquaint myself with her by doing something really simple.

I read the book I'd already written about her.

Now, Mage of Merjan isn't polished. In fact, I saw lots of things that still need to be addressed before it's published. But I forced myself to read it without a pen in my hand - vital to do, I've found, if you want to read as a reader rather than as a writer. It's all too easy to take your focus from the story to how you've used the words that tell it, if you see what I mean?

Anyway. I re-read Tilda's first adventure. And it was like connecting with an old friend. I reminded myself of her courage, of her questioning mind, of how in all things she is seeking to be and do the best she can, while learning about the Power that her homeland relies on.

I picked up Black Diamond and re-read what I'd written so far. I added comments in capitals in places where I knew I'd have to address issues Tilda's way - not mine - and then I carried on writing from where I'd left off.

Yesterday, I added another 5000 words, and revealed a major plot point - all because I allowed Tilda to tell it from her point of view.

So. If you're stuck in your writing, whether it's a series or a standalone, perhaps you need to ask yourself if you're forgetting whose story it really is...

It's Sequel Time!

Actually, I'm not sure if that's strictly true - is it a sequel if you're writing book two in a planned series of five?

I had a quick look round the web for clarification, and it appears that actually, I am writing a series, not a sequel. I found some pretty useful information, like this - how to write a great series - from NY Book Editors. And this - mistakes to avoid - from Now Novel.

I suppose I wrote the first book of the series - working title The Mage of Merjan - so it could be read as a stand alone title, because I had no idea when I began to write it whether I or it was ever going to be published. (Fun fact: by comparison, StarMark started of as a series of three books but came together as one complete story.)

But in my head, the original story of this particular series was always much bigger than one book. There were five regions on the island where the story's set, and I wanted my main character to visit each of them in turn. Each visit to a new region would present a fresh adventure for the main character while continuing to expose them to a formidable enemy.

Incidentally, I was told by an agent in a 1-2-1 once that there was no point in writing this series as five books. I should just have three, because he said so. I smiled sweetly, bit my tongue (Harry Potter has seven, books, so what's wrong with longer series?) and carried on anyway.

When I read the articles on series writing, I was relieved to see that my approach - to plan the whole series pretty much up front - was actually a Good Thing to do, especially for fantasy. It means there's one BIG story arc which overlays however many books, but underneath are multiple smaller story arcs, with each book finishing off at least one. This is different to the kind of series where each book presents a complete and separate incident for the same central character - something like Agatha Christie's Poirot, for example.

So where am I up to with book number two of five? The outline is planned - I know what's going to happen and to who, and where the story finishes ready to move on into book three - and I've begun to type it up.

Already, one difficulty is deciding how much book one story to repeat in book two, so that readers new to the series are informed, but those who've read book one won't be going over too much old ground. It's a fine balance, and will probably have to be tested at the beta reading stage by those who have read The Mage of Merjan and by some who haven't.

I've also noticed a new addition to the Doubt Demon family since I've begun the typing up. It's only a little fella, but he keeps whispering 'what's the point of writing the second book if you don't know whether the first will ever be published?'

? ?  ? ? ? ?  

I can't give him the answer, so I'll ignore him as much as I can at the moment. And in the meantime, I'll carry on writing the continuation of Tilda's story in the hope that someone, somewhere, will like the concept enough to publish the entire series.

Going Deep...

Point of View. It's the view that you , as the writer, choose to tell your reader the story from. (If you've got this far and have no idea what I'm on about, check out this post on The Itch of Writing for the basics about point of view).

When I wrote Granny Rainbow, one of my first readers said they reminded her of Enid Blyton. (Which I like to think was a compliment). And bearing in mind how many Enid Blyton stories I read as a child, then it makes sense that I would stick to what I knew.

'Deep' POV is something rather modern by comparison. This article 'What is Deep Point of View?'  describes how the reader is immersed in the character - seeing only what the character sees, knows only what they know, feels only what they feel...

Now, I thought that this was pretty much the same as 'showing' rather than 'telling' in a story. Which, I am pleased to note, I do a lot of already. For me, finding the deep point of view is a staged process. I often find myself drafting a 'told' story until there is sufficient shape to it that I can see the whole course of the novel. Then - and only then - do I jump into my MC's head and 'go deep' into their POV, rewriting the story as my character would be experiencing it.

It makes me wonder whether there is a crossover with psychic distance, too - or if, in fact, the deep POV which the author of the original article refers to IS, in fact, psychic distance and not POV at all... Have a look at this second blog of Emma Darwin's, see what you think. I reckon deep POV is about level 4 or 5 on the psychic distance scale?

When you're writing like that though, it's a fine balance between immersing your reader deep in your character's experience, and not overwhelming them with a character so alien to themselves, they can't relate to the (possible) brain-dump you're inflicting on them on behalf of your character. It can take a while for that deep character to 'click' with the reader - and some readers may be so alienated by the way the story is presented, they don't read on. I know - I've stopped reading certain books myself because I couldn't get to grips with how deeply I was expected to be in the characters' world view. Trainspotting was one...

Some of my favourite recent reads written with - I think - this deep POV or close psychic distance, are Home by Amanda Berriman, The Night Rainbow by Claire King, Red Sister by Mark Lawrence, and Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracey Chevalier.

Oh - and if you want to try one of mine which has a deeper POV, opt for Kingstone.

Reunited... and a blast from the past

Yesterday, I met up with some friends from my schooldays, who I had not seen since I was eighteen.

That was thirty two years ago. Eeek!

We had a great time catching up with each others' lives and reminiscing about our time at Limehurst High School and Burleigh Community College. And we're going to have to do it all again soon, as one of our little group had to cancel at the last minute because of poorly offspring.

The best thing about meeting up after so long was that I was forced to look through my keepsake boxes for photos and momentos from that time; my mum always carefully clipped articles out of the local rag if we were in them, and saved programmes from school events, reports etc etc.

Here's a newspaper cutting of the Limehurst Award winners of 1981...

I'm the one on the front row with her head helpfully circled (!); Muninder is on the second row, directly over my right shoulder; Helen is on the far right of the second row, and Penny is on the third row back, fourth in from the left.

We sat trying to put names to faces on this picture - I can remember a lot of them, but not all...Reman, Sally, Adrienne, Elizabeth, Pauline, Stephanie, Michelle, Lyn, another Helen, Bridget...

Helen and I were both at primary school together too, as demonstrated in this rather wonderful pic from a school production, where we were beggars. (We worked out it wasn't the one where we sang Beatles' songs, but I cannot for the life of me remember what this one was about!)

Back row (L to R): Tracey, Deborah, Mark, Samantha, Anne

Front row (L to R): Helen, Helen, yours truly and Alex

Then there was this one. 

I can only assume it was a music group or choir-y photo, because some of the folks have recorders. Goodness only knows why I was pulling the face I am... third in from the right on the front row (again). Helen's third in from the left on the same row. This one also has lots of my neighbours and friends too - Marianne, Rebecca, Catharine, Steve, Elizabeth, Mark. Wonder where they all are now?

There's also a rather fetching pic of me in a wimple, singing. I seem to recall I had to sing Greensleeves in the local park. Heaven alone knows why.

Anyway... You know I mentioned Mum kept all our school reports? I found my Holywell junior ones (that's Y3-6 in modern terms) and had a laugh over what the teachers had written - especially about my creative writing. Take a look...

1975:

'Her creative writing is imaginative and carefully expressed with colourful descriptions and good vocabulary.'

'Katherine works hard but fairly slowly.' (in Maths)

'She works hard and responds well in PE and seems to enjoy herself.'

1976:

'Her spelling and vocabulary are extremely good. She puts these to good use in her creative writing, which is always lively and interesting, and sustained at length.' (Teacher speak for 'she doesn't half go on!?)

'Katherine has a very fine singing voice, and a good sense of rhythm, and thoroughly enjoys music.'

1977:

'Creative English has been outstanding...She is able to express feelings and details and shows a sympathy for her characters. She writes lengthy stories...and her work is most enjoyable to read.'

'PE is more difficult for her. She is slight and has no great strength, but she does well in gymnastics. Games lessons she does not enjoy.' (I hated PE with a vengeance!)

'She enjoys making dramatic statements which produce a howl of protest from the class and enjoys tantalising them with some of the roles she assumes!' (I honestly have no idea what on earth I used to do to deserve this!)

1978:

'Katherine has worked carefully and methodically, if a little slowly, at Mathematics...'

'In her creative English work, Katherine is highly imaginative...Her stories are lengthy and follow a well developed plot. The excitement generated by the dialogue and the action shows that Katherine derives much pleasure from writing her stories...Her extensive vocabulary reflects her love of words and the depth of her reading.'

'She sang and danced with energy and flair in the Christmas play.' (Wonder if that was the wizard and beggar one?)

'...always works to the best of her limited ability in PE and games.'


It made me laugh that, all the way through, maths is slow and methodical. Still is, if I'm honest.  Music and drama feature a fair bit - I loved performing. PE certainly went downhill over the four years, though - I remember taking part in the Five Star Awards, scraping a one star award in my third year and being so terrible in the fourth year, I didn't even get that. On Sports Day, I was always the egg-and-spooner or sack race candidate...

But in writing - my word. I would be extremely pleased to get this kind of feedback now! I hadn't realised that I was considered quite so good at writing back then. I remember enjoying it, and using my imagination, but good? It seems a shame that I lost all of that excitement and skill during my further studies and working life and only rediscovered - and to some extent, re-learned - the love of reading and writing when my own children came along.

But thank goodness I did. Belated thanks to Miss Cartlidge, Mrs Johnson, Mrs Bennett and Mrs Creasey for their kind words back then. I wonder if, when they read my 'lengthy stories' all thoses years ago, they had any idea that one day, I'd be a published author?

I'm off to look for some of my Limehurst and Burleigh reports now, see whether the trends in certain subjects continued!

Ask the Laureate (or - The Day I met Chris Riddell!)

Up front - this is a long blog post! Make yourself comfy while you read it!

Sometimes in life, you're lucky enough to meet the very people whose work you have enjoyed and loved for a long time and who inspire you in your own efforts.

Yesterday, I met one of those someones, because yesterday - as part of Leicester City's 'Everybody's Reading' Festival - I went with Laura Buckland (Granny Rainbow illustrator) to an Ask the Laureate event.

Which meant I met Chris Riddell.

*pause while I run round the room, squeeeing with excitement. Again. Afraid I did a lot of that yesterday*

In case you don't know, Chris is the current Waterstones Children's Laureate and he is the most amazing illustrator, storyteller and all round lovely person. (He's also apparently the Children's Laundrette, according to a friend of his who is German and got her words a little confused when she congratulated him on his appointment!)

I first saw Chris's drawings in The Edge Chronicles, a series created by him and Paul Stewart, when I used to go the library a lot more with the Squidgelings. While they found their books in the children's library, I used to find mine - in the same place. As soon as I saw The Edge Chronicles I loved the detail in Chris's pictures, the imagination he had, his masterful characterisation and how perfectly he seemed to capture the world of The Edge Chronicles in the 'simple' strokes of a pencil.

I was hooked. A quiet fan.

(As an aside - Squidgeling T also likes Chris's style; three years ago he used Chris for a school art project about an author study.)

When I wrote Granny Rainbow, Chris's style of characterisation became the inspiration for the pictures I asked Laura to create for the book - which we told Chris yesterday. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to the story...

From Sunflower Saturday in a copy of Granny Rainbow I
added red noses to for a charity sale at the last Red Nose Day

Over the years, I've bought books like Goth Girl (a beautiful thing - I blogged about it here) and The Graveyard Book, and I began following Chris on facebook because he posts sketches on there from his personal notebooks as well as his Laureate Log. Never a day goes by without one of his sneaky train passenger portraits...or someone famous he's met...or something inspired by poetry or music or current affairs. I love it!

The first verse of a poem by Neil Gaiman that Chris drew on the way to Leicester.
You can see the other verses he illustrated on the way home on his
facebook page in the album 'Witch Work'.

Anyway, whilst browsing the old Book of Face a couple of weeks ago, I found out - purely by chance - that the Everybody's Reading Festival was hosting an Ask the Laureate event.

I knew I had to go.

Laura came with me. We submitted our questions for the Laureate and sat together (to start with - I gave up my seat for some little girls who I thought might see better, before discovering they'd moved elsewhere and I daren't move again, so we ended up sitting apart!) in the beautiful Y Theatre near Leicester Station, initially watching Chris sharpen his pencils. I have never seen anyone sharpen their leads SO long before without them snapping...

Then we watched while he flicked through the pages of one of those amazing sketchbooks and drew Emperor Smackbotty the Third AND a couple of audience portraits...

Emperor Smackbotty III (with Kraisie Mouse and nappy rash) from Alienography.

So funny, watching the mum and daughter trying to work this out,
then suddenly realising 'it's US!'

Lumberjack in The Sketchbook...

(Apologies for the quality of the photos - some are mine, some Laura's - but the necessary subdued lighting made things a bit difficult.)

The audience was very mixed; parents with children, fans of Chris's work (like us) and students of illustration. There wasn't a bad seat in the house, so everyone got to see what Chris was drawing.

Train passenger - not the man i the audience...

The question was 'When were you born?' and Chris added where
(South Africa) and that he was probably dreaming of wine gums even then...

I can't explain how amazing it was, to see drawings come to life on the big screen as answers to questions. There was an enormous wodge of postcards and Chris managed to answer a fair few; the lucky questioners got to keep either what Chris had drawn or - if it was a question he'd already answered - 'one he'd prepared earlier'.

We learnt about his earliest inspiration...his love of wine gums (a man after my own heart - but I wonder if I'd have to fight him for the black and red ones?)...how he was tutored by Raymond Briggs...and how his first story to be published (Mr Underbed) was written in a single evening in pure panic because when the publisher (with the extremely bushy eyebrows) who told him he could draw asked 'Where are your stories?', Chris lied and said 'I've got one, but I left it at home.' They told him to return with it the following day...

We learned what Chris would do if he was told he could never pick up a pencil again. He didn't know what he could have done to deserve this cruel punishment, but his answer was:

We also got to see how passionately he feels about reading and school libraries and the issue of grammar schools. I'm not sure if every Laureate has a campaign as such, but allowing children access to books is certainly something Chris feels very strongly about and champions at every opportunity.

He's also keen on the power of encouragement, something evident in the way he answered a couple of questions from the illustrators in the audience. He advised drawing every day - what you want to, not what you think you ought to - and researching the publishers where you think you might fit. And don't wait for things to happen. Sometimes you just have to be brave and take the next step.

We discovered the inspiration behind Lord Goth - Lord Byron - who is 'Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Gnomes' because he (Lord Goth, not Chris) rides around his estate on a Regency bicycle, carrying a blunderbuss. Then, when inspiration for his poetry strikes, he proceeds to blow the head off a gnome statue. Loved that tale...and kudos to the publisher who said 'yes, go ahead Chris!' without flinching when he took the proposal for Lord Goth to them.

The talk ended all too soon, (about an hour) and then we joined the signing queue. I'd taken Goth Girl and bought a copy of The Sleeper and the Spindle on the day (word of caution - the beautiful dust jacket will warp if you get it too near a heat source, as I discovered to my disappointment when I got it home). It took us three quarters of an hour to get to the front of the queue, simply because Chris was an absolute star, signing every book anyone put under his nose (some of the children looked to have bought their entire Riddell collection!) and he had a word to share with everyone. He came across as genuinely liking people - always good when you meet your fans! - and he was interested to hear what you had to say.

I really DID meet him! Still can't quite believe it...

I thanked him for everything he does for school libraries because I am, after all, a volunteer school librarian - and was astounded when he thanked me for doing that job! I told him I wouldn't be able to if he and others like him didn't write such fab stories for children to enjoy.

When it was Laura's turn he asked about her illustration degree and she told him about collaborating with me on Granny Rainbow; he wished her good luck in her future projects.

Laura getting her book signed...and the rest of the queue, still waiting patiently.

Oh - and if there are any Blue Peter fans reading this, Chris was wearing his GOLD BLUE PETER BADGE! He doesn't like to wear his Laureate's medal when he goes on tour - keeps it in a box on the mantelpiece - but he has been known to wear it whilst emptying the dishwasher because he is an Important Person.

One of the question postcards and my two signed books...

It was an awesome afternoon. I didn't get my question answered (I asked where is your favourite holiday destination - and do you take holiday snaps or draw holiday sketches?) but I had such a great time without that, I wasn't bothered!

Meeting Chris in person, watching him work, exchanging a few words with him AND getting my books signed...I think I almost floated home. 

And my most favourite thing that Chris said? 

"As creative people, keep creating."

I think that's just become my new mantra. 

Those first few words...

Since early this year, I've been scribbling - on and off - notes for a new WIP. I've tentatively called it The Crystal Keeper's Daughter, although there are a lot of 'crystal keepers' if you search the web, so it's not exactly unique as a title. It's taken many months, in between the other life stuff that inevitably rolled up, to get to grips with this story.

I finally feel like I've got everything plotted, in that I know the rough shape of the story and where it begins and where it ends. I have my MC, Zanni, who is turning out to be quite feisty when she wants to be. I have a theme running through, though I hope it won't be so obvious it hits the reader between the eyes. And I have that feeling now that I need to write, to actually commit words to hard drive (or memory stick in this case) and shape all the messy notes into something readable.

Yesterday, I wrote the first couple of hundred words.

They're nowhere near being right as an opening scene, but you have to start somewhere. From past experience, I know that once I begin, the story will evolve until I hit my stride and pick up the rhythm of Zanni's huge adventure until it begins to feel like the novel I hope it will be.

How long will it take? No idea. I managed a first handwritten draft of Kingstone in just over 70 days and a first typed draft after a further month. (Bear in mind this was my box-ticked-when-I-wrote-something method, and not a count over consecutive days). I've not kept track so far this time as carefully, but I am determined to track the typed draft to make sure I don't leave the work for too long.

Wish me luck.

Oh, and if I need inspiration, I'll simply take a peek at my little basket of crystals and imagine I'm in Zanni's world...

St Crispin's

Last Thursday, I spent a brilliantly creative morning with Years 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 at St. Crispin's in Leicester.

Now, I've done author visits and creative writing sessions for younger pupils, (Like when I went to St. Michael's or ran a storytelling day at a local primary school) but this was my first foray into KS3... I was a little apprehensive, more from a point of view of maintaining discipline than anything else, because I know from teacher friends and my own children how hard it can be to keep that age interested and occupied.

Anyway, I arrived, finally found somewhere to park (I had to nip out after an hour to move the car, as I ended up in a limited time parking bay - not good for an all morning session. Thank you Mr L for moving your car so I didn't end up with a parking ticket!), and booked in.

The school is lovely - a small independent school with around 120 pupils between nursery and Y11, so class sizes are small; Y9 had four pupils... It's situated in two enormous Victorian villas, so there are a lot of steps and big high-ceilinged rooms, but I was in the library. (Glad to see an amazing array of books, with some really interesting fiction on offer.)

We started with a Q&A session, which Y5 & 6 gatecrashed. It was great though - some really good, intelligent questions were asked, about whether I wrote about my children (no...well, not that they would notice!), what was my favourite story I'd written (Granny Rainbow and the Black Shadow - responsible for a lot of things, that story), who was my favourite author (Terry Pratchett) and had I ever given up on writing (yes, after I got a really bad report from an editor after she read the first version of StarMark). And many more...

Y5 & 6 would've been happy to ask questions all morning, I think, but the KS3 bods had some work to do. I'd been asked for sessions on character development and creating settings, which I was happy to provide.

The twenty eight pupils were brilliant. They threw themselves into the tasks wholeheartedly, and came up with some really strong ideas. The character who stuck in my head was the assassin who would only ever eat red things because it reminded him of blood... and the setting I couldn't forget was the cottage in the woods, with the eerie strains of 'I'm a Barbie girl' heard coming from the trees...

We didn't have enough time to read out the end results, when the pupils put their characters into their settings, but I hope the children will continue to work on them.

We were all so busy, I didn't take any pictures at all, but Mrs M took a few snaps - here's one of me reading from 'A Seeming Glass', when I was trying to explain how you could dribble the description of a setting into a scene rather than describe everything up front.

One thing that astounded me was that every pupil over Y8 takes part in NaNoWriMo! At which point I applauded them, because I can't stick to the discipline of writing every day. I come close, but it doesn't work for me to be that strict with myself. I look forward to seeing what they produce this November - who knows, perhaps we'll have to get together again, have an editing session?

The morning was over way too soon. Thank you to everyone at St Crispin's who made me feel so welcome and shared my love of writing by creating such brilliant work! 

Who Dares, Wins - Taking risks with your writing (FOW15 Diaries)

How often do you get stuck in your writing? You look at what you've written and go 'bleurgh!' because it just...isn't...working?

Sometimes we need something to pull us out of the hole we appear to have dug ourselves into - and this workshop, run by the lovely Shelley Harris (author of Jubilee and Vigilante) looked at some intriguing methods to get our writerly juices flowing again. But it meant taking risks, forcing ourselves to move outside of our comfort zone.

The first thing we tried was character names; we had to write five names that we would never give our characters. When asked why we'd not use them, the reasons were many and varied - but Shelley challenged us to go away and write a colourful character for the boring name, to write Tarquin Roderick Matthias Jameson the Fourth without a penny to his name... I found myself writing quite a few 'upper class' names, or ones that sounded like doddery old ladies. Wonder what that says about the names I do choose and perhaps my prejudices for those I don't...?

Then we considered what stories we'd write if no-one were ever to read them. That's because we've all got no-go areas in our writing. Perhaps we choose not to write about our past, because we worry about upsetting people still living. Perhaps we choose not to write about sex or violence, for fear of shocking our readers. (She seems so nice! How on earth would she know about that?)

There are bound to be other examples - these are just what popped into my head as I was writing the blog - but the real reason we don't write certain things is because we are afraid of being judged; we edit ourselves, even before we've begun writing the story. If you could write, knowing that no-one would ever read what you've written, you have edited out instead other people's judgements and allowed yourself the freedom to commit what you want to write to the page. I'm not sure what I'd write if you were never going to read it; I fear my own self-editing rules are etched too deep inside to ever erase completely...

(Both of these ideas were attributed to Susie Maguire)

The next idea Shelley showed us was a morphological matrix. The creative think tank on wikispace describes this as 'a tool for generating options. It provides a structured or systematic way to generate a large number of possibilities including many unique or highly unusual options.'

Sounds complicated, but it's not, really. Draw yourself a grid. Across the top of the columns, add labels like 'jobs I've done, locations I know well, skills/knowledge I possess, favourite smells, current obsession'. Now fill in the lists with at least eight items for each one. Dig deep.

When you've done, combine the items across the grid in many and varied ways - and when you have, for example, egg pickler, the brook path, how to knit socks, lily of the valley and notebooks, (yep, they really apply to me) sit and think about what story you'd tell with them. Mine the familiar - but tell an unfamiliar story. It's a bit like those books you had as a kid, where the page was split into three parts and you could flip over different sections so you had a diver's head with a doctor's middle and a ballet dancer's feet...

On the subject of mining your own life experience, ask yourself questions - do you believe in justice or mercy? In nature or nurture? If you could return to one time in your life, when would it be and why? Complete the sentence 'Most people wouldn't guess that I...' Can you use these things to add to or generate a story?

You could BE your character. At which point, Shelley shared her experience of dressing up as a superhero for a day while she researched her novel, Vigilante. (You can read about her experience here.) Easy, it was not. But without that experience, Shelley couldn't have known what it felt like to put on a mask and hide behind the anonymity whilst trying to do good.

Make the unexpected happen; Pixar story rule #9 states 'When you're stuck, list what WOULDN'T happen next and material to get you unstuck will show up.' Your subconscious inevitably finds a way - which led us onto Petals problem solving.

Now this one was spooky - lots of folk in the room seemed to come up with a solution to a problem using this method - all starting with a single, completely random word from a dictionary. My problem was trying to make a character more active in a scene where she's arriving at an island on the king's ship - I had no idea how to solve that.

Shelley asked for a number, which gave her the page in the dictionary. The second gave her which word to pick on that page; can you believe the word was 'ahoy'? When my problem was ship-based? Spooky moment number one...

On a clean page, we drew a central circle, and surrounded it with eight 'petals'. In the centre, we wrote 'Ahoy' and around the outside - in the petals - we wrote words we associated with it. Mine were all very piratey and sea-faring, as you might expect.

Then the work began. We had to use the words we'd written in the petals to solve our problem. And the weird thing? I did - but I'm not going to tell you because I've not worked it into the story quite just yet. We were asked to share our thinking process; some climbed up into their crow's nest or looked through a telescope to see the bigger picture, and solved their problem that way. Everyone agreed that this method felt 'spooky' because from just one word, we solved our many and varied problems.

The idea is that the apparent randomness isn't really as random as you think. The process simply allows your 'good' mind to step out of the way and allow your subconscious access to the problem; it might have worked just as well if we'd had the word 'bell' or 'foot' in the centre of our flower, who knows?

And the last thing to try, to get your writing out of a slump?  Ask yourself what you'd write if you couldn't fail? And get it written. (Or as Shelley said, The F***-It Draft, or FID) Only to be used as a last resort, mind you, this method can come up with moments of sheer genius because it releases you completely.

In summary, taking risks in your writing is about being counter intuitive, about finding strategies to unloose your subconscious - and, probably most importantly, to stop caring about what others think!

Here's to a riskier Squidge in future...

Writing character... with LEGO

Thought I'd share with you a warm-up idea I used recently at NIBS, our writer's group. We were looking at building characters.

In the Squidge house, we love LEGO - it doesn't get bought quite so often as it used to now, but we are the proud owners of boxes of the stuff - some of it original 1950's that was passed on to us, some from when Mr Squidge was a kid. T has Bionicle and Star Wars sets, plus Mindstorms robotics... we could stock a shop.

And as any LEGO officionado knows, there are mini-figures.

We love mini-figures.

Just some of the Squidges' collection...

Favourites... Abominable snowman,
Lab technician (because I was one)
and Pierrot

Sure, we don't collect them quite so avidly any more - teenagers don't really go for them as much. And we're not in the toy shop so often nowadays, unless it's to buy Airfix paint, so I don't know which sets are current...

ANYWAY... we possess over 100 of these little figures, so I put 'em to use as my 'starter for ten' in the character workshop.

Basically, you had to pick out one of the figures and write something about them. Character sketch, mini-story about the mini-figure, description...

It was great fun. Between us we came up with a hippy guy, spreading lurve; a centurion who enjoyed killing; a genie who was 'imprisoned, trapped, alone'; a civil war re-enacter who liked things to be perfect; Frank, newspaperman and secret drag act artist; a cheerleader who worked hard to look perfect; a knight in a school play, and mine - a judge.

Here's the character sketch I came up with for him...

Frederick Maltby-Morvey the Third.
 - Looks over the top of his gold rimmed specs as he studies the miscreants and low life that were unfortunate enough to be standing in his dock.
 - Wig of horsehair hung down his chest. He remembered the early days, when there were just a few curls and a pointless tail at the back. How it had grown, almost as much as the weight of responsibility as he was appointed to High Judge and Executioner.
 - The gavel was an instrument dreaded by many - when he wielded it in court it restored order and punctuated sentences. How many times over the years had it slammed on the desk and sent men and women down? Too many to count. A few memorable occasions, but they all blurred into one nowadays.

So there you go - raid the LEGO box and get characterising!

The excitement of a new story

I've got a new story on the go. I'm working on it as part of my 100 days of writing. 

At the moment the story is a very ugly, fragmented thing because I keep chopping and changing scenes, rethinking what my characters are like and what they are going to do to affect the storyline.

And I'm loving it.

My baddie is coming through strongest as a character at the moment...I seem to be drawn to characters with a nasty side more easily for some reason. He's got a shiny veneer but there are hidden depths and desires to him. My main character is beginning to show herself to be feisty and impetuous and brave...but I can't 'see' her yet. In fact, I've no idea what either of them looks like.

Y'see, in the past, I've often looked for images first when dealing with characters - found a picture that is similar to how I've imagined them looking. (For example, a certain character in StarMark was based a lot on Richard Armitage's Guy of Gisborne character in the BBC series Robin Hood...)

*Squidge swoons*

With this new story, I've not jumped straight into finding visuals. Instead, the act of handwriting into a notebook, the constant playing with ideas, the note making and question asking seems to have embedded the character's character traits in my head and in the story - all before I have a visual impression. It's a different way to approach the project, but it seems to be paying off in terms of getting to know my characters more quickly.

What interests me most in all of this process though, is how my approach to writing has changed in the last few years. Of course you improve the more you write, especially if you have taken on board comments and critiques and actively seek to become a better author. I just wouldn't have expected to have pushed the visual aspect away so quickly when I've relied on it so heavily in the past. Does it mean that I'm better at getting into character, at capturing them in words? I hope so.

I think there are other factors at play as well though. I've learnt that I need to take my time, to embed the storyline in my head before I start writing the story proper. It doesn't mean I've turned into a planner; I'm still very much a pantser at heart, working with my gut and following where something feels right and leaving it when it feels wrong.

I've also learned that I absolutely have to drive the story through my character's actions; just yesterday evening, I asked the rest of the Squidges which of two scenarios they preferred. A character who is asked to deliver an item, or the same character who steals said item to try to deliver it themselves. Guess which one got the vote...

All I know is that this is the most character driven story I have attempted and it seems to be flying.

Fingers crossed I can see this one through to the end.

Granny Rainbow does Red Nose Day 2015

'Do something funny for money.' That's the motto of Comic Relief, the charity behind Red Nose Day, and this year, Granny Rainbow's getting in on the action...

I have customised one copy of Granny Rainbow so that she, and all her friends, are sporting red noses. This unique copy is going to be auctioned off, here on the Scribbles, to raise money for Comic Relief. 

Customised cover

Title page - I have signed the book,
just not in the usual place...

Just one of Granny's friends who're joining in...

All YOU need to do is send an email to microscribbler@gmail.com with your bid. There is a page on the Scribbles which I'll try to keep updated with the highest bid to date: bidding closes at midnight on Friday 13th March 2015, and I'll post the copy to the lucky bidder. (Copies usually sell at £5 each, so that's where I'm expecting you to start...)

Please feel free to share as widely as possible. Let's see how much Granny can raise for this good cause.

Added later: some folk have seen the link I posted on Facebook and are posting bids there, too. I will do my best to keep track of both and add them to the bidding page. 

The Watch Box Project.

As I'm away at the mo, I thought I'd leave you a story to sink your teeth into. 

This one was created last year for a peer-judged competition over on The Word Cloud. We had to choose two places. Mine were Sardinia (my most favourite place to holiday) and Ankh-Morpork, from Pratchett's Discworld. Which was fine - until the challenge expanded; we had to get from A to B.

It was at this point I realised I'd put myself in a VERY difficult position. How the heck was I going to get from a real place to a fictional one? It took me ages and ages and ages to work it out, but in the end I came up with a solution. 

The following could be best be described as my first attempt at fan-fic, which I have since discovered that Sir Terry never reads and does not approve of particularly. That being so, I will probably never submit it for publication, so decided to post it here on the Scribbles instead. I hope Sir Terry will forgive me... and if you are a fan of Discworld, I hope you will, too. 

PS. With apologies to fans of a certain popular TV series too...

The Watch Box Project.

Commander Vimes stood in his usual spot in front of the desk, staring just a little to the left and slightly above the Patrician’s head.             

               

Lord Vetinari sighed and steepled his fingers. “It’s an experiment, Commander. To have refreshment and relief facilities stationed at intervals throughout the city. I’m sure you’re aware that it’ll save your men from having to return to the Watch houses quite so frequently.” He looked pointedly at the Commander. “Or the Mended Drum.”

“Yessir.” Vimes kept staring at the same spot. “Only problem is, sir, it’s a bloody stupid idea.”

The Oblong Office suddenly felt a lot colder.

“Do expand on that theory, Commander.”

Vimes took a deep breath and started ticking off on his fingers. “One. It’s going to cost a helluva lot to make the number of boxes you want. Two. The good folk of the city have taken a liking to the refreshments we stocked the first box with. And no, it didn’t matter whether the refreshments were rat-on-a-stick, slumpie or Mr Dibbler’s finest sausage-inna-bun. They broke in and nicked it all. Have you any idea, sir, how crabby a hungry Watchman can get? And three, certain bright sparks have cottoned on to the fact that you can lock a member of the Watch inside the box, tip it up and cover him in the relief.”

"Ah, yes. Perhaps it was a mistake to run the pilot scheme in the Shades.” Vetinari sniffed, almost imperceptibly. “Has Constable Goldhammer managed to get rid of the smell yet?”

“Not quite.” Vimes finally allowed himself to meet the Patrician’s eye. He’d made sure there was plenty of hot water available, but even after an hour in the bath - with the most aromatic of Lady Sybil’s floral oils to mask the unsavoury odours which had been introduced to the station house - the unfortunate dwarf had been banished to the basement. At least Igor wouldn’t mind either of the overpowering scents which now clung like treacle to Constable Goldhammer.

Vetinari picked up the newspaper he’d set aside when Vimes arrived. It looked as though he was only halfway through the crossword. “I’m sure the novelty – and the smell - will wear off, given time. Try a second box in a different location. Don’t let me detain you, Commander.”

*

Ankh-Morpork’s Finest eyed the box suspiciously. It had been painted a rather fetching shade of dark blue and had a blue glass lantern on the roof, currently unlit.

Corporal Nobbs shook his head. “It don’t seem right, sarge, the Commander making us stay put in one place for our whole shift.”

Fred Colon sighed heavily. “Things are changin’, Nobby. Gone are the days we ’ad to decide, all watchman-like, whether trouble was worth takin’ notice of or not and root it out.”

“So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for it to come to us?”

Fred thought hard for a moment. You could almost see the cogs turning. “I reckon so. If trouble’s happening somewhere else, it ain’t our fault if we’re not there to help. Instead, we can have a nice quiet cup of tea and some of Mrs Colon’s biscuits.” He rattled the cake tin to emphasise the point. “We’ll keep the peace on this patch and let the coppers in the other boxes look after the trouble on theirs.”

Nobby brightened. “Shall we go and ’ave a look inside then, sarge?”

“You go in, Nobby. I’ll keep an eye on things out here.” Fred prided himself on keeping an eye on things. That way, you saw trouble coming – and could run in the opposite direction. 

There was the sound of a door opening behind him. Then silence.

"Er, sarge? Did the wizards have anything to do with this box idea?” Nobby sounded decidedly worried.

“Not as far as I know,” Fred rumbled. “Lord Vetinari wouldn’t hold with that.”

“Only…” Nobby gestured towards the open door, “it’s bigger on the inside than the outside, sarge!”

Fred looked inside. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he walked slowly around the blue box, pausing in front of the open door.

“Ah, well… that’ll be an ill-oooshun, Nobby. You know, like when they got the conjuror in at the Pink Pussycat Club.”

“Oh yeah…I remember that riot,” Nobby said fondly, his eyes glazing over. The clients of the Pink Pussycat had become understandably agitated when their favourite performer, Dilys Twirlee, vanished from a cabinet on stage. Demands for her immediate return had meant that the conjuror had been forced to reveal his secrets. And then leave the magic circle in shame a week later.

Fred squeezed his massive girth through the doorway. “There’ll be a kettle somewhere in this ill-oooshun, Nobby. Fancy a cuppa?”

While his sergeant hunted the equipment, Nobby inspected a large hexagonal table in the centre of the room. From it, a lighted column rose almost to the ceiling.  

“I’m stumped, Nobby,” Fred said eventually. “Can’t find a kettle anywhere.”

“What’s the point of havin’ all this fancy stuff then, sarge? All these knobs and lights and things?” Nobby waved a hand over the console. “What good are these to a copper when he wants a decent cup of tea?”

“Per’aps there’s an instruction manual, Nobby. We’ve jus’ got to…”

“Hullo? Hullo? Is someone there?” A flat square, suspended above the table, suddenly lit up with the image of a long-faced young man. “Oh good-o! You got in!”

Fred and Nobby froze.

The young man frowned. “Good Lord! Where in the universe did the Tardis take herself off to?” His face enlarged in the square until only a single eye was visible, hugely magnified. “I’ve seen some species in my time, but you’re a new one on me. What are you?”

Nobby, realising he was the object of the eye’s attention, pulled off the smartest salute he could muster. “Corporal Nobby Nobbs of the Ankh-Morpork Watch, sir! Certified human, sir!”

"Human. Are you sure?” The eye shrank back to normal size as the rest of the face reappeared. “If you say so…I wonder… can you do me a favour? I’m in a spot of trouble.”

Nobby pulled off another salute, so sharp, he nearly cut himself. “Trouble’s what we’re good at. Ain’t that right, sarge?”

“Er…yeah, but…” Fred visibly expanded with self-importance and puffed his chest out. It almost achieved the same girth as his stomach. “We need to know who we’re dealing with first.”

“Oh – you mean me? Well, I’m The Doctor.”

“One of Doctor Lawn’s doctors? From the Lady Sybil?”

“Lady Syb-? No, no, no. I’m The Doctor. The Doctor.” The face beamed down at the bemused coppers. “But I’m on holiday at the moment, so I’m not doctoring. Problem is, the Tardis decided she didn’t want a vacation. She upped and offed without me. I can’t bring her back from here, so I need someone to do it for me. Looks like it’ll have to be you.”

A look was exchanged between the coppers. A look that passed judgement on the young man’s mental acuity and found it wanting.

Fred cleared his throat. “This…Tardis. Can you give me a description of the lady, sir?”

“She’s no lady! Well, not in the way I think you mean, though I suppose she is normally perfectly well behaved… You’re inside her, man! She’s my ship.”

“Ship?” Fred stared at face beaming at him from the screen. “But there are no sails.”

“She doesn’t need them. All you have to do is twiddle a few dials and flick a few switches and she’ll end up here with me. Well, you will if she’ll let you,” the Doctor added in an undertone.

Nobby tugged Fred’s sleeve. “I’m not so sure about this, sarge," he whispered. "I reckon he’s a bit…” The corporal’s finger twirled next to his temple.

“Let’s find out,” Fred whispered back. Straightening his helmet, he addressed the screen in his best sergeant’s voice. “Of course we’ll bring the Tardis to you.”  

The Doctor flicked his hair out of his eyes, grinned and slapped a peculiar red hat with a tassel onto his head. “Right – here’s what you do…”

*

Foul Ole Ron had seen and heard many things in his time, but the strange thrumming noise was a new one on him. It seemed to be coming from the blue box standing at the end of the street. As he watched, the lamp on the roof started to flash and the box faded in and out of his vision until it disappeared completely.

“Buggrit! Millenium hand and shrimp, I told ’em,” Ron muttered.

*

“And here you are!” The Doctor’s face had disappeared from the screen, appearing instead at the open door of the Tardis. He leapt inside and ran straight to where Nobby had just released the particle gravitator lever and Fred was winding down the distance dial. “Oh, you beauties! You’ve brought her back to me!” He spun round, pausing as the lights dimmed. “Now then, I know you were sulking, but I needed a holiday.”

To the watchmen, he appeared to be addressing thin air.

“I think you’ll like it here, I really do,” the young man continued, patting the console. “Sand, sea and sun…just what the Doctor ordered.” He grinned as the lights brightened again. “That’s my girl. Now – where are my helpers?”

A green light shone in Nobby’s face; the Doctor was pointing a long thin cylinder at him. “Hmm. Definitely human.” The green light vanished and the object that made it disappeared back into the pocket from whence it came. “Now…gentlemen. Care to join me on the beach?” The Doctor almost danced through the door.

As soon as Fred stepped outside, his feet sank into golden sand and sweat broke out on his forehead from the sun which beat down on his helmet. Stretching out in front of him was an endless expanse of clear blue sky which met a curve – definitely a curve - of turquoise water. He looked at Nobby, who was grinning like a monkey. “Where are we? Quirm? How did we get to Quirm?”

“Quirm? Never heard of it.” The Doctor whipped off his hat. “We’re in Sardinia!” He kicked off his shoes and began to roll his trouser legs up. “Last one in’s a…”

Whatever the last one was going to be, they never found out.

“Sarge – look!”

Fred glanced in the direction of the corporal’s pointing finger. “Good gods,” he muttered weakly.

To be fair, he’d seen Mrs Colon without her stockings on once or twice. He’d also witnessed the young ladies in their working clothes at the Pink Pussycat Club, though he’d spent most of the visit trying not to look. But the ladies here…well. Fred had never seen quite so much of the opposite sex before.

“I’m goin’ in for a dip, sarge. You coming?” Nobby – who’d divested himself of his uniform and was now dressed only in his unmentionables – sprinted towards the water. There was a splash and the corporal disappeared.

Fred took a deep breath.

“Corporal Nobbs!” he bellowed as soon as Nobby resurfaced, glistening and grinning. “You are an officer of the Ankh-Morpork Watch and still on duty, wherever we are! Get your uniform back on this instant!”

“Aw, sarge…”

“We can’t be ’aving a holiday, Nobby.” Fred frowned “Ankh-Morpork needs us. We’ve got the Doctor his box back and we ought to be getting home.”

“You don’t have to, you know.” The Doctor looked up from the sandcastle he was making. “You can spend as long as you like here, then I’ll take you back and no-one will even know you’ve been gone.” He turned his attention back to the bright yellow bucket he’d packed with sand, upended it and proceeded to smack it with a small blue spade. “By the way, I never asked – which planet do you come from?”

“Planet? Discworld o’ course,” Fred said. “Where did you think we were from?”

“Weeell, I did wonder if you were from the Dungeon Dimensions when I saw your friend. But Discworld…isn’t that the one on the back of the giant turtle and the elephants? Think I visited a few aeons ago. Nice place. You’re on Earth at the moment.”

“But how…”

“The Tardis is a clever old girl – travels in space and time.” The Doctor gave the bucket a twist and lifted it away, revealing a compact mound of sand. Then he stuck a small green flag in the top of it and looked up at the sergeant. “Kick your sandals off and feel the sand between your toes for a bit. It’ll be alright.”

*

Foul Ole Ron had just reached the corner of the street when the thrumming sound began again. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the blue box fade in and out before reappearing, more solidly it seemed, than before. A door opened in its side and two members of the Watch stepped out.

“Buggrit,” Ron muttered darkly and hurried off to catch up with his Smell.

*

The Doctor was grinning at the watchmen from the door.

“There you go! Back where and when you started from, give or take a couple of minutes, after a lovely day at the seaside. Thanks again for getting me out of a pickle – it’s good to be back with the Tardis. Isn’t it, old girl?” He patted the door affectionately. “Right! Must be off. Daleks to sort out and fishfingers to fry!”

When the thrumming stopped, silence fell. There was nothing to show the box had ever stood on the cobbles.

    

“Did we just dream all that, Nobby?” Fred asked slowly.

“Dunno. S’pose we could have. But if we dreamt it, your nose wouldn’t be sunburnt and I wouldn’t ’ave sand in my unmentionables.”

"What the wizards wouldn’t give for that box,” Fred said thoughtfully. “I reckon it was a good job it was us what found it, Nobby, or else-”

A heavy rumbling drowned out the rest of his words. Rolling down the street on the back of a cart was a blue box, accompanied by the shining Captain Carrot and the lumbering form of Corporal Detritus.

“You’re here already? Good. Keen to try out your Watch box, Fred?” Carrot said, jumping down. “Let’s get it down and you can try it out for size.”

Five minutes later, Detritus had troll-handled the box to its final resting place and Carrot dropped the keys into Fred’s sweaty palm. 

  

“Open it up, then.” 

Sergeant Colon couldn’t get rid of the keys quick enough. “You do it, Nobby.” 

“Fair bit smaller than the other one, sarge. Def’nately a kettle inside. No knobs or levers. And no Doctor.”

“What ‘other one’? And why would you need a doctor, Nobby?” Carrot said.

“Er…sarge…not sure you’re goin’ to fit in ’ere…it’s a bit tight even for me.”

*

The Patrician waved a copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times at Vimes, who was trying very hard to suppress his feelings.

“And Mr de Worde just happened to walk along at the precise moment that Sergeant Colon got stuck in the door of the Watch box?”

“He was taking a constitutional, I believe.”

There was the hint of a raised eyebrow from the Patrician. “Indeed. Along with Mr Chriek the iconographer, and a notebook. I suppose that to build the boxes large enough to accommodate the sergeant or any of our trollish Watch members would be a waste of civic monies and take up too much room on the streets?”

“I’ve heard discussions to that effect, sir. Be much cheaper to keep sending them to the Drum. Sir.” The grin was much too close to the surface now – it was threatening to break free.

The newspaper slapped onto the desk. “Very well. Do away with the boxes then, and keep your watchmen moving, Commander. In the interests of law-abiding citizens throughout the city.”

“Thank you, sir.” Vimes turned and marched towards the door. As he reached for the handle, the Patrician called out to him.

“Oh – and Commander? If ever a police box appears on the streets of the city again – do make sure to send The Doctor my best wishes.”