This is the last of the first draft writing I did for my abandoned post-apocalyptic satire. Normally I wouldn't publish creative writing in such an unfinished state, but this is a blog, and it provides an idea of one writer's start point on a manuscript (with some concurrent light editing). I'm not sure if, or how much, of this will be useful to others, but there it is, an example of a start, a bit like the first exploratory rehearsal of some scenes in a play. I might return to this story in the future, but for now it will be put away. My feeling is that the piece of writing is about a third of the way through a first draft (there are a few other bits and pieces) and that if I completed it, much of what has been posted here would ultimately be left on the cutting room floor.
I don't know if there are any unbreakable rules when it comes to how to write a novel, or how long it should take. Any creative process is, by definition... well, creative. A creative writer needs to be comfortable with uncertainty. (Maybe they don't.) Will this one be finished? (I'll come back to it. In time.) When will it be finished? How do I know if something is finished? I will be starting work on my new project on July 1st and will be working solidly on that for the next year to get the first draft finished and then another year and some to bring it to publication standard. A question that might be worth asking is: what is publication standard for a novel (as distinct from a blog)?
Beyond the obvious proof reading, agreeing on the state of being finished is quite a subtle thing. I don't know how to tell whether something is finished, other than to use my own intuition or instinct, to decide whether it makes some sort of emotional/intellectual sense (or not), and, as my editor once mentioned, to see if the writing is at the point at which my urge to keep changing things has ceased (or when I consistently begin to change things and then change them back). My usual approach to writing is to keep working on it within an inch of its life, which is why I have found a blog so useful as a freeing-up device. The novel needs more than a blog, and less than 'within an inch of its life' - that excessiveness that overworks a piece of writing so that it no longer breathes. Nothing human-made is perfect (an impossible concept to get one's head around when it comes to work that involves self and other observation, emotion and intellect combined with whatever it is that is mysteriously, and sometimes accidentally created by the choice and placement of words in a certain way) and I do find Leonard Cohen's Anthem so reassuring in this regard, not just for writing but for life. Not just for life, but for writing. The song has as many meanings as people listening I suppose, but it reminds me to accept that I have done the best I can for now, and accept what I do, and have done, as beautifully imperfect in its own way. (I've put the link to the You Tube clip there, just so you can take a break and enjoy his beautiful song!)
For me (and I am forever emerging, rather than emerged, as a writer - still struggling from my chrysalis - an ongoing metamorphosis) for me, bits of a novel come from all over the place. A scene might be triggered by an image, a formal writing exercise at a workshop, a painting, documentary, road trip, conversation, passage of music, or (most often) a random (rogue?) idea. When I am working on something I prime myself to live within the story (I have to work on it a bit every day for this to happen) and trust that even if something that comes to me as a random and seemingly unconnected line of thought or bit of writing, it can ultimately be useful (either as content or subtext). Accidental occurrences open up my imagination and break me out of a confining loop of thinking that would otherwise return only what I know. Daydreaming, curiosity and an openness to discovery is, I think, the key. When I was studying theatre, the main rule to remember for group improvisations, was not to block ideas. I had to learn to relinquish control, not to force ideas into a preconceived template - had to be willing to go in another direction, even if it ended in the confinement of a cull-de-sac. One could always backtrack. Or start again from a different place.
I suppose stamina is needed. Perseverance. But only in a non self-defeating kind of way, not beating up on oneself. Am I having fun yet? Freedom. I refuse to place unnecessary restrictions on myself. Structure maybe, restrict possibilities for expression - no. I say yes - and no. Since attending the Perth Writers Festival this year I now have Margaret Atwood's word for it - plork (plerk?) - a combination of play and work.
This is too long and self-indulgent for a blog post, possibly, but anyway I hope you enjoy this last little bit of random, slightly tidied up, imagining.
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| My dad did this painting in 1971 - depiction of an 'asylum' - is this the compound? |
Reporting back
The compound meetings to discuss strategic planning occurred on the first
and third Saturday evenings of each month.
Griselda the Third sat at the hearth and listened with her eyes closed to
the goings-on occurring at the compound table. No-one could remember Griselda
the First and Second, but the implication that Griselda the Third occupied the
position as a kind of birthright was not lost on anyone, as it was part of the
lengthy induction that all served. Griselda was the Great Mother, a large woman
in a voluminous green dress. She had strong, weathered hands and a strangely smooth
face. Her hair tumbled down her back in soft waves and shone red and gold where
the firelight caught it. She smelt of peppermint and rosewater.
Before the meeting, each teacher came separately to kneel before her and
receive her blessing for Truth, Courage and Creativity. After the blessing,
Mother would hold out her arms. ‘Now give me a big hug and tell me that you
love me,’ she’d say, and each in turn would fall into her arms.
She had a soft spot for Terry, and tonight when he knelt at her feet with
his head bowed down, she lifted his face in her hands and studied his expression.
‘Change,’ she said, ‘is life. Remember that. Do not hold on too tightly
Terry. I know you like to control the direction, but you can destroy the
fragile possibilities if you don’t open your heart. Look deeper. Now give me a
big hug and tell me that you love me.’
Terry fell into her arms and said, ‘I love you Mother’.
‘There’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘There’s a good boy.’
Her first words to him this evening were mysterious and difficult to fathom.
Later, in his single room, he would write them down and try to analyse their
meaning. He rehearsed them in his head. ‘Change is life. Do not hold on too tightly.
Destroy fragile possibilities if don’t open heart. Look deeper.’
‘And Terry, pop another lintel on the fire would you, there’s a good boy.
It’s cold this evening.’
When the meeting proper began, each child in each family was discussed
and their progress reported. Any odd or unusual behaviour was discussed in
great length with regard to the costs and benefits to the society that the
person would ultimately inhabit, the society that Mother had seen in her famous
vision. No decisions were made at this stage. Everything was laid out flat and
turned inside out, like an animal skin pegged to dry in the sun. Moulding a
life was like trying to build a puzzle. All the pieces needed to be in place
before the details of the picture emerged fully. Sometimes the picture shifted
right there in front of the eyes. The guardians of society had to be ready for
constant improvement as decreed by the visions that were constantly being sent
from the great unknown.
Griselda was the ultimate guardian of that picture. She was building it,
piece by piece, in her mind’s eye. She had the gift of the overview; the
understanding that diversity is connected to strength, and that strength, and
survival, could not be separated from ethical sensibilities. The good of the
whole was paramount, but compassion towards the individual was maintained
wherever possible. Only Griselda held a full understanding, although others were
being schooled. Only those with the gift would be able to reach such heights of
enlightenment. Right now the knowledge was being passed on by her to her
daughters.
*
The women were already around the table, some seated and some standing
together in small groups chatting when Bob arrived. Bob always found it
somewhat daunting to walk into this, the subtle glances as they thought
whatever it was that they were thinking, although how they could have anything
left to wonder about, he did not know. Each and every one of them knew him a
little too well, but they were never satisfied. These women were always
wanting, always vying for his attention.
He was past optimal breeding age, so had been relieved of that obligation
at least five years before. Now he had no more viable seed save for that stored
in the bank. They stopped collecting when he turned thirty-seven. That was
close on twenty years of service. He was already exhausted. Little did he know
it would be just the beginning of his public service.
On the day of his completion, there were women lined up around the block
with gifts of food and drink and drugs. They
called it ‘The Release’. From that day he was, as they said here, a free man,
although freedom from his own perspective was debatable. What ‘The Release’
really meant was that they were free to pursue him, and pursue him they did.
He hated it. Even in the meetings, he hated the furtive glances, the
secret smiles as one or another recalled an encounter with him in the dark in
his room, or in the candlelight, in hers. The fumbling darkness was at his
request. He hated the idea of the voyeurs watching on screens, participating,
scooping up every little bit of his being.
What was it all about, he wondered? He couldn’t directly give them
children. There was still the potential in the lab, if that’s what they wanted
from him. They wouldn’t have wanted that life anyway, isolated in their houses,
unaware of the bigger picture, unable to do what they seemed to like most of
all, which was to talk endlessly with one another about the most trivial of
things. And they found comfort in each other’s arms too, here, he knew that
well enough, although they were called upon to be discreet. Griselda knew of
the dangers too, of rivalry and the emotions that it arouse, and ensured that
the group bonding overwhelmed individual longing. Passion was allowed to be
expressed, but then it was discussed and deconstructed until it lost all its
power over them.
‘The power of women is in the collective,’ she would tell them. ‘Never
forget this. It was lust for individual gain that collapsed the world of men.
This must never happen again.’ And they would always say ‘Praise be to
Griselda,’ although whether they felt it, or not, or whether they believed what
she said, was difficult to say. They responded so automatically that the words
they said probably never even reached awareness. And yet, awareness was valued
above all else. They were not to take what was offered for granted, whether it
was the affections of another, or the earth’s bounty. To do so would lead to
greed, and it was greed that led them to the ailing earth that they had
inherited from their foremothers and their forefathers. They must ensure that
this never happened again. That was the
true meaning of their ritual.
At the table they always began with an ode to something that the earth
had offered to them. Today a harvest of plums piled into a basket had been placed
in the middle of the table for contemplation and ultimate consumption. At each
meeting someone was charged with saying the grace. Today it was the turn of a
small, quiet woman called Zelda who was also to chair the meeting. She stood
and opened her arms to them all, looking at each individually. She had been
practicing this, her big moment, in her room with the light out. The dark
surveillance had picked it up in any case, to Griselda’s amusement. Zelda began
to speak with a quavering voice, full of infatuation for the earth and what it
had to offer.
‘Praise,’ she said. ‘Praise to the plum.’ She paused to give all present,
time to contemplate the plum. Then she began in earnest. ‘Oh plum, we praise
thee. We praise thy soft, round surface. We praise thy tender selflessness. We
praise thy givingness. We praise thy fecundity. We praise the way thou
springest into tree so freely and givest of thy fruit so willingly and mindest
not the gathered or the ungathered that spoil beneath thy green branches. We
praise thy gentleness, thy generosity to feed the hungry mouth and the hungry
soul. We praise the life within, the life shared, thy forbearance. We praise
thee plum. We praise thee. We praise thy ordinariness and thy uniqueness, thy
depths and surfaces, thy value, thy love of all that lives. And all that dies.’
There was silence around the table as all contemplated the plum and what
it meant. Zelda picked up the basket and took it then for Griselda’s blessing.
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘I’ll have two.’ She chose two perfect specimens,
laid one in her ample lap and bit into the other, chewing thoughtfully, her
eyes closed to help her experience the ecstasy. When at length she swallowed,
she waved her arm magnanimously and said, ‘Let the feasting begin!’
Zelda brought the basket back to the table and offered it to the two men
present, to Terry and Bob. Then each of the women took a plum, and ate in slow
and sensuous reverence. Zelda allowed the red juice to trickle from her mouth
and over her chin. The stain would help to remind her of this moment when she
became one with the earth and offered up her blessing. Her turn would not come
around for another year and she wanted to extend the magical reality of this moment
for as long as she could.
But the moment, as all moments, ended, and all reluctantly turned to the
business at hand. Half way through the business of the day, the bush experiment
reporting began. ‘Changes in Circumstance’ was at the top of the list.
‘What of the boy Dalyon?’ Zelda asked. Her voice was breathy and rapid,
as if she was batting a shuttlecock away from her, or a series of shuttlecocks.
Alba, a short woman with shoulder-length mousy-coloured hair, raised her
hand. ‘He has settled in well with the girl Jilda and the boy Lucan,’ she said.
‘He is learning the art of bush survival and continuing to develop his gift.
Mother may wish to see the visual history at some time?’
‘The girl Jilda has good protective instincts for her charge does she
not?’ said Zelda, channeling Mother Griselda.
‘Oh yes. She was located on screen only six months ago with her young
brother, and both were in robust health. Apparently they had been living in the
Q bunker that had been thought to be abandoned.’ Alba flicked through her
notes. ‘Oh yes, and the boy Dalyon is active and healthy still, I should
mention that, and does not seem to be pining for his mother, or his cat.’
‘It will be interesting to see how the dynamics evolve. Leave him where
he is for now and report any developments to me personally and without delay,’
Mother Griselda decreed from her large and comfortable chair at the hearth.
‘Moving on.’
‘Let the decision be noted,’ said Zelda. ‘To be reviewed?’
‘Two weeks,’ said Griselda, leaving Bob and Terry’s presence on the
matter entirely redundant. Griselda must have sensed this, for she added, ‘And
how did you go with the poor mother?’
‘Her final resting place was a shallow hole, unfortunately Mother,’ said
Terry, ‘due to an impenetrable system of tree roots that went right through the
yard. We didn’t want to damage the tree system, naturally.’
‘Never mind,’ said Griselda. ‘Make a note to avoid using the house again
for now. What about the cat?’
‘Disposed of,’ said Bob.
‘Good. They can get very bad in the bush. Well done. Next.’
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