People ask writers how they come up with their stories, how they pluck characters and stories from thin air, how the ideas come to them. I can’t speak for other writers and I really have no idea how the ideas, plots, people and places bring themselves together for my pen to describe. However, a bit like not understanding how a car works but understanding what I need to do to make it work, I know what I need to do to have the writing happen – here is the first of those things …
People tell me that they’d love to write a book, that they’ve always dreamed of writing, that others say they should write a book … and so I say, “Do it!”
And the standard reply? “Oh, yes, I’d love to but I just don’t have the time right now – writing a book takes a lot of time.”
Yes, writing a book does take a lot of time but so does watching your favourite TV soap! However, like watching that important soap, you don’t have to do it all today, this week, this month. You just do a little every day. If you really want to write something – a poem, an article, a book – you have to drop the self-defeating excuses, turn up at the page and start writing.
My second book, Whose Life Is It Anyway?, was written over breakfast, every morning, for a year. A half hour’s writing of 500-1,000 words, every day, produced enough words for two novels – in one year.
Everyone’s busy and we all have the perfect excuses for not doing what we’d really love to do. Why? Because having a project completed then sets us up for fear of failure and/or fear of success. Most people would rather avoid those fears by retreating behind a myriad of inexcusable excuses. However, wouldn’t you rather end your life with memories rather than dreams?
So, think about all the little spaces in your life – over breakfast, while commuting, in cafés, watching TV – which you can turn into sacred writing spaces. Oh, but you’ll then come up with that other Grand Excuse – “I want to write but I don’t know what to write about.” You will never know what to write about till you start writing. Don’t wait for the writing – it’s waiting for you.
If you have a desire to write, you know exactly what to write about – the what will reveal itself when you turn up at the blank page (or blank computer screen) and start writing … “I don’t know what to write but I’ve started writing and, though I have no clue why I’m here doing this I have, at least, turned up at the page and my pen’s moving (keyboard’s clacking) and making word-marks on the blank paper/screen and nothing’s coming to me yet but I’m going to keep writing because Philip said if I did, the what, the subject would come to me …” Just keep your pen moving, your keyboard busy, and, at the start, it could be complete drivel, utter senseless rubbish. You might write about the horrible/beautiful weather, your uncomfortable writing chair, your slow computer, your cranky father, your last holiday, your biggest dream, your worst moment … it doesn’t matter what you write but keep doing it and – on this rock I stand – the ideas will come. You see, there is a theory that thoughts create words. It’s wrong – words create thoughts which create words which create thoughts which create words …
So, chuck out your excuses, substitute waste spaces for write spaces and turn up at the page. You’ll be amazed at what you unleash when you turn up and write something, then something else, then something else …
And now back to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from the previous blog ...
“Old chap,” said Hemi, ruminating on the phrase. “Heh, I never been called that before! Yeah, right, I just want the taonga and get back to decent kai. Bloody crap food here. Dunno’ how you survive on it!”
“And you’ll tell us all you know?” asked Ahmed, his gun still discretely evident.
“Don’t need a gun to convince me, man!” said Hemi, shaking his head.
Ahmed slipped his gun back into the back of his belt and looked around the room to see if everyone agreed. It seemed that they all did and so he nodded to John and Angus who pushed Hemi forward on the chair to untie his hands as a knock sounded on the door.
“Thanks guys, so I can put my pants on again,” said Halee disappearing into the bedroom as Sam leapt up and headed for the door, the man-in-charge once again.
“Oh, hello Hoppy,” said Sam as he opened the door.
“Oh, gosh, Sam …” said an older, suited man who stopped mid-sentence when he saw the others in the room. “Aah, oh, Mr Lord.”
“Oh, yes, of course, Superintendent Hopkins,” said Sam, remembering the form. “Do come in and we can explain.”
“I am so sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” said Superintendent Hopkins, smoothing back his straight, sparse hair a trifle nervously. “This must be upsetting for you all but I must ask you all to bear with me. And I know what a difficult time you’ve had of it, lately, Mr Lord.” The superintendent looked evenly at Sam for some moments as if imparting information mentally.
“Yes, Superintendent Hopkins, there have been better times,” said Sam jovially, closing the door and accompanying the superintendent back to the others. “Take a seat and we can explain everything.”
“Thank you Mr Lord and thank you, sir,” said Superintendent Hopkins as he took the seat vacated by Angus for him. “Now, I do not know what happened, though I have some suspicions, but I’m not here to ask any questions right now …”
“But I just shot a man, sir,” said Ahmed, looking surprised. “Surely you want to take me in …”
“No sir, I am not going to question or take anyone in,” said Superintendent Hopkins, smiling as he held up his hand to Ahmed. “This is all very irregular and, believe me, I have been following this case closely, more closely than most of you realise, in fact. Now, bear with me, as I said, and it is imperative, most imperative, that you vacate this hotel as soon as possible.”
“But, what about …” asked Ahmed with his hands clasped as if already hand-cuffed.
“We do not have time for ‘what ifs’ and ‘whys’ right now,” interrupted Superintendent Hopkins, evenly as he took out his notebook. “I am from Scotland Yard and, to me, your safety is foremost – a consideration you may not receive from either the Metropolitan Police Force or MI5. You must all be gone before anyone from either of those agencies or the tabloid press arrive and, after that, I will have as many explanations for you as you have for me. So, I need to take your names and contact details, one by one, and, in the meantime, you must pack and then leave with me.”
Something in his quiet, factual voice sent a chill round the room and everyone immediately, quietly, packed up and was ready to leave as he wrote down the last name and details in his blue note book. He stood and they followed him to the door, where he motioned them to stop while he went out. There he had a conversation with other people. He then reappeared and motioned the eight to follow him, which they did obediently. They were surprised there was no one around to see them leave the building by the back stairs. He led them up a back alley, behind the food scraps and rubbish of other hotels and restaurants, in the cool, still morning, and stopped before they got to a street.
“From my notes I see the closest residence is yours, Miss Collins,” said Superintendent Hopkins quietly. “I suggest you all repair there and I will meet you presently, with my detective constable, where we will conduct the usual investigation procedures.”
The eight followed Mary to her apartment and, once inside, stood there looking at each other like dumb mules. No one spoke and no one knew what to say.
“This is weird, isn’t it,” said Angus, eventually, dropping his bag and looking out the window. “What you suppose is going on?”
“Dunno mate,” said John, with his arm around Belinda’s shoulders. “Feels creepy, weird, somehow.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on but, while we’re here, we may as well make ourselves more normal,” said Mary, her logical mind returning from sabbatical leave. “You need a shower first, Sam, so get cleaned up and I’ll find some girly clothes for Halee and myself and then Ahmed can have his suit back. The rest of you just help yourselves to coffee, tea and food, whatever you want, huh?” Mary, Halee and Sam headed for the bedroom and bathroom.
“Yes thanks, Mary, I’d love a cup of tea,” said Belinda, heading off to the kitchen. “Anyone else want one?”
“Jeez thanks but I could murder a smoke,” said Hemi with a hopeful smile. “That bloody Michael took my last one.”
“You want one of mine?” asked Angus.
“Thanks bro’ and you’re Angus?” asked Hemi. Angus nodded and they shook hands.
“And you’re Hone?” asked Hemi.
“Yes,” said John shaking Hemi’s hand.
“So you invite a brother in and don’t even introduce him to the whanau, the family,” said Hemi, laughing and slapping John’s back. “What kind of a Māori are you, bro’?”
“Aah, bloody Rotorua Māoris always moan, Angus,” said John, laughing. “Now get your brown behind outside for a smoke and I’ll get some fresh air too.”
“While the little wife stays in the kitchen!” yelled Belinda, laughing, as the men left.
“You may join us if you prefer,” said Ahmed, gallantly.
“Thanks Ahmed, just joking,” said Belinda. “Go and get some male bonding and I can have a peaceful cup of tea on my own. I could do with a little less drama for a minute or two.”
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