K is for the Killer Season - THE DOLDRUMS OF DECEMBER

 'Tis the season, hoot the carols, and indeed it is. I've a great pile of really super presents for my family and friends, waiting only for gift wrapping. All of my Christmas cards have been sent out and I have even received two! I've invited people for the celebration, including two extras, and all in all I should be feeling very, very smug. And I am pleased, of course. It took me many years, but I've finally overcome my hatred of Christmas, and I look forward to a relaxed, happy couple of days with my family.

That all lasts until I sit down at my desk. Everything is stalled. I had, of course, a list of things I wanted to achieve this year, and I've got most of it done, truly. It has been the first year I've really got back to work properly, since Emily died. So I wrote one book and finished another, and I've published the next in the Operation Tomcat series and two of them also as audiobooks. The final month of the year was to have been spent finishing anything that wasn't finished, and generally tidying away loose ends.

But the new book part of the project can't be finalised until I get the proof copy of the paperback. I've ordered it, and also the proof copy of another book that has the paperback edition outstanding, but wonderful Amazon say they can't be delivered until 5 FEBRUARY. So that's those two things doomed to remain undone this year.

The audiobook project has similarly stalled. I was too cheap to pay for the big fat no-holds-barred subscription to the AI voice service, so I am stopped half way through converting Book 4 in the series, as I have run out of characters until mid-month when my next month's payment kicks in. I do have the third book in the series ready to go, bnt it's out with beta listeners, and my small team of those, although they started off really keen, have apparently got bored with it and I am still waiting, six weeks or so later, for them to finish that approximately two hour listen. Not cool, people. When it's a beta anything, you're holding up my work if you suddenly goof off.

The new novel I finished is in rotdown, having a good long rest so that I can have some distance from it before starting on revisions, so that can't proceed either.  In desperation I have been trying to resume work on the other half finished novel I have, although it's a huge job and certainly cannot be done in the paltry time remaining in the year. And even there I'm stalled, because I need a team of very minor characters for a space mission, and somehow my creativity has deserted me. In desperation, I turned to Brandon Sanderson's writing course, which he has updated again since I last audited it. There are two weeks of it all about character creation, so I'm hoping that will get me started. Being me, though, I was unable to watch just those without watching the whole course from the beginning. Because, you know, I might MISS something. So I am finding it very, very hard to motivate myself in the mornings. If I didn't have set working hours, I probably wouldn't manage to sit down at my desk at all.

But I DO have set working hours, and a tidy desk, and so here I am, writing my blog as a kind of warm-up. Because no one wants to hear my excuses for not working, not even me. After I post this, I'll be going on with Mr Sanderson's lectures. And hopefully, something, somewhere in there will help me to get started on writing the next section of my still untitled work in progress.

And soon, soon, it will be New Year.

SAVED BY THE SANDERSON

 It's happened to me again. I'm stuck in my new book. I've been wambling around, finding excuses not to sit at my desk, not to get on with it.

The problem is more or less mechanical; I need a First Contact Team for an alien planet, probably up to a dozen characters, only two of whom will be important to the story, but the others have to be there. And I just don't have them.

There is lots of material out there about creating characters. You can see it in every second-rate writing course, often it even starts with a character sheet, like the ones we used to use for Dungeons and Dragons. Most of these people advise you even to start your whole writing project with this. Define your main character. Then they witter on about a lot of rubbish like height, weight, colour of eyes, colour of hair etc. None of which is the slightest use if you do not have a story.

For me, the story is always the thing, and usually my characters emerge from that. They will be what the story needs them to be, and this generally works really well for me; in fact I can't really think of an instance where it hasn't. But then I don't usually have this big cast of background characters. I've already written a lot of supporting characters among my alien race of people, but those were easier, somehow; their context was a whole society, whereas here I am limited to the members of a First Contact Team of a spacegoing people. And I've been really stuck on it.

And then I remembered Brandon Sanderson. Wonderful Brandon Sanderson, who saved Bloodsucking Bogans, probably my favourite of all my books. I had almost completed the first draft of it, but when I read over it, it was absolute shite. It was so bad that I was facing just ditching the whole project, yet I couldn't bear to, because it was my pet idea that I'd had for years and been so looking forward to writing. 

But help was at hand, for I was taking Sanderson's course at the time. In case you don't know, Brandon Sanderson teaches a graduate course in fiction writing at some university, and because the man is a truly good and generous human being and an absolute mensch, he has the entire course videoed and makes it available, free, on Youtube. And it's amazing what one can learn from it. My big takeaway this time (I was taking the course for the second time, because he updates it every few years) was a big section about how to figure out what is wrong with your draft, and how to fix it. This advice worked so well for me that I was able to finish the book, and publish it without shame, and it remains one of my favourite things that I've done, and in fact has taken a place among my own feel-good reads. Yes, people, sometimes I read my own books.

Anyway, I had a bit of a look, and the wonderful Mr Sanderson has indeed updated the course again since then, and this time, there is apparently a big section about creating characters. So I'm entirely confident that my problem will be solved.

I was tempted to go straight to that section, but having benefited so greatly from this course before, I'm going to take the disciplined route and watch the whole thing from the beginning. One never knows what other gems one will find. 

VALE FERRET

 

A vast and powerful personality has left the world. He slipped quietly away between one breath and the next, on my lap, with my quiet talk the last sound in his pointed ears. The room seemed to echo with its emptiness; even in the debility of extreme old age, Ferret had a massive presence. 

Born feral, Ferret was hand reared by a human mother. He lived happily with her for the first five years of his life (happily, that is, except for the terrible event that took his leg. I still hope the worthless individual who set traps for cats in his vegetable garden will get what he deserves.) For some undisclosed reason, he then went to long-term foster care, in search of a new permanent home.

Ferret spent twelve months in foster care, and during that time he became close friends with Louis, who also became our cat. Very different personalities, they evidently found something precious in each other, and I'm told they were always together.

Around that time I had lost my own cat, RooRoo, and the foster carer offered Ferret to me. I saw a picture of him, thought he looked boring, and didn't want to take on a three-legged cat whom I mistakenly thought would be 'special needs'. So I foolishly declined the opportunity and continued to search, unsuccessfully, for a new companion.

A few months later, the foster carer (at that time a friend - now, alas, no more) contacted me in violent distress, saying she had been evicted from her rented house. I saw danger looming and headed it off by quickly offering a specific, clearly delineated amount of help. I offered to take two cats for a period not to exceed three weeks, while she relocated herself. And so I brought home Ferret and his friend, who at that time was named Fatboy. We set them up with nice soft beds in the dining room, to give them a little distance from the dogs. Remember, they were to be with us only for a short time. They had cardboard boxes and pillows to sleep on. I went in there several times a day to chat with them and check on them. Louis came out and was friendly, but Ferret lurked in his cardboard box and if I went near him, he would greet me with a rant of appalling proportions; spitting, growling and generally offensive behaviour. I got used to this routine.

On the third day, Ferret suddenly emerged from the dining room when I was in the kitchen. He made a beeline for me and overwhelmed me with love. It was quite an experience; I ended up sitting on the kitchen floor while he swarmed all over me, and in the process I was informed that I was now HIS. It was a powerful experience. I rang up the foster person on the telephone. Please, please don't say I have to give Ferret back, I told her. I cannot part with him. She quickly agreed, hung up the phone and no doubt went away rubbing her hands and going 'I love it when a plan comes together.'

Ferret was now part of the family, but Louis, more shy, continued to stay in the dining room although he was always happy to chat if one went in there. After a couple more days, though, my husband, never a cat man before, spontaneously fell in love with him and I had another call to make. And so, the two friends remanied together until the ends of their lives.

Ferret quickly fitted himself into all of the spaces in my life, and several that he made for himself. He helped me at work

and would spend most of the working day in my in tray. I had to rearrange my desk and keep my work in a separate pile, or else I could not get at anything. One file always had to be left in the tray, though. If not, Ferret complained that the wires of the basket dug into him.

He helped me study...

He helped me decorate the Christmas tree...

And clean the bath...

And bring up my puppy...

He was there in everything that I did. Several times a day, he would climb up the big tree next to our house and get on the roof. He loved it up there. Occasionally, he'd be joined by Louis.

Louis was not a problem; if he went up the tree, later on he came down the tree. Ferret, however, with his one front leg, could not come down by himself. I had to go up the extension ladder and carry him down. We fell into a routine. Ferret would call me when he wanted to descend, and I would go and fetch him down. The extension ladder became a fixture at the edge of our patio. There was just no point ever putting it away.

Ferret travelled really well in the car, as long as I did not play any music of which he disapproved, which was a wide field. He had a particular hatred of Harry Belafonte. I got into the habit of listening to audiobooks instead as we travelled between town and country. Ferret loved the country house, and it was nice having a break from the ladder. 

Ferret comforted me through the loss of two wonderful hounds, and the loss of my husband's dog, and he helped me bring up two puppies. He saw me through my Grad Dip, and he was there when I was admitted to the Legal profession. Well, not there in the Supreme Court, obviously. But no doubt he was at my desk, watching the ceremony online. He had certainly been there for all the study. 

His initial sweariness, although he continued to have quite a mouth on him, was never repeated after that first amazing encounter in the kitchen. Not with me, anyway. 

Ferret got on very well with our dogs, and my husband's enormous German Shepherd learned to scrunch himself up into one half of his futon, leaving the other half for Ferret. Ferret, although a small cat, claimed his full half. Still, his primary dog relationship was with my girl Emily; they were really besties, and therefore when Memphis died, I was thoroughly caught on the hop at Ferret's terrible grief. He had a rough, rough time, and actually started to self harm, biting off all his fur on his stomach, chest and legs, right back to the skin and often making himself bleed. I ended up putting him on Prozac for six months. That got him through it, although he always after that kept his bikini area shorn, like a tiny Brazilian. I suppose he just preferred it that way. When Emily died I kept her hidden from him until we could get her out of the house. I feared what that loss could do to him.

All the same, I could hide her body from him but I could not hide her absence, and within a few months Ferret, who had been a hearty, healthy cat in the prime of his middle age, suddenly started to become very old. He became incontinent, and gradually, over the ensuing couple of years, lost the ability to walk, although I kept him mobile for as long as I possibly could, always encouraging him through the slow walk to the kitchen rather than picking him up and carrying him. Losing Louis earlier in the year, though, was a blow to him, and in the last few months of his life, he could not even stand.

And yet, his life had value to him still. I remained, and remain, utterly convinced of that. His world had drawn in to a tiny scope, but he enjoyed his food right up to the last, he always enjoyed cuddles, he still purred and occasionally delivered a gentle bite of love, he loved to be carried out into the garden for the morning sunshine. I didn't think he could see very well any more, but he would lie there scenting the air and listening to the birds, and he always seemed happy. And because I am self-employed, and work from home, I was able to provide all the support he needed. Right up until that last day, when it was clear in the morning that he had set his foot on the road and would not be turning around. All through the day he drifted, semi-conscious. I was able to get him to take a few sips of water, but he would not touch food. And that night, I knew that if I went to sleep, I would wake and find him gone, and he would have died alone. And so we sat up together. I held him on my lap, and stroked him gently and talked quietly to him, and after a few hours I realised I was talking to empty air. Ferret was no longer present.

I buried him next to Emily, whom he loved most in the world after me. There will never be another cat like him.