Losing The Plot
I’m early for the five-thirty back to Derby so there’s plenty of time to settle into my seat, relax and watch the other passengers clamber aboard. For me, other people are currency.
One by one, they shuffle along the aisle, in search of territory. A nest-builder sets up camp next to a travel-lighter which is convenient. There’s always an irritating apologist, usually a woman and s-o-r-r-y ripples through the carriage. The wishful-thinker is trying to squeeze a suitcase underneath his seat. Naturally, the white-rabbit, is last to arrive. He’s frantic and sweaty, his heart primed for attack. I hope nothing happens here but then again, a drama would be exciting.
Passengers travelling together fall into easy chatter and then slowly, tentative conversations begin between strangers. I love accents, rich vocabulary, even the way people talk about the weather. If I’m patient, I may catch something revealing so I rest my eyes and tune into the soundtrack.
Our Karen’s wedding dress was beautiful, it showed off her tits lovely……..
Fab-u-lous.
Des, a GP, once told me that he could consult with a patient for half an hour and as they were going out the door, they would say something like:
Did I tell you my old man topped himself last week?
It changes everything.
Ironically, Des ended our twenty-five year marriage with a scrag end. We had endured another tedious evening, eating too much pasta and talking about Josh (our son), the ineptitude of the bin men and the decline of the NHS. Just as I was loading the dishwasher, Des said he was in a gay relationship. Just like that.
His lover is Amol, a Trainee Patient Counsellor, just four years older than Josh. They plan to live happily ever after. The End.
Except, I turned the sorry tale into a new beginning. For me. I gave up auditing Council contracts, audited my life and changed track completely. Des, didn’t like me using his story as the catalyst for my best-selling erotic novel, but I and thousands others, did.
Sadly, Josh struggles. Having a gay Dad is challenging, but still kinda cool. Having a Mum who is into sex, is impossibly difficult. Des, didn’t help either by persistently ridiculing my book as ‘porno-trash’.
However, the critics gushed. They said I was a refreshing, new voice for sexual experience and I have an instinct for women’s erotic pleasure. I appeared on Newsnight which was fascinating. Apparently, my romantic, powerful, yet meditative narrative shifts sex effortlessly to the Female Gaze…..
And there was a happy ending!
Though there were moments when I felt like I had found one thing and lost another. I don’t mean losing Des, because that was unexpectedly liberating. But, when I finished writing the book, I missed Coralie, dreadfully, because she was living the life I hadn’t lived.
People ask, in that nudge-nudge-wink-wink sort of way, if I ‘researched’ the book before writing it. The truth? A little, but not nearly enough. Following publication, I received hundreds of invitations via Twitter but they were so disturbing, I left the platform. My friend, Jan, thinks decent men (?) may perceive me as intimidating.
However, there’s no point wishing. What is, is. I will search for another character and write her an exciting life.
Observing other passengers is fascinating but it’s also a distraction. The synopsis and first chapter of my next book must be emailed to Francesco at Walker-Finlay, by the 5th January. I met him today in London and whilst he acknowledged that a massive success is hard to follow, We (I) need determination.
So, make a Plan.
There is a man opposite, across the table. How strange I didn’t notice him sooner because he has amazing, auburn hair. Late forties, early fifties, wearing a blue business suit. Engrossed in his laptop. Not the type to chat which is good. All he needs are his spreadsheets and a large flat-white to keep him company. Probably in boring, middle-management.
I take out a scribble pad and sharpen my pencils. l close my eyes. Inhale, slowly and deeply, Hold, count to five. Engage abdominals and pelvic floor, exhale slowly, relaxing my shoulders to release the tension in my neck. Repeat. I open my eyes and Man Opposite is looking at me. Quickly, he lowers his eyes, but he’s smiling.
Creativity is about work, not inspiration. An idea will not magically pop into my head, I have to search for it, like it’s a tiny glittery gem hiding in a bowl of rice. The only way to find it is to pick out the grains of rice, one by one. Once I have the idea, words will flow, must flow. I just have to remember to avoid cliches and tropes. Show, don’t tell. Be diverse and contemporary. Witty, funny, poignant, credible and above all, sexy.
I need a gin and tonic.
Come on, no faffing. Jot down suitable characters and scenarios, open up the laptop and JDI. Beginning to end, without stopping at any stations along the way. Turn nothingness into somethingness. Don’t worry about punctuation or typos because you can go back and edit it, hundreds of times. You’ve done this before and you can do it again.
We are sliding away from the platform and the journey begins.
Heading: Synopsis.
What about a romance on a train? I’ll need an angle because trains are everywhere in literature. Who could forget Brief Encounter? The wrong train turns out to be the right train. Someone between stations, between decisions. Lost, maybe even a ghost… Has anyone written a romantic ghost story?
Ghost, idiot.
Patrick Swayze!
Did I say that out loud? I appear to have Man Opposite’s complete attention. His eyes are a gorgeous, bright blue.
I think this train idea has wheels.
Christopher Booker’s thirty-four year research concluded that there are only seven plots in fiction: Overcoming the Monster, Rags to Riches, The Quest, Voyage and Return, Rebirth, Comedy, and Tragedy. I decide to use these headings as Plot Generation Tools.
I draw a red circle and inside it, I write TRAIN in blue pencil. Then, I draw black crisscross tracks branching away from the circle. (Very creative!) At the ends of the tracks I add link words (scenarios) with arrows darting up to the appropriate PGTs. Possible characters are stick men/women drawn down the side of the page.
Man Opposite is distracted by my artwork because he’s looking at me again. I whisper s-o-r-r-y and then continue, a little less expressively. Even his eyes are smiling at me. I shiver.
Maybe I have Writers’ Block? I could be experiencing delayed PTSD, from the divorce but Francesco would never accept that. Professional Writing is a job, like anything else. Have you ever heard of Plumber’s Block? Apart from in the context of a toilet, of course.
Perhaps the toilet on the train gets blocked? Is there a plumber on board? And a female plumber avoids gender stereotyping.
I am ridiculous. I screw up the Plan, open my laptop and type a Stream of Consciousness.
Greta sat opposite a fifty-something man tapping on his laptop.
It needs work.
Greta is a nice name but my name, and therefore unsuitable. I’ve never heard of a hot romance involving a Greta. I don’t know another Greta, apart from Greta Thunberg and she’s too busy saving the planet, to unblock a toilet. I could write a romance between GT and a Climate Activist. Is a train Green enough?
Try again.
(InsertName) flicked/tossed her blonde hair away from her face and squeezed into her seat. Opposite was a man, tapping rhythmically on his laptop. He looked up and smiled. He had vivid blue eyes, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other. (creepy/interesting?). He had a depth of expression she had never seen before. Knowing. His eyes held hers. She felt a wave of connection, imagining his long fingers tenderly caressing her breasts. A little jerk, a release of tension and the train slowly glided out of the station. (InsertName), flustered, nudged the table slightly, almost spilling his coffee.
Codswallop. All I have is rice.
I get up, wander along the aisle and sashay back, almost in slow motion, sliding into my seat, elegantly. Sometimes, a re-enactment helps me build a character through their body language. Man Opposite is watching me, in a nice way, so I must look convincing.
My characters need names. Kristian, Amol, Simon, Marcus? Agnes is a good solid name for a plumber and has an attractive feminine edge.
Agnes meets (Insertname) on a train, she seduces him only to find later that he is her long, lost love child.
Wow! I wonder how Francesco and the Guardian would respond if I presented them with a female plumber, incest and a train. I am supposed to be an intelligent author.
I giggle at my own absurdity and Man Opposite laughs, too. Suddenly, my cheeks feel hot. I whisper s-o-r-r-y again.
“Don’t worry, it’s lovely,” he says, extending his hand to me. “Hi, I’m Kevin Grimdyke. Nice to meet you.”
Lovely hair, strong handshake, sparkly eyes……. Kevin Grimdyke! Who is writing this script?
I feel giddy. My top lip is quivering and in danger of sticking to my teeth. What is happening?
“Hi,” I squeak, licking my lips, frantically. “Greta Thunberg, nice to meet you, too.”
There’s never an Editor’s red pen when you need one.
“Greta Charlesworth, I think, not Thunberg,” he says and winks. Deliciously.
A polite Gentleman is so underrated nowadays but this one is worth writing home about. His smile lights up the carriage. Lovely teeth, too.
“I saw you on Newsnight,” Kevin says. “I loved your book. I learned so much from it.”
His voice is like warm, melted chocolate.
“Great ……that’s really great….thank you…..great.”
It’s not a great response but it’s the best a blob can do. Be bold.
“What do you do, Kevin?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“In my day-job, I suppose I’m a plumber,” he says.
A PLUMBER.
I squeak, again.
“Well, I was a plumber. Now, I run my own nationwide plumbing company. You may have heard of us. Water Works?”
“Wow. I called out Water Works recently. I needed a high pressure ball cock float valve and plastic float for my cistern.”
Where did that come from?
“We’ve something in common!” says Kevin. My chest is thumping and my throat is full of frogs.
Coralie was confident.
‘You said plumbing is the day-job?” I croak.
“Yes, I enjoy am-dram and working occasionally as a film-extra. I also do a bit of scribbling, not in your league, of course, just a few lines of poetry.”
“I’ve always wanted to write Haiku,” I reply. (Until this moment, I was not aware of this ambition.)
“Me too!” says Kevin.
There’s a pause. And, b-r-e-a-t-h-e.
Kevin says,
“Look, this may sound too forward but it would be nice to meet up and talk about, you know, writing …. and Haiku…?”
“And plumbing!” I reply. We both laugh.
“Are you busy over Christmas?” Coralie took every opportunity.
“Actually, no,” I lied.
“Shall we make a date?” Kevin asks.
So, we do. A winter walk on Christmas Eve.
The nest-builder is on the move and as she passes by, she gently squeezes my shoulder. Kevin notices and we giggle, again, far too loudly.
“How about a gin and tonic, Greta?” asks Kevin. I nod, enthusiastically and catch sight of our reflection in the window. A man and a woman sitting together on a train, looking happy.
I’ll email Francesco later. I have an idea for my next book. It needs research and fleshing out but I’m definitely back. And it feels great. Really, great.
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