Tearing up the wip

Yesterday I copied my first three chapters of my wip and then attacked them with a machete.

Keeping an original safe gives me the freedom to try whatever I like and still be safe in the knowledge I have a fall back position.

So what did I do?

I took out the first three pages and allowed dialogue to be the first line. Then I took out the second and third scenes that made up Chapter One and consigned them to the "maybe" folder. At this stage, the words in the maybe folder may be re-used, or they may remain forever dumped. Who knows?

Next I copied the first scene of Chapter Two and added it to the end of first scene Chapter One. Now I have a first chapter that consists of two cracking scenes. (Crosses fingers here!)

Then I repeated the process today with Chapter Two, with slight variations but following the general theme of cut and add-in. Now I'm sneaking a look at Chapter Four and considering moving it up to the end Chapter Three.

This is not all. Now that I've almost got to the end of the storyline, I can spot plot footage where I need to shift and change, add in, take out and generally enhance my plot and characterisation. I find it heady stuff. It's almost as if the original writing isn't mine and I can usually see right away where something needs to be done.

That rejection certainly freed up something. If I'm honest, I regretted sending it off as early as I did, but I'm always impatient to get feedback. Yes, I know agents are not there to provide feedback unless perhaps you are their client, but in a way it is a kind of feedback. If they don't like it, then you go back to the drawing board. Or the keyboard.

I had an inkling of what I wanted to do already in mind while I was on holiday in Tunisia. It certainly made me impatient to get back to writing.

But talking of Tunisia, one of the amazing things about the country is vast amount of Roman Architecture that disappeared under the shifting sands of Africa. The four columns are part of a big site at Thuburbo Majus, discovered under the sand in 1875, and the temple is part of an even bigger site at Dougga, discovered 1894.

Amazing to think that Dougga sits at 600 metres above sea level, and the sand covered the whole of the building. It lies about seventy miles south west of Tunis, the modern city built around Carthage, and today four fifths of the site remains under grass, sustaining the best quality olive trees in Tunisia.

Tunisian life

Some parts of Sousse are not pretty. Others are cute. I took both of these pics outside the carpet-seller's factory. The children's nursery was directly opposite and the street was just that - the street outside with everyday life going on. If you click to enlarge the pic, you'll see the way some of the older ladies dress, in what looks like a striped woollen blanket.

In the summer I could see that this way of dressing might be an advantage. The heat of the sun coupled with the sand blown on the wind must turn the skin to leather, and after our experience of a mild sandstorm, I couldn't help but think it was a sensible option.

One afternoon we experienced a sudden crack of thunder and lightning lit up the sky. Just one of each. Then the rain came down. Big, fat drops that bounced off the tiles. People ran into the hotel drenched to the skin after only a minute. It lasted perhaps ten minutes in all, but the front of the hotel was awash and the maid was kept busy mopping the water out as fast as it rolled in.

Transport is interesting. On the same street you can see the modern tour buses, Mercedes cars, old bycycles and the humble donkey - pulling a cart or being ridden by (usually) old men in long robes.

Women work on the central reservation of the main roads, planting bushes in soil they have first dug with a very old tool about the size of a large trowel but with a hooked blade - imagine a claw- headed hammer and you'll be close.

They also work in the fields, planting, weeding, harvesting. Men tend to look after the sheep and goats, and it is not unusual to see a small flock of six or seven herded along the motorway verge by an old man. Everywhere there's a patch of sparse weedy grass, even in the outskirts of Sousse, there will be a shepherd and a few animals.

But don't let me give you the impression that Tunisians are all poverty stricken. There are some very nice houses even on the carpet-seller's street, tucked away behind high white walls and ornate iron gates. There is money there. The flash new cars dash along the streets, and the young people dress as young people do everywhere. One of the things I loved was the housewifely thing of tossing your carpet and your bed fleece over the balcony to air in the sun. Everyone does it. Pity we don't have the weather for it here.

Sand storm

The Royal Kenz hotel, our home for 14 days.

Yes, I'd recommend it. The view from the other

side is prettier, with the two pools and the

gardens, but it is certainly a contrast to the
view not half a mile away to the north, where we were told many of the local people live. So many unfinished houses do nothing for the ambience of the neighbourhood as you'll see in the second picture.

The weather is still gently warm at this point and we continued to walk up and down the beach, lounge on it and generally catch up on our reading. I had Dissolution by C J Sanson on my e-

reader and though I did not dare take it onto the beach in case sand found its way into the workings, it proved a good idea elsewhere. Light, easy to read even in the brightest sunshine, and very clear text. Wonderful story, too. Must find more of the author's work.

By day four we had discovered that the weather changed around noon. The clear blue skies we woke up to each morning gradually clouded over and the wind increased from noon onwards. This particular day, the wind increased until it drove us into the sheltering arms of the hotel gardens. It was a warm wind, but coming straight off the Sahara and bringing loads of sand with it. The air turned a pale, sandy gold colour and grit got between my teeth and made me wince once or twice when it got between my contacts and me.

As a reflection on working practices, I have to admit that I've been three hours at my computer today and have yet to do any work on my wip. Shocking, isn't it? I began by reading e-mails, then doing three crits for my colleagues at Histfic and then by checking and adding this to my blog. In between I've made cups of tea for dh and self, set the washer going and emptied it twice over and oh yes, did the washing up from breakfast and fed the birds. Before that there were other housekeeping duties too boring to mention - but I swear I am going to do nothing this afternoon but work on my novel. I swear it!

Magic carpets

The shot of the airplane wing should be fair

warning - I've been on holiday and took lots of pics. We left the freezing conditions of England and flew to Tunisia to see if we could catch some sunshine.
The first couple of days were so much warmer than we were used to, and we lapped it up. Locals, of course, scurried around in overcoats, hats and scarves. The beach was cool and misty but provided a lovely walk from the hotel to Port El Kantaoui - about five kilometres there and back again. Lots of chances to indulge a taste for retail therapy around the port - and when I say port, think of rubbing shoulders with the yachting crowd rather than ocean liners. Lots of leather goods, pottery and carpets spewing out of the shops and across the paving stones, plus lots of places to eat if you were in the mood.

Silver sand, gentle waves and the kind of sunshine that keeps you warm but you can't see the sun. Click on the pics for a larger view.

The second day was warmer, and we walked north instead of south, through the local village and were amazed at the number of half completed houses. Buildings started and not finished. We found out later that Muslims are not supposed to practice usury, so they must save their money and build until the money runs out and then save to build the next section. All over Tunisia, raw breeze blocks and concrete hurt the eye - but the people will not be in debt, and every stark structure sports a satellite dish.

The third day we took a bus ride into Sousse, visited first a carpet and then a leather factory. Again, don't think factory in UK terms. The leather factory operated in three rooms no larger than my living room, and the carpet factory was perhaps three times that size but still not huge. Had we been inclined or had bare floors back home, we could have bought a carpet for perhaps a third of what it would cost here in England. Worth flying out for a holiday just to pick and purchase a handsome Berber or Kashmiri rug...

We were given a demonstration of different

qualitites of carpet. First of all, there is the

standard wool carpet, perhaps ten feet by six, double knotted by hand, three ladies working for six months on a design that lives only in their minds.

Then comes the same carpet, but made in lambs wool - three ladies, nine months and this carpet will not burn, my friend. At this point the carpet dealer gets out his lighter and holds the naked flame to the lambs wool carpet, and, amazingly, it does not burn. He gestures to the standard wool carpet - "It would leave hole in rug. Do not try it at home."

Then comes the Kasmiri carpet - same design, six ladies, nine months, guaranteed by Tunisia government for 100 years. Dh and I look at each other and struggle with the idea of returning to Tunisia, carpet under arm, trying to complain that it has worn out after fifty years.... At this point, with perhaps thirty or forty carpets strewn on the shop floor beneath our dazed eyes, not one of his audience can speak.