Insecurities

I don't know about you but I tend to oscillate between feeling good about my novel and what I've written, and being very insecure!

Generally when my story is on the screen in front of me and I'm working on it, I'm fairly confident that what I'm writing is pretty good and readable.  I feel fine about it.

But often, especially lying in bed at night, I become plagued with insecurities about my novel.  I worry that it's too far fetched to be believable, that it's too short , possibly too simplistic in style for an adult novel and that I haven't got the sex scene right!

I guess most authors probably have similar feelings sometimes.  Perhaps it's how we respond to these feelings that can make or break us.  For myself, I'm just continuing to edit my novel, trying to make it the best that I can.  I think for me part of the problem is that no one's really seen what I've written so far.  Some people have read the opening chapters (via the youwriteon.com novel-sharing website) and my husband looked at part of it for me, but that's about it. 

So I'm a bit unsure of how it rates as a story, how well written it is and whether people will actually be bothered to read it.

I guess to use an age old saying, the proof of the pudding is in the eating:  once I self publish and promote it I'll see what the response is!

Do any of you struggle with insecurities about your work?  I'd be interested to hear.

Renting or buying?

It occurred to me the other day that in some ways it's possible to compare self publishing versus traditional publishing with buying or renting a house.  Let me explain what I mean.
 
When you rent a house you pay a monthly price for it.  The house is not yours.  Often as a tenant you're allowed to decorate and alter the house to some extent to get it to be how you want.  But often you're not able to; part of the contract says that you can only do certain things with the house and much of it must be left alone. 
 
I think that being published in the traditional way is similar.  You provide the work i.e. your novel and the publisher keeps it up for you.  That is to say the publisher negotiates with you a fee for your work and will then provide a cover for your book, edit, promote and distribute it etc.  Of course as hte author you expect to be kept in the loop at all times regarding your work.  But in the same way that a house you rent is not yours, similarly although the story you've written is your own (as is the money you give to your landlord) a lot of things to do with actually getting the book out there have to be negotiated and may not always prove satisfactory to you.
 
Self publishing can I think be compared to buying a house.  The work you've produced remains entirely yours.  You have to spend the money, time and effort to get it to the point at which you feel it can be shared with the world via Amazon or whoever.  But you are a free agent; you don't have to answer to anyone except perhaps your audience/critics who may not like what you've produced.  Admittedly self publishing is nothing compared to taking on a mortgage!  However, as with maintaining a house, the onus is on the author to make sure their work reads well, that the spelling and grammar are correct and that the cover of the novel is appealing.  One of the most important aspects of self publishing is that the author must rigorously promote their work, a little like forking out for that mortgage payment each month.

I am planning to self publish my novel and I'm currently editing it.   I'm very aware that I need to make sure it reads as well as possible, with no grammar, punctuation or spelling mistakes.  Some people have suggested I hire a proofreader.  Personally I feel at the moment that's too expensive an option for me and I may not see a return on that sort of investment, but I do feel it is very important when you're self publishing to ensure that your work is of the highest standard possible.

Of course there are many benefits to being published by a bona fide publisher.  There can be nothing like seeing your novel in print and holding the final published book in your hand.  But there are certainly many advantages to self publishing and perhaps in the future it will enable authors to have a better deal when it comes to negotiating with a publishing house. 

As always it would be great to hear your views.

The final stretch?

Well I'm still hard at it, beavering away on my novel.  I'm still editing.  It's going well, but starting to get a little tedious now!  Some weeks ago now I printed out what I'd written to read through and make corrections.  I don't know about you, but I find it harder to take in what I'm reading when it's on the screen compared with a paper copy in your hand.  Also it was quite nice to see it in a physical form.

So I read through that, making corrections and a few changes, and now I'm about half way through reading on the computer again.  I'm not sure how most writers go about their editing.  It would be interesting to me to know if there are certain things that writers do/don't do or try to avoid when editing.  I'm just trying to go through it as much as I can - though saying that I'll probably stop when I've done this read through and then print out another copy/copies to give to (kind) friends who wouldn't mind reading it for me!!

After I've done that and taken on board what people have said about my story, then I guess the time will come for me to seriously start looking to self publish on Kindle and possibly Smashwords as well.  I do need to do some research before then, but I have a secret weapon (ie my husband!!) who is very knowledgeable when it comes to computers and has even said he can design my cover for me! 

This is quite an exciting time for me as I've never been published before.  I realise that technically I'm self publishing, but as many people on Twitter tell me, it may well be the way things are going in the future.  It seems obvious to me that more and more people are going to self publish.  It's so much easier to get your work noticed and as I think I've mentioned before on this blog, if you self publish and lots of people look at your work, it has the potential to lead to publishers getting interested and taking a look as well.

I'll keep you posted on my progress.  As always, please send me your comments.  I'd love to know what you think about the writing process.

It's coming together!!

Just done my first print out of my novel.  I know it's only A4 paper but it still feels great to see it printed out.  I feel a real sense of achievement.  I do have some insecurities about my novel - who doesn't? - the main one being that it's not long enough for an adult novel - less than 50,000 words.

But I reckon I can maybe expand it if need be and I think that for me personally it's better to get it finished, to get all my ideas down and then maybe see about tweaking it further at some point in the future.  What do you guys think?  Maybe you could let me know...

In the meantime, I've had an idea for my next novel which I can start planning soon.  Watch this space!

Editing and more editing

I've finally finished the first draft of my novel!  I'm pleased with it, but there's a lot of tweaking to do before I publish it.  I've decided to self publish, need to do some more research into how exactly to go about it, but I really feel that it's the best way for me to go.  I just want as many people as possible to see my work, and as I'm an impatient person, as quickly as possible!

I'm currently reworking my opening chapters; nothing too drastic but using the advice I was given via youwriteon.com, I'm just making improvements which I hope will make reading my novel a better experience for my audience.  I think editing can be really hard.  It's often difficult to know what you're doing wrong as an author and how you can improve.  So using this website and getting feedback from other authors has been invaluable to me.  As I reread their comments and look at my work, I can see a little bit more clearly the direction my editing should take.

I'm actually enjoying the process of rewriting parts of my novel.  It's good to continually question whether what you've written actually reads well and if it will be enjoyable for the reader.  I hope it won't be too much longer before my story is finished and I can get it out there!

Are writers born or made?

You might think there's an obvious answer to that question.  Of course they're not made; you can write or you can't - end of story.  Or is it?  Almost two years ago I decided to apply for an MA course in writing for young people.  At that point I was developing a fantasy story for older children which was going well.  I was inspired that autumn when I went to a talk given by the lecturer and ex students of the course who said it was an invaluable help to them and led to them being published.

So after some thought I applied and was given an interview for the following April.  I went along to the interview and although I was very nervous I enjoyed meeting the lecturers who conducted the interview and hearing more about the course, which sounded fantastic.  I felt it went well and was cautiously optimistic, especially as the interviewers told me I had done well to get to the interview stage as many applicants did not.

I was hugely disappointed when I found out a short while after that I had not been accepted onto the course.  At first I thought about reapplying, but then I realised I didn't really have the funds for it anyway.  The fantasy story I had been writing became less and less enjoyable for me to write.  As I mentioned earlier in this blog, I found that because of the advice I'd been given by the lecturers at the interview and from others, I was confused about what changes to make to what I'd already written - which was a lot - and how to go forward plot-wise.  The story has been abandoned at least for now.  I may resurrect it at some point.

This may all seem a bit irrelevant to the title of this blog entry.  Actually it isn't.  Whilst the course intially sounded wonderful, a chance to review your own and others' work, to hone your craft with the support of other writers (students and teachers) and to be studying in a truly beautiful setting, after a while I began to wonder if actually it's better in some ways as an author to forge your own path.  You have more autonomy over your own work, you're not under pressure to constantly edit your work to suit others' suggestions and you can work at your own pace which can be a lot less stressful.

I feel that writing courses, whilst they can be hugely beneficial, also have drawbacks.  Can you train someone to write well?  Or is it more a case that writers really are born, not made?  Do authors have to be born with the skill of being able to communicate artistically through the medium of literature?  Or can you take anyone of average intelligence and with a lot of training turn them into a writer?  Maybe that's a bit of an extreme proposition, but ultimately how do you teach someone to write?  Perhaps it really is a case that writers are born not made.

Of course writers can improve their talent but most published authors - I'm guessing - haven't been on expensive writing courses.  They've simply honed their craft over the years and found out what works and what doesn't.  A friend told me that they were convinced after reading one novel that it had been written by a someone who'd done a qualification in writing, an MA or suchlike.   This interested me a great deal; the notion that it's possible to differentiate between a writer who has been 'trained' and one who hasn't.

Personally I feel that a true writer is born not made.  They can be encouraged and helped along the way to improve their style, but ultimately the talent comes from them.  So overall maybe it was for the best that I didn't get on to that MA course.  I can forge my own path with my writing and be a free agent!

Word count for a novel

As I've been working away on my novel, I've been thinking a lot about the nitty gritty of writing and one of the things I've been considering is what the word count for my story should be.  I've currently written about 41,000 words.  It's difficult to know exactly how many words my novel should have as different people say different things.

The trouble is I'm getting towards the end of my story now and I want to wait until I've finished it to go back and edit/add stuff.  As I've mentioned before on this blog when working on my previous story I spent so long trying to edit it to include other people's suggestions before I'd actually finished it, that I got bogged down in it and it was no longer any fun writing it.  So I gave up.

Back to my current story.  I realise that 40,000 to 50,000 words may not be long enough for the average novel.  But as I go over it once I've finished, I may be able to expand on that to get the word count up.  As one website says, a novel is as long as it takes to tell the story.  That same website also suggests that electronic publishing favours a shorter novel, although I think it may have been written before the advent of the ebook!!  It may be that once I finish it, I publish it on Kindle with a shorter-than-average novel word count and get people's feedback on it, then maybe adapt and lengthen it at some point.

I wish there was an easier answer to how long a story should be.  And that I found it easier to write longer stories!  Although, having said that, I did complete a novel for teenagers that was nearly 72,000 words long (and also that I hope never sees the light of day!).  So I can do it!

Writing Olympics??

I have to confess that this past week I've been rather distracted from my writing (and the rest of my life!!) by a certain tournament happening in my country.  No I don't mean between two knights jousting on a field in front of fair damsels - though that sounds fun too - but the Olympics.

When I first found out that the Olympics was coming to London, I have to say that I was less than bothered about it.  It seemed a lot of money that we as a country had to pay for an event that not many people in the country really cared about.  My indifference (and that, I suspect of the rest of the country) lasted until the opening ceremony which I thought was wonderful and so British!  Since then I've watched everything from judo to gymnastics, athlectics to archery and I've been carried away!  It helps too that the British team has been doing so well.

All this doesn't necessarily have much to do with writing and working on my novel.  Or does it?  Athletes have to practice for years to get to the point at which they are able to represent their country at an international level such as the Olympics.  They train week in week out, year in year out and even if they do get to compete in the Olympics or other top sporting events, they may well of course lose out to someone who was just that bit better than them on the day.

Writers too have to hone their craft.  They have to write for years to get to the point where they feel ready to submit their work to an agent or to self publish.  To improve their chances of being published, to get exposure and to improve as a writer, many enter writing competitions where there are awards for first, second and third - just like the Olympics.  I have entered a few in my time but didn't get anywhere.  I suppose I was put off entering competitions partly because I got nowhere, but also because I often had to pay to enter and I suppose I just baulked at having to pay any more for a competition which I was unlikely to win.

It strikes me that if there were greater opportunities for aspiring authors to win, more chances to really excel in competitions for writers, then there would be more exposure for amateur writers like myself to show what they can do.  It seems to me that there are so few windows of opportunity to win a prize in a competition that it puts people like myself off trying.  Perhaps it could be a case of having different and many more categories for story entries in writing  competitions; for example romance, thriller, sci fi, horror, women's fiction, historical fiction.  The list goes on.

I think maybe we as a writing community need to think outside the box when it comes to promoting amateur authors.  The Olympics has many different categories of sport in it and so many opportunities to suceed.  Maybe if there was a 'Writing Olympics' , more writers would get a chance to shine.

The secret of a bestseller

So what is the secret of a bestseller, or rather how does your book become a bestseller?  I'm currently reading 'Fifty Shades of Grey' by E.L. James.  I'm really enjoying it too!   Although it's not exactly up there with the literary classics, I'm surprised that it's not as badly written as I'd expected, having heard lots of people deride it in the media. Yes parts of it are cliched and sometimes I wish the author wouldn't repeat certain phrases, but it has engaging characters and an intriguing plot.

And of course it's almost impossible to talk of bestsellers without mentioning JK Rowling, whose books I really enjoy.  Again, many of the Harry Potter books, especially the early ones, are not that well written.  But to me, what's special about them is that Rowling has created her own world, a world not entirely different from our own - there are plenty of Muggles in the world outside of Hogwarts - but one that has its own set of rules: what is possible, what is not, what is allowed magically and what is unacceptable.  I could go on.  But I think this whole magical world Rowling has created has a lot to do with the popularity of the Harry Potter books.  Then there's also the fact that the characters are very human (most of the time!) and normal (a lot of the time!).  Other authors like Stephenie Meyer and Suzanne Collins have also successfully created their own worlds, in and outside ours.

The characters in both James and Rowling's books, whilst differing greatly from each other, are similar in that each author has kept them consistent.  What I mean by this is that the characters, although they may change a little over the course of the stories, stay true to their fundamental personality.  They never do anything that is completely against type, or at least if they do a reason is given, we see inside their heads and we're with them every step of the way whilst they try to solve what may seem like insurmountable problems.  This is another reason that they're bestsellers.

Another aspect to bestsellers is word of mouth.  James' novels began life as ebooks, but quickly made the leap to paperback as well after word of mouth recommendation.  The Harry Potter books began life a little differently, but as many people know JK Rowling was rejected by twelve publishers before the first Harry Potter was accepted by Bloomsbury.  The young daughter of the Bloomsbury chairman helped when, after being given the first chapter of the first Harry Potter novel to review by her father, demanded to read the second.  And of course, as with 'Fifty Shades of Grey', the Harry Potter novels too owe a great deal to word of mouth.  In a way though, which book doesn't? 

Plot is very important in a successful novel.  It has to grab us from the beginning.  If it doesn't we may not bother reading on.  It's only occasionally that I won't finish reading a novel I've begun, but when I don't it's generally because it's too slow.  I think all the authors I've mentioned above - and of course there are many, many more - all create plots and storylines that we want to follow, we want to find out what happens next.  I think, too, that passion is very important.  You've got to believe in what you're writing and in your characters for other people to want to read your novel and believe in your characters too.

In conclusion, I think that all of the above are important aspects to a bestselling novel.  But also I think that for a novel to be successful - even if it's not on the scale of the authors mentioned - it's important to get it out there in the public domain, to promote it as much as possible for it to be a success.  As authors we mustn't be afraid to hear from the critics, both professional and amateur as to how we can improve our work.

And of course the most important thing we can do is keep writing!

Up days, down days

Yesterday I got so much done on my story - I wrote loads.  The words just kept coming.  Today however it was a different story.  I still know (more or less) what I want to say, it's just getting the words in the right order and the right meaning across.  Sometimes I find that so hard to do!

The last couple of sentences I wrote yesterday I've now deleted because they don't seem right.  However, the rest of what I wrote yesterday seems pretty much OK.  So overall I'm pleased I did a lot yesterday, because in a way it means it doesn't matter if I do less today - I can maybe focus on research today, getting the background of my story right.

I'd love to know how other people get on with the ups and downs of writing!

Sometimes writing is a long hard slog!

I have to admit that I've been a bit lax with my writing lately i.e. I haven't worked on it enough!  That's mainly due to the fact that writing my novel is becoming a bit of a struggle.  I pretty much know what I want to happen in it; it's just that when I'm writing I find that I inevitably embellish parts or change things that I had never considered changing.  It seems to evolve of its own accord.

I find it very hard to stick rigidly to my initial plan and maybe that's a good thing.  But it does mean possible rewrites - I recently inserted a whole new (long!) chapter - and that makes for a difficult time trying to get to grips with it and make progress.  At the moment I'm finding it hard to make what I'm writing interesting as it's to do with my character going over her overdraft limit.  The story, although third person narrative, is from her point of view so I'm describing her thoughts and feelings about what's happened, how she's going to deal with it etc.

I do wonder if lots of (maybe all??) writers struggle with something they've been writing for a while at some point and get a little bit tired of it all.  I've been working on this novel since the beginning of the year; maybe for a lot of you that's not that long, but I guess for me it's about keeping the momentum going, keeping my interest in what I'm doing alive and that can be a challenge.

What are your thoughts?  Let me know!

Improving my story after reviews

Having the opening chapters of my story reviewed on youwriteon.com has certainly been an eye opener.  Different people have suggested different changes I could make to my story.  One suggestion that's been useful has been to use more similes and metaphors to make my work come alive a bit more.  Another comment was to think about my lead character's motivation - why hasn't she just left home already and got a job if she hates life on the farm so much?  Why is she relying on her inheritance from her father to get what she wants?

This comment was particularly interesting to me but also troublesome.  It made me think that maybe I need to look again at this character, perhaps make her a bit younger so that she has to rely on her father for money and so that the idea of her waiting impatiently for her inheritance makes more sense.  But it's troublesome in that changing my character's age and thinking about her motivation will require revision of my story.  I'm still writing it at the moment and I've made the decision to carry on writing the story until I finish and then go back and make major changes.

The problem is I've been down this route before.  I was working on a fantasy novel for older children last year.  I had written a lot of it before I had feedback from various people who all gave me different suggestions as to how I could improve it.  Without finishing the story, I attempted to make those changes and in the end I abandoned it as I got so bogged down in the nitty gritty of revision.  It just took all the pleasure out of it for me.  I ended up very confused as to how I ought to change my story and how to fit these changes in to what I already had.

So in retrospect I feel that for me personally as a writer, it's better for me to get the first draft of my story finished before attempting to make major changes/rewrites.  That way I (hopefully) won't lose the pleasure of telling a story and I can allow myself space to experiment, even if it means lots of revision later on.  Do let me know what you think about rewriting and your experiences.

Writing a sex scene!

My novel is gradually coming on.  I got quite a lot done yesterday and part of what I was writing made me wonder how other writers tackle it: namely a sex scene!  I hadn't really written one before, so it was new territory to me.  I was writing about a very brief one night stand and so I didn't want it to seem all romantic, because in this case it certainly wasn't!  At the same time I didn't want it to be corny or cliched.  So.  I showed my husband what I'd written and he read it, said it was good but made some suggestions on how I could improve it, which I will keep in mind.  The scene may need a few rewrites, but I'm keeping it short anyway!  I'm a little bashful about showing what I've written to anyone else, but if I want people to read my novel then I'll have to get used to that.  Anyway, as always any comments/suggestions welcome.  And maybe tell me how you write sex scenes into your stories!

Some good reviews

I've been getting some good reviews from youwriteon.com, which I'm really excited about.  At first the reviews of the opening chapters of the novel I'm working on weren't all that great, although they were constructively critical.  Now though, I've had some really positive feedback and it's great that people are appreciating my writing.  In a way though I'm glad I've had some not so positive comments, because having them is the way my writing can improve and hopefully help me to grow as an author.  As always, any comments on my blog gratefully received.

Another story I wrote ages ago

Fact Versus Fiction

The house stood on the hill.  No one had lived in it for many years.  Until now.  Jerry and Alice were self titled investigators, who liked to think of themselves as the English Mulder and Scully.  Everyone else thought they were mad.  The ironic thing was that Jerry and Alice didn’t actually believe in the supernatural at all.  They believed that everything unusual on this earth could be proved by science.  Their friends all told them they had their work cut out for them this time though.  Constable House had recently been rated the scariest house in Britain by a magazine poll, however Jerry and Alice were completely undeterred.

Tonight was a particularly murky night, with no stars and no moon.  Jerry and Alice had arrived at the house for the first time.  They were going to stay in the house for two weeks to see if they could uncover the real reasons for the strange happenings in Constable House.  Jerry had picked up the one old spindly key for the house from the local solicitor.  He reflected on the odd conversation he had had with the man.  The solicitor had not said much at first.  Jerry had joked about the possibility of ghosts in the house.  The man had laughed awkwardly, then mumbled something indistinctly.  Jerry stopped abruptly. 

‘What’s the matter?’ he’d asked.  The solicitor looked scared. 

‘It’s just that no one who lives here ever jokes about the house,’ he replied, looking very much as though he wanted to change the subject. 

‘Why not?’  Jerry looked puzzled. 

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’  There ended the conversation.

Now, staring thoughtfully at the house, Jerry’s thoughts were broken suddenly by Alice yelling in his ear. 

‘Come on!  Hurry up.  We haven’t got all day.’ 

Jerry shoved her gently away.  Alice had been his best friend for the last ten years, but he still hadn’t managed to get used to the loudness of her voice on occasions that required a softer approach.  He picked up his rucksack, which seemed to be getting heavier by the minute. 

‘Oh, get on with it you lazy man!’ Alice was already striding up the hill towards the house. 

‘Don’t forget I’ve got the key,’ he shouted after her.  She turned back to him.  ‘You’ve got the key?’ she asked, surprised.  ‘I thought I’d got it.’ 

Jerry stopped his long slog up the hill. 

‘What do you mean?’ he replied.  ‘There’s only one key and I’ve got it!’ 

Alice was taken aback.  She started to walk slowly towards him, one hand on her hip, the other holding her rucksack in place on her shoulder. 

‘This is getting silly Jerry,’ she said. 

Jerry looked exasperated. 

‘There’s only one key,’ he repeated ‘and I got it from the local solicitor.’ 

This was starting to get ridiculous, he thought impatiently. 

‘Well there must be two then, because I was told by a source that a woman who lives in the town is the only person who has the key.’ 

It was Jerry’s turn to look surprised. 

‘What do you mean by ‘source’?’ 

‘I mean someone whose name I can’t reveal because they asked me not to,’ Alice replied mysteriously.  Jerry was starting to get cold. 

‘Let’s carry on up the hill,’ he suggested. 

Alice continued her charge up the hill.  Jerry shook his head.  He despaired of her ever slowing down.  She always had to do everything in a hurry, except for her investigative skills.  That was a whole different thing.  Then she was slow and methodical.  But this was odd, the way she wouldn’t reveal the name of her source.  She always shared everything with him ordinarily.  They were partners, in the strictly professional sense.  Jerry hurried on up the hill after Alice.  By the time he got to the top, Alice had reached the door and was opening it. 

‘Don’t wait for me then,’ he said breathlessly. 

‘Don’t worry, I won’t,’ she laughed. 

Of course, the house was pitch black, but they hadn’t forgotten their powerful torches, whose light filled the room with an orange glow.  The hallway looked Victorian, a threadbare carpet on the centre of the wooden floorboards.  The wallpaper had once been a deep red, but had now faded somewhat.  There was even an old grandfather clock.  It looked intact.  It was late now and all Jerry wanted to do was find somewhere to sleep, but he knew he couldn’t tonight.  They had decided that they would stay up every night until two in the morning to see if they could detect any anomalies in the house.  It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he wasn’t so sure…Alice nudged him as he let loose an enormous yawn, unable to suppress it any longer. 

‘Let’s go and find somewhere to put our stuff,’ she said, dragging him through a creaky door. 

He followed her through it, wanting to ask her more about how she acquired the key but feeling too exhausted.

The next room they went into appeared to be what had once been a drawing room.  There was furniture covered with dusty white sheets, which had a kind of strange brightness to it in the light of their torches.  If they had been people who scared easily, they might have been frightened when they heard a sudden screech.  Not Alice and Jerry though.  They didn’t bat an eyelid, although they did look instinctively behind them. 

‘Owl,’ Jerry said, yawning. 

‘Right,’ Alice laughed.  They noticed a fireplace.  It was stone; it looked almost as if it could have been marble.  Jerry immediately thought of making a fire and was about to say as much to Alice, when a blast of air banged the door they had just come through sharply shut. 

‘What on earth was that?’  Alice asked, more puzzled than scared. 

‘Just the wind,’ Jerry replied, remembering that it had been fairly breezy outside.  Alice began to chuckle slowly. 

‘What?’  Jerry asked. 

She paused for a moment before answering. 

‘It’s just that the old lady who gave me the key warned me about strange blasts of air through the house.  Of course she was convinced it was the ghosts.’ 

Jerry was thoughtful.

 ‘If you’re not going to tell me about your source, will you at least tell me about what the old woman said?’ 

Alice sighed. 

‘OK, but there’s nothing much to tell.  She was your average old dear who used to be a servant here once in the days when they still had servants.  All she told me was that the house was built in the early Victorian era and that since the bankrupt family abandoned it in the 1940’s, there have been reported sightings of ghosts.  She told me about the blasts of air through the house, said that she had felt them herself when she worked here and told me to be careful.’

‘How come no one knows about the other key?’

‘I’m not sure…I mean I can’t say without revealing too much about my source.’

It was Jerry’s turn to sigh.  He turned again to the fire.  Just as he was wondering if there was any wood outside he could use, he spotted some by the fireplace.  Alice had spotted it too, and was examining it closely.

‘It’s not that interesting Alice.’

‘Yes it is.  I’m wondering where it’s from, as no one’s been in here for ten years and this wood looks like it was chopped yesterday.’

‘Well maybe you’re wrong.  Maybe people have been in here more recently than you think.  Alice, I’m tired.  Now let’s use the wood that some kind person has put here and make a fire.  I’m freezing.’

‘The trouble with you Jerry is that you’ve got no imagination.  You make a crap investigator,’ she said, shoving him gently.

‘Thanks a lot,’ he replied shoving her back.

**************

Jerry woke up suddenly, in a cold sweat.  The dream he had just had came back to him.  He never usually had nightmares; he couldn’t even remember the last one he’d had.  This one had been particularly strange.  He could still see in his minds eye the dim candle burning in the dark room, feeling the fear he had felt in the dream when it had blown out by itself, as a voice said softly,

‘Your time is up.’ 

He pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch, pushing the button to make the face glow.  Nearly two in the morning.  It must have been the slightly nervous state he was in, because normally he would never have jumped out of his skin as Alice tugged on his sleeping bag.

‘This wasn’t supposed to happen,’ she said sleepily.

‘What?’ he asked, shivering for the first time since they’d got there.  ‘Alice do you have to…’  His voice trailed off.  He didn’t want her to think he was scared.  But Alice didn’t seem to have noticed the second part of what he said.  She continued. 

‘We weren’t supposed to fall asleep,’ she said emphatically.  ‘I wanted us to stay awake so we could take some notes of whatever we see or hear.’

‘You wanted, you wanted,’ Jerry muttered grumpily.  Alice ignored him.

‘Anyway, I just had the strangest dream.’

‘Oh yeah?’  Jerry was suddenly all interest.

‘Yeah, I dreamt I was in this room which was dark except for a dimly glowing candle.  Then…’

‘Someone or something whispered “Your time is up”,’ Jerry added excitedly.

Alice was quiet for a moment.  For the first time in a long time, she looked scared.  ‘Why have you had the same dream as me Jerry?’ she asked slowly. 

‘I don’t know, do I?’ 

He thought back to their previous experiences in so called ‘haunted’ houses.  Each time they had been able to prove fairly easily that there was another explanation for the sightings.  He realised they were going to have their work cut out for them this time.  If they managed to stay that long.

His thoughts were broken for the second time that night, as he felt a cold breeze on his face. 

‘What’s that?’ he whispered, looking round to see where Alice was. 

She had disappeared.  He told himself to calm down and not panic.  She had probably gone somewhere to pee or something like that.  For someone who didn’t scare easily, Jerry was faintly aware of his fear.  He got up, fumbling for his torch.  Alice, you would choose now to go off wouldn’t you, he thought, annoyed.  He flipped the switch on his torch to turn it on.  Nothing happened.  What was going on now, he wondered, feeling again that scared feeling.  Then he noticed that Alice had left her torch.  Thinking how strange that was, he tried to switch her torch on.  Nothing happened.  He sighed.  He was going to have to look for Alice in the dark, which was going to be difficult, as the fire had now gone out completely, he had no torchlight and it was pitch black in the room.  Walking slowly towards where he thought the door was, he felt in front of him.  Suddenly a strong, cold wind whipped round him, making his face feel freezing.  This is getting stupid, he thought.  There must be an explanation for it.  His next thought was to find Alice and see if they could set up any of their experiments.

With this thought in his mind, Jerry continued towards the door.  Once he found it, he grabbed hold of the handle hard.  Whatever the anomaly was, it was not going to beat him, he decided.  He pulled firmly on the door.  It seemed to be resisting him, but he told himself not to be so stupid and continued to pull until it flew open, nearly knocking him over.  Outside in the hallway, he could hear banging from the rooms upstairs.  It must be Alice.  It had to be Alice.  Trying to throw off his fear as he might a coat, he continued up the creaky stairs. 

‘Alice,’ he called tentatively.  ‘Alice, where are you?’ 

What he saw next puzzled him more than anything he had seen yet.  He had thought it was pitch black in the house but on the stairs, coming towards him was a thin shadow.  Thinking it must be Alice, he was about to say, ‘There you are, I was looking for you,’ when the shadow appeared to pass through him, and on past him down the stairs.  Jerry felt even more determined now to find out exactly what was going on.  He had it in his mind that it was just some pranksters trying to stop them from analysing what was going on.  And yet…What had the solicitor said about no one who lived in the town joking about the house?  He was beginning to feel the same way.  Whatever was going on in the house, it was getting past a joke.

He had to keep going, though.  The need to find Alice was getting stronger by the minute.  It took all his courage to carry on up the stairs.  The banging was getting louder now.  He thought he could hear Alice’s voice, but then the sound of what he thought was her voice faded again.  The dust on the landing once he reached the top was overpowering.  He let out a huge sneeze. 

‘Jerry?’ came a muffled voice. 

It was still very dark, so Jerry walked slowly along the stairs, every step creaking on the old floorboards. 

‘Alice?’ he called.  The voice grew louder.  

‘Jerry!  Over here, in the cupboard.’  Alice’s voice was unmistakable. 

‘Are you O.K.?’ he asked, relief washing over him.

‘Fine,’ she replied in a rather exasperated tone.  ‘Some idiot thought it would be a

good idea to lock me in here.’

Seeing the key was in the lock, Jerry opened the door.  The moon lit up the cupboard and, to his immense shock, he saw not Alice but a woman dressed in late Victorian clothes.  He opened his mouth to shout or scream but no sound came out.  Instead he turned and ran through the hallway and down the stairs.  Panting he turned to look back and in the moonlight stood Alice with a shocked expression on her face.

‘What on earth’s the matter Jerry?’ she asked.

Jerry was too shocked to speak.  Alice came down the stairs towards him.  He wanted to run away but was rooted to the spot.  She repeated the question, with a sense of urgency in her voice.  Jerry forced himself to speak. 

‘You…you weren’t you,’ he said in a small voice. 

Alice was looking very confused. 

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. 

‘I didn’t see you, I saw a Victorian woman.’  Jerry felt exhausted just talking about it.  Alice was now the one to look shocked.  But this was only for a fleeting moment before she said emphatically,

‘You’re hallucinating.’

Jerry felt angry with her for the first time he could remember. 

‘I was not hallucinating Alice,’ he said impatiently.  ‘I know what I saw.’

Alice looked at him seriously. 

‘Maybe you’re no longer cut out for this kind of work Jerry,’ she said slowly.

Jerry felt his anger rising. 

‘How dare you say that to me Alice?  After all the work we’ve done together?’  He ran his hand through his hair.  ‘I just think this is a particularly tough case.  Remember those dreams we both had.  Whatever it is here, it’s not going to be that easily solved.’

Alice sighed. 

‘It’s certainly very strange.’  She paused and then continued.  ‘O.K., so maybe you did see something.  But I’m still certain that it can be explained somehow.’ 

She put her hand on his shoulder. 

‘We’ve seen some strange things in our time, haven’t we Jerry?  Yet we’ve always been able to explain them.’

‘Maybe this one will have to be left unexplained,’ he replied.  ‘Let’s go and see if we can find our torches.’

**********************

The moon had gone in now, and the house was pitch black again.  Jerry and Alice groped their way along the hall.  Reaching the door into the room where they thought their sleeping bags were, they tried to push it open.  For a while it wouldn’t budge.  Jerry began to think they’d never get it open when it suddenly flew wide open, throwing them onto the dusty floor. 

‘Right, that’s it,’ Alice said angrily.

‘What?’

‘Jerry, we’ve got to beat this thing, whatever it is.  We can’t let it get away with this.’

Jerry laughed cynically. 

‘I don’t think it’s going to be told somehow.’

Alice grunted as she pushed herself up off the floor.

‘I’m not going to be beaten by an invisible force,’ she said. 

Jerry found their sleeping bags.  He was frozen, so decided to climb into his.  He breathed in sharply.

‘Oh, that’s cold!’ he said, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

He could hear Alice climbing into her bag next to him.

‘We’re going to have to think of everything we’ve seen and heard so far.  Compile a kind of list,’ she said, shivering.

‘That will help us how?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘Look Jerry, there’s no need to be like that.  We’ve got to look at this from a scientific perspective.’

He sighed. 

‘O.K.’ 

Alice continued. 

‘You’ve seen a Victorian looking woman.  At least you think you have…’

Jerry interrupted. 

‘How did you get locked in a cupboard anyway?’

‘Well I didn’t lock myself in there, if that’s what you think,’ she replied huffily.  ‘There was a huge blast of air which kind of blew me inside and then the door banged shut.  When I tried to open it I couldn’t, it was locked.  Then I heard you coming up the stairs and you let me out.’

Jerry looked thoughtful. 

‘So it was definitely you I heard banging about?’

There was a long pause.

‘I fiddled about with the door knob for a bit, but I wasn’t banging at it.’ 

Jerry felt his fear wash over him, but suppressed it. 

‘This is getting complicated Alice,’ he said slowly.  ‘We’ve heard blasts of air which bang doors shut, there are strange movements in the house, a ghostly apparition of a Victorian woman in the cupboard, we’ve both had dreams which don’t make sense and there’s another thing.’

‘What?’

He told her about the shadow.  Alice shrugged. 

‘Probably just your imagination.’

Jerry was angry. 

‘Can you stop telling me I’m imagining things?’

‘O.K., maybe you did see something.  But what we need to remember is that all of it can be explained scientifically.  Like we’ve done every time before.’

Jerry was unconvinced but was determined not to show it.  He felt stumped as to what to do next.

‘Where do we go from here?’ he asked. 

Alice usually had good ideas when they got to a particularly difficult patch in their cases.  It took a while for her to reply this time, though.  He could almost hear the cogs whirring in her brain. 

‘Well,’ she began slowly, ‘I think we need to stay here for the moment and this time keep watch rather than fall asleep.’

‘That’s obvious.’

‘Let me finish.  We need to make notes of all that we have seen and heard.  Then we need to…’

She was interrupted suddenly by the door slamming.  Jerry felt even colder, as though the cold was enveloping him in a freezing embrace.  He also felt they were no longer alone.  The floorboards creaked. 

‘Alice?  Is that you?’

‘No,’ came the almost inaudible whisper.

He began to feel his fear creep over him again.  Then something nudged him.  He yelled. 

‘What the hell is that?’ 

The moon lit up the room, showing Alice’s frightened face. 

‘Jerry, we need to get over this…this fear.  It’s holding us back.’

‘Easier said than done Alice.’

He knew it this time.  Knew for certain they weren’t alone.  Knew he had to get away from there.  But even that was easier said than done when you had a keen-to-the-point-of-being-mad colleague who would not give up on a case that was impossible.  The frustrating thing was Alice was obviously as scared as he was, but just refused to admit it.

‘Alice, I think we’re going to have to give up on this one.’

‘NO!!’ she almost screamed in reply.

‘Why not?’ 

Seeing the terror in her eyes, he felt confused.  Why, if she was so scared, wouldn’t she leave it and get the hell out of there?  He continued.

‘There’s no shame in leaving, you know.  Most people won’t come near this place.  Won’t touch it with a barge pole.  We’ve done far more than most would ever dream of doing.’

There was a slightly strangled sob. 

‘I can’t do it.  I can’t leave without proving there’s nothing here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because of my source.’

Jerry felt even more confused now.  Alice seemed to sense this, and continued,

‘I owe it to them, my source, to find out what’s really going on here and stop it.’

‘Alice, we have never set out to stop anything we discovered,’ he said gently.  ‘We always knew that we couldn’t.  Usually, we just found out what the anomaly was without trying to change it.  That was enough, wasn’t it?’

She didn’t even try to hide her sobs this time.

‘We haven’t even done that, Jerry.  That’s why I feel so awful.’

For the millionth time that night, he felt puzzled.  Why was it such a big deal that this one time they hadn’t discovered what was wrong?  He didn’t know what to say next, feeling more scared than when he’d broken his leg and been told he might not be able to walk on it again.  After another long pause, he said,

‘Why don’t you tell me what your source said and maybe I can help?’

The moon suddenly disappeared behind a cloud and all was dark.  Jerry could no longer see Alice’s face, couldn’t tell what she was feeling.  He heard her take a deep breath before replying.

‘My source was a woman.  A young woman, about my age.  She said she wanted to tell me something she had never told anyone before.’

Another pause before she continued. 

‘Her name was…well I don’t want to reveal her name so let’s call her Janice.  Anyway, Janice is the granddaughter of the old woman who gave me the key.  Janice’s mother spent part of her childhood growing up in this house…’

‘As the daughter of one of the servants?’

‘Yes.  Anyway, eventually Janice’s mother grew up and married Janice’s father.  She had Janice when she was about twenty-two.  And then it all happened.’

Jerry was frightened at the thought of what Alice was going to say next.

‘Around the age of twenty-five, Janice’s mother, Evelyn, started to get very interested in Constable House.  By then, of course, it was empty.  Evelyn was fascinated by the stories her mother Mavis would tell of the strange happenings in this house.  Evelyn, for some reason, had not experienced any of the anomalies for herself.  She, like us, decided to spend some time up here at night, when it was said that most of the unexplained events happened.  She took with her the local solicitor…’

‘Not the guy I met?’

‘No, his father.  I’ve heard reports that they were having an affair but Janice denies it categorically.  They came up here one night, leaving Janice and her father at home.  Evelyn was never seen again.’

‘What happened?’

‘Bob, the solicitor who went with her, insisted that some kind of poltergeist was in the house and it made away with her.  He said that she had gone off in the middle of the night to look for some signs of “abnormal activity”.  Five minutes later he heard screams and the sound of a door slamming.  He went to look for her, but he never found anything, apart from…’

‘Apart from what?’

‘Scrawled in the dust on the floor were the words ‘Your time is up.’  He turned and ran, wimp that he was.  Afterwards the police did a massive search for her.  It was all over the news, everywhere.  But she was never found.  And no one would believe Bob’s story about the slamming doors and winds and other strange goings-on.  Said he was mad.  It’s a shame what happened to him.  People said he paid for leaving Evelyn like that.  His marriage ended and he lives as a virtual recluse at the bottom end of town.’

Jerry rubbed his face vigorously.  If they were to get out of there alive, they needed to leave right away. 

‘Alice, we’ve got to go.  We can’t stay here and allow it to happen…what happened to Evelyn.  We owe it to Janice to get out of here and tell her what we’ve seen.  That we know the rumours are true.’

The moon came out from behind the clouds, lighting up the room in an eerie glow.  Alice nodded slowly. 

‘OK.  You’re right.’

They both got up and started to gather their things together.  But just as Jerry was shoving his sleeping bag inside his rucksack, there was a howl.  It was a human voice.

‘Alice!  Are you O.K.?’  Jerry felt petrified, but tried not to sound it.

‘I’m fine Jerry,’ she replied. 

Her voice sounded wobbly.  She grabbed hold of his arm. 

‘Let’s go now.  I’m ready.  Are you?’

‘Yes.  Let’s get out of here.’

Linking arms, for comfort more than anything else, they ran towards the door.  They yanked on it to pull it open.  It wouldn’t budge.  They carried on pulling on it with all the strength they had left, but it still wouldn’t move.  Something breathed in Jerry’s ear.  He wanted to believe it was the wind, but he couldn’t be sure.  Then the faintest of voices said,

‘Your time is up.’

He wanted to scream, but couldn’t.  Alice screamed instead. 

‘Jerry, what are we going to do?’ 

Before he could reply the door suddenly opened, throwing them both across the room.  Jerry felt himself land heavily, but pushed himself up off the floor, and heard Alice do the same.  They both lunged for the door, rushing out of it as quickly as possible, into the hallway, skidding across the floorboards.  The whisper came again in their ears, but they ignored it, running now towards the front door.  The moon was shining through the windowpane and a pale shiver of light came through the crack in the door as it creaked ajar. 

They’re not going to hurt us, they just want us to leave was Jerry last thought before they nearly pulled the door off its hinges in their effort to get out.  Finally, they were free, but they didn’t stop running until they reached the bottom of the hill.  When they got there, they stopped, both bent double, hugging themselves and panting.

‘Never again,’ they said.

Getting reviews

I've had a few reviews from youwriteon.com.  Some of them are quite critical, but as a writer I know I have to accept criticism and maybe use it to improve my writing.  It's not easy though because I feel like my story is my baby and in a way I don't want people criticising it.  Over the years I guess I haven't really had that many people look at my writing apart from close friends and family.  It is good to have more and more people read and comment on my work though, because ultimately I need the feedback to be able to improve and develop as a writer.  So please keep your comments (and criticisms!) coming.

Story developing fast

I've done nearly 1000 words today on my story.  Yay!!  It's going really well, it'll be interesting (and daunting) to get other people's reactions to it.  Was managing to do a bit of research as well.  It's always interesting to find out facts about places that are in my story.  Still a lot to do but I'm getting there.  As always, any comments welcome.  Thanks for taking the time to look at my blog!

Now on youwriteon.com!

I finally plucked up the courage to submit the first couple of chapters of my novel to youwriteon.com today!  Will wait and see what happens but I hope it will be helpful.  I just want as many comments on my writing as possible so that I can improve as an author and hopefully be published one day.  Maybe I will self publish, at least to begin with.  Who knows?  It's important to keep all my options open!

This is a story I wrote quite a while ago.  Let me know what you think.

Her Grandmother's Gloves

Tearfully, Anna tried to concentrate as her grandmother's will was read out to the assembled family.  The old lady had a large estate, having been wealthy and it was a foregone conclusion that Anna's mother and two aunts would be left the greater part of the fortune.  The funeral had been the day before and Anna missed her grandmother desperately.  Her mind was miles away, remembering the last time she'd seen her.  Then Anna's name was read out, bringing her back to the present.  Her grandmother's solicitor was saying something about some gloves which had been bequeathed to Anna.  The sixth former felt privileged that her grandmother had left something specifically for her.  It was an unexpected surprise. 

     After the will had been read out, the family went to a local pub for lunch where they discussed the will.

     'You're lucky to have those gloves, Anna,' her grandmother's best friend Harriet told her.  'They may not seem like much, but wait till you see them.  They're beautiful, wonderful quality and the stitching is exquisite.  Muriel wore them to the dance where she first met your grandfather.'

     Anna nodded, then sighed.  'I'd much rather have Gran here with me than her gloves,' she said.

     'Of course dear,' Harriet replied.  'We'd all rather she was alive, cracking her jokes and making us laugh.'  

     The family's time at the pub seemed to Anna to last an eternity.  It was Anna's maternal grandmother who'd died, so in one corner of the room her father was comforting her mother, who, devastated by her loss, was crying quietly.  In another corner, Anna's two aunts were sitting with their husbands and children, sniffing and dabbing at their eyes.  Anna looked sadly around the room, her view taking in her younger brothers.  Although they had loved their grandmother, they found family gatherings rather boring and were probably wishing they could be out on their skateboards. 

     Anna, too, wanted to be away from it all, to be in her room at home in peace and quiet, where she could think straight and start to come to terms with her loss.  Although her grandmother had been elderly and ill, Anna, like her mother, had been wishing that somehow she would pull through and be all right again.  Now she had to face the future without Gran's warm hugs and sensible advice.  It seemed an age before the family all left the pub, and Anna was glad to get home.

It was a while before Anna was given the gloves because her grandmother's things had to be sorted, which took time.  A couple of weeks later, however, her mother came into her room with a packet.

     'I have something for you here, Anna,' she said.

     'Is it the gloves?' Anna asked eagerly.

     Her mother nodded.  'I think so.  Here you are.  Open it.'

     Anna began to open the packet, then hesitated.  'Would you mind leaving Mum?' she asked.  'I'd like to do this alone.'

     When her mother had gone downstairs, Anna gingerly unwrapped the package.  She was afraid of damaging the gloves.  Lifting them out of the tissue paper, she could see that Harriet had been right about them.  They were exquisite.  Although they were plain black, they had been beautifully stitched and Anna could tell that a great deal of time had gone in to making them.  She was about to throw away the tissue paper when something on it caught her eye.  She could just about work out some familiar, shaky, handwriting. It said,

     'I hope you will wear these my dear, so that you can catch a glimpse of what it felt like to be me at your age.'

    Anna was intrigued.  What did had she meant by 'catch a glimpse'?  Impulsively, she put them on.  As she did so she saw her surroundings blur and change.  Scared, she rubbed her eyes but still everything was out of focus.  After a few seconds she could see again.  Shocked, Anna realised that she wasn't in her bedroom any more but in an unfamiliar room, a different bedroom.  The bedroom was big, airy and lavishly decorated, with heavy red velvet curtains drawn across generous-sized windows, and there was a large wooden bed in the centre of the room, with a purple quilted satin bedspread.  Obviously someone wealthy lived here.  There was an antiquated looking radio on a stand by the bed, giving the bedroom an old-fashioned feel.

     'What's going on?' she said aloud.

     'What do you mean 'what's going on'?' a voice replied cheerfully.

     Anna saw, with a start, a girl about her own age standing in front of her, dressed in a floor length emerald green gown which looked as though it was vintage.  Stunned, she sat with her mouth hanging open, until the girl said laughingly, 'Are you trying to catch flies, Muriel?  Come on. Hurry up!  We've only got half an hour.'

     'Muriel?' she asked, bemused.  'My name's Anna.'

     The girl looked at her critically.  'Have you been having a bit of a tipple?' she asked.

     'I...no, you don't understand,' Anna protested.  'My name's not Muriel, it's Anna and...'

     The girl stood in front of Anna, looking down at her sternly.  'Listen to me, Muriel,' she said firmly.  'I won't tell your parents and I know you're nervous about tonight.  But alcohol is not the way to solve your problems.'

     Before Anna could say another word, the girl was dragging her out of the bedroom and down  a majestic staircase.  As she was pulled along, Anna caught a glimpse of herself in a long mirror which faced the stairs.  She gasped.  Her appearance was completely different.  She was wearing the gloves which were so long they reached her elbows and she was dressed in a floor length black gown with a puddle train.  The gown had sequins arranged in intricate patterns on the bottom half and the top half of the dress had thin straps going over her shoulders, with a criss cross design on the bust.  But what dismayed her the most was that her face was no longer hers: that is to say her face was someone else's.  And she recognised it.  Although it was a lot younger than Anna had ever seen it, it was her grandmother's face.

     'Come on,' the girl said impatiently, grabbing her arm again.  'We're late.' 

     Before Anna had time to say anything, she was swept away out of the house and into an old fashioned car, so old that Anna realised she was no longer in the twenty first century.  She found herself being bundled into the back of it and a chauffeur was saying in a strong Cockney accent,

     'All right, young ladies?'

     Looking at her companion, Anna said, 'You're Harriet?' at which the girl rolled her eyes and, giving a conspiratorial glance to the chauffeur, said,

     'You've had way too much to drink, Muriel.'

     Anna sighed.  As the car moved off, she gazed out into the black night, wondering what she could do about her situation.  It was hopeless.  All she could do was to play along, pretend she was her grandmother and hope that, somehow, she would eventually be transported home.

     Although the journey seemed to take forever, the car being a lot slower than Anna was used to, they eventually reached their destination.  She saw a fine old country house similar to those she'd visited with her parents sometimes.  As she got out of the car, she shivered and wrapped the fur coat, which Harriet had thrown to her earlier on their way out to the car, tightly around her.  It was a clear, starry night and rather cold.  Seeing other people, also in evening dress, making their way to the front entrance of the house Anna felt a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach.  She followed Harriet in through the grand front entrance, pausing briefly to look up and admire the beautiful painted ceiling. 

     Coming close to Anna, Harriet whispered in her ear, 'I think he's going to be here tonight.'

     'Who?' Anna asked. 

     'The man every girl wants to be with,' Harriet replied.  'George Roberts.  You'll love him.  He's such a dreamboat and he'd be just right for you.' And she pointed to a handsome young man standing across the hallway, smiling at them.  He raised his hand to wave.  Anna thought she recognised him.  There was something so familiar about his face.  She raised a hand to wave back, then realised he was waving, not to her, but to a glamorous looking young woman standing next to them.  Glancing at Harriet, Anna saw her scowling. 

     'The vulture,' she said nastily.  'Patricia's always after some poor fellow.  But I'm not going to let her get her claws into George.  Not this time.'  So saying, she grabbed Anna's hand and stalked over to the young man who had turned to greet an acquaintance.

     'Hello Mr Roberts,' Harriet said sweetly.  'You remember me, don't you?' 

     George looked blank.

     'Harriet Wallace.  You went to school with my brother.  This is my friend Muriel Price.'

     George looked a bit surprised at Harriet's boldness, but said politely, 'Oh yes, I remember.  Your  brother's Thomas. How is he these days?'

     'Enjoying life in the army,' Harriet replied, nudging Anna to say something.

     'Is this your first time at a ball?' she asked lamely.  George gave her an odd look.

     'No,' he said with some confusion in his voice.  He seemed bemused.  Anna could sense, rather than see, Harriet looking daggers at her. 

     'We'll speak again later.  We must hang our coats up,' she said in a saccharine voice, dragging Anna away from George towards the cloakroom where an attendant was waiting to take their coats from them.  Then they walked on into the grand ballroom, where dozens of young men and women were milling around in posh frocks and suits, all pretending not to be interested in each other and failing miserably.  But what Anna noticed most was the thick veil of smoke that hung in the air.  Everyone seemed to be smoking, some of the girls obviously seeing their cigarette as a fashion accessory.  Harriet  interrupted her thoughts by tugging her arm impatiently and, finding them a slightly more secluded area of the room, she hissed in a low voice,

     '“Is this your first time at a ball?”  What a  ridiculous question!  What were you thinking of?  What's wrong with you?  No, don't tell me.  It's the wine.  You've really got the taste for it, haven't you?'

     Anna was unsure of how to respond.  She could try sticking up for herself and explain to Harriet that she wasn't really Muriel, she was Anna and she didn't have a clue who everyone was and what she was doing here.  Or she could play along with what Harriet was saying, pretend she'd been drinking and that she was her grandmother, hoping against hope that she'd wake up soon and this would all be a bad dream.

     'Well, to be truthful, I did have some of my father's whisky to drink tonight.  I might have had a bit of Mother's wine too,' she said.

     Harriet's face took on a pained expression.

     'You should never mix your drinks, Muriel,' she groaned.  'That's the cardinal rule.'

     Anna pretended to look contrite.  'I'm sorry Harriet.  I was just so nervous about tonight.'  Thinking quickly, she added, 'So if I forget who people are tonight or start behaving strangely, I'd be very grateful if you could cover for me.' 

     By now Harriet had her head in her hands, shaking it in despair. 

     'Fine.  I'll make sure you don't look a complete fool.  But you'll owe me a big favour for this, Muriel.'  Anna nodded gratefully and followed Harriet into the centre of the room, where the band was playing and people were beginning to dance.  In spite of her best efforts to remain calm, Anna was shaking and hoped no one could see. 

     Looking at the entrance to the room, she saw George Roberts striding towards them with Patricia.

      'Oh it's not her again is it?'  Harriet whispered in Anna's ear. 

     But Anna's attention was focused on George.  As she looked at him it struck her.  He was her grandfather.  She hadn't recognised him at first because he'd died when she was still quite young.  Now, she could visualise the photo she'd seen many times of him and her grandmother on their wedding day.  It had been during the war, so he was in his soldier's uniform and her grandmother had worn a simple but pretty dress.   They had met on the night of a Grand Charity Ball, not long before he was called up. 

     Then it dawned on her.  This was the ball.  This was the one chance her grandmother had had to get George's attention.  She remembered that Gran had often said it was a wonder they had ever got together in the first place as she had been so painfully shy.  What if Anna were here in the past for a purpose?  Maybe the reason was so that she could make sure  her grandparents got together.  But if so, she was really messing up.  So far, George had more or less ignored her and she wasn't helping matters by being so tongue tied. Gulping, Anna felt herself go all hot.  She was feeling panicky.  Pull yourself together, she told herself.  Go and talk to him.  So, feigning confidence, she walked over to George, with no idea of what to say.  She needn't have worried.  As she approached him, he said,

     'It's Miss Price, isn't it?'  Anna hesitated for a moment, still unused to being called by her grandmother's name.

     'Yes, but do call me...Muriel,' she said, remembering just in time to use her grandmother's name.  'It's my first big dance,' she said truthfully, ignoring Patricia's scathing look, 'and I'm not used to seeing so many people together at once.'  Which, in a way, was true.  Anna was much more  used to clubbing with her college friends and she had never felt so conspicuous as she did tonight.  Now she was expecting George to be scornful of her but, to her surprise, he took her by the arm and walked her away from a gawping Patricia and Harriet, whispering in her ear,

     'I'd do anything to get away from those ninnies.'

     'Harriet's not a ninny,' Anna said indignantly, feeling in spite of Harriet's treatment of her that she ought to defend her grandmother's best friend.

     'All right, maybe she's not,' he said impatiently, 'but Patricia certainly is and Harriet seems to go out of her way to put people in their place.'

     'You know Harriet quite well then?' Anna asked.

     'Just a little, really. As she said, I went to school with her brother for a while and I met her once or twice.  I seem to remember she could be a pain in the neck, always thinking she knew best and everyone else was wrong. At least, that's what her brother said.'

     'I could believe that,' Anna agreed.  Harriet had obviously improved over time.  Anna had only ever known the older Harriet to be a kindly, helpful person.

     'That was before my family moved away to Rhodesia,' George added.

     'Rhodesia?' Anna asked bemused.  Then, remembering what Gran had told her about her grandfather, she realised he meant Zimbabwe.  'Oh yes.... Rhodesia.  That's a long way from home.  Did you get homesick?'  She knew she must be sounding really stupid, but didn't know what else to say, so it was a welcome surprise to her when, instead of rebuffing her, George sighed, saying,

     'Yes.  I missed my school friends and my grandparents.  It was so hard to adjust to life out there.  Father was working a lot in his job with the government and Mother had problems with her nerves.'

     'Her nerves?'

     'Yes.  She had a nervous condition which meant she couldn't cope very well with the stresses and strains that came with the move to a foreign country.'  She probably had depression, Anna thought.  As if in sympathy with George's mother, a wave of nervousness hit her as she saw they'd reached the dance floor.

     'Would you like to dance, Muriel?' George asked diffidently.

     'I'd love to,' Anna replied. 

     The dance steps were hard to master as, although she'd had a few lessons in formal ballroom dancing, she wasn't used to it, being more used to the flashing lights and semi-darkness of a nightclub dance floor.  But gradually, with George leading the way, Anna began to relax a little and it got easier as she went along.  It was a strange, unnerving feeling, dancing with her grandfather.  As he spun her around the dance floor, her puddle train swirling, Anna could easily see why Gran had fallen for him.  He was certainly dishy, she thought as she looked into his hazel eyes which were just like her mother's.  As they danced, George talked to her about his hopes of becoming a solicitor.  Anna remembered that her mother had talked about Anna's grandfather eventually rising to become a barrister.

     She found herself wishing that she could have lived her grandmother's life.  Things were more straightforward in the past.  You met a boy at a dance and then, some way down the line, you married him.  That was her view of her grandmother's life, although she knew it was simplistic and that the years that followed during the Second World War  must have been tough.

     The music that had been playing drew to a close and the dancers and onlookers gave the band a round of applause.  Anna felt herself being ushered towards a quieter part of the hall by George.  She felt awkward because, although outwardly she looked like her grandmother's younger self, inside she was still very much Anna and this was her grandfather who was courting her.  George sat her down on one of the plump sofas lining the walls of the ballroom.  He sounded shy as he said softly,

     'Miss Price...Muriel.  I wanted to tell you that...' He paused.  'There's going to be a war,' he announced, as if he were a newsreader.

     'I know,' Anna said, then bit her lip.  Obviously she shouldn't reveal too much.

     'You know?' he asked, surprised.

     'I...I've been following events in Germany on the wireless,' she ad-libbed, using an archaic word so she didn't sound too modern, 'and I think you're right.'

     George looked impressed.  'Well then, what I'm about to say won't startle you too much.  I think we, you and I, should get to know each other better, because you never know what lies around the corner.  Anything could happen and we might not have another chance.'

     Anna nodded, remembering what Gran had told her about the war; that nothing had been certain and that many couples married in the early days of their relationship.

     'What did you have in mind?' Anna asked.

      'My family are having a dinner party next Thursday,' George replied.  'I was wondering if you wanted to join us?' 

    Anna felt on edge again.  Would she still be living her grandmother's life by then?  What if she was and she could never get home?  But right now she had to think as her grandmother – her eighteen year old grandmother – would have thought.

     'That would be lovely,' she said smiling.  George's face went pink with pleasure.

     'Wonderful,' he said. 

     As they arranged what time George would come to pick her up, Anna realised she didn't know where Muriel lived.  Fortunately, Harriet was approaching them with a conciliatory expression on her face. 

     'Hello, Harriet,' Anna said.  'George and I were just arranging to get together next week, but you know how silly I am, I've forgotten my address.'  George looked surprised, so Anna added swiftly, 'Oh it's terrible. I've got such a bad memory.'

     Harriet looked exasperated, but said nothing and dictated the address to George as he wrote it down in a pocket note book.  He then excused himself to go and talk to a friend he'd just seen and Anna got a chance to talk to Harriet.  Before Anna could say anything, Harriet said hurriedly,

    'I'm so sorry about tonight Muriel.  I've been perfectly horrid to you, and I should have been a better friend.  Then maybe none of this would have happened.'

     'What wouldn't have happened?' Anna asked, puzzled.

     'Your drinking problem,' Harriet said bluntly.  Anna wondered what to say next.  She didn't want to give her grandmother a bad name.  What if her behaviour tonight was going to cause Muriel's life to turn out differently, for the worse?  If she wasn't careful, she could ruin her grandmother's chances forever.  So she said slowly,

     'I'm not an alcoholic, Harriet.  But I was nervous about tonight, so I had a little too much to drink, but only a little, that's all.  I'm just a bit tipsy.'

     Harriet sighed.  'All right, Muriel.  Maybe I'm overreacting to your behaviour.  But you must admit you've been behaving rather strangely.'  It was Anna's turn to sigh.  She wished she could explain to Harriet about not being who she appeared to be but, seeing as she looked just like her grandmother's younger self, that was not an option.

     'I'm sorry too, Harriet,' she said.  'I have been behaving oddly tonight.  I'm not feeling myself, I've been nervous about what I've heard in the news about the war...'

     'What war?' Harriet asked sharply, interrupting her.  Damn, Anna thought.  She was forgetting again that the war hadn't started and it made her wonder what year she was in right now.  But she felt that she owed it to the young Harriet to warn her about what was to come.

     'The war in Europe.  It's coming,' she said, looking at Harriet's disbelieving face, 'and we all need to be prepared.'  Thankfully she didn't have to say anything else because George had just reappeared.  Nodding, he said,

     'Muriel's right, Harriet.  Hitler can't be allowed to continue to invade other countries without expecting retribution.'  Harriet's face took on a scared look.

     'But Neville Chamberlain seems to think that Hitler doesn't pose a problem,' she said desperately.

     'Well he's wrong,' George replied grimly, 'and the sooner people realise that the better.'  Then, shaking his head, he smiled, saying, 'But we don't have to think about that just yet do we?  Muriel, would you care to dance again?' 

     Anna nodded eagerly and followed George onto the dance floor once more.  The time she was dancing with George seemed to fly by and it was soon over.  There was another round of applause and then the announcement that the evening's festivities had ended.  They walked over to Harriet, who was standing with a shy looking young man, with whom she'd been dancing.

     'Well I'd better be going, Miss Wallace,' he said.

     'Oh do call me Harriet,' she insisted, blushing.

     'H...Harriet then,' he stammered.  'I'll see you on Saturday at the Hampton's,' and so saying he walked away, leaving a beaming Harriet.  George looked amused.

     'You've got an admirer there, Harriet,' he said jovially, seeming to have forgiven her for being a 'ninny'.  Harriet blushed an even deeper red, but said nothing.  'Muriel, I must say goodbye for now,' he continued, 'but I'll see you on Thursday.'

     'I'll look forward to it,' Anna replied, quaking inside at the thought of possibly still being here, in Gran's life. What if Grandad kissed her? What would she do then?  What if....?  She shook hands with George and they said their goodbyes.  Then he was gone.  As Anna looked after him, Harriet said,

     'You're smitten with him, aren't you?  Can't say I blame you though.'

     'What about you and that man you were talking to?' Anna retorted.

     'Oh...well actually, Sid Owen is wonderful,' Harriet said happily.  'I think he could be the one.'

      Anna smiled, pleased that Harriet was happy, but also saddened, because she knew the future.    Her grandmother had told her that Sid had been killed in the war while he and Harriet were engaged.  Harriet had been devastated and had never married.   

     'Let's go and get our coats,' she said, anxious to get back to the house she'd been in before, and then maybe she'd make it home.  Fortunately, they didn't have to wait too long to collect their coats and then it was a matter of waiting for their car to come and pick them up.  After a few minutes, the car arrived and then Anna had some time to think whilst Harriet chatted animatedly to the driver.  Yawning, Anna felt herself drifting off.  It had been a long day.

     'We're here, sleepy head,' Harriet said, nudging her painfully in the ribs.

     'All right, all right,' Anna replied, hauling herself out of the car.  She wanted to get in the house as soon as possible so she could get home to the present day.

     'Have you got someone to take you home?' Anna asked.  Harriet laughed.

     'Of course I have silly – you know this car is Father's.  I'll see you tomorrow at three thirty.  Or have you forgotten that?'

     'No, no, I'll see you then,' Anna said smiling, willing Harriet to go.  Finally the car moved off.  Once it had vanished out of sight, Anna walked in to the house and over to the mirror she'd seen her reflection in before.  A strange thing happened.  Although she wasn't moving her lips, as she looked in the mirror, Anna saw her reflection mouthing the words 'Thank you dear' at the same time as she heard a familiar voice speak the words in her head.  It was her grandmother speaking to her. She was sure of it.  Then, as before, her surroundings blurred and changed.  As she rubbed her eyes, Anna saw that she was back in her own bedroom.

     Phew, she thought, but at the same time as she was relieved, she was also sad that she'd never see her grandparents again, that in this reality they were gone.  Taking off the gloves, she put them back into their packaging and then into her chest of drawers.

     'Goodbye Gran,' she said and closed the drawer.