"Forth Eorlingas! Theoden King!" etc

Okay, this is how it may play out in my head:

The burning man falls towards the water. The man most damaged stands above. She must betray herself, and be betrayed, and then betray herself. Again.* Only one question is outstanding, and we can leave that on the table with these other cards, for future games of chance.

Or in other words, I am half a scene and a scene and a half from what I think might be the end of this book. It is not yet ten o'clock, and I have all the day ahead of me. I have a dinner party at the coast tonight: by which time...

Well. My plan, if you can call it that, is this. I shall arise and go now, and go to the Lit & Phil. I will nest down in the Silence Room, and mostly largely not come out. I will write half a scene, and then the Really Difficult Scene, and then half a scene more; and then I will get on a Metro train and head for the sea.

I have, really, no idea what time that will be. I have really no idea whether the day will actually play out like that. I might dance to the end of the book in two hours, and come home for the afternoon; I might grind to a halt in the vile sticky mud of the climax, get bogged down and not finish anything at all. It might all turn to dust and ashes in my head, in my hands.

Chances are, though. 'Specially now I've gone public with this. Chances are we'll reach an end today. Which is just as well, really, given that the deadline was yesterday. Hey-ho.


*"In the last analysis, all literature is about betrayal." Chaz Brenchley, passim.

Sabotaged before I begin!

Before I begin, I tell you...

Donna-Lisa is photographing Janet in the Silence Room. The writers' group is meeting in the committee room. Kids are taking exams on the piano in the Loftus Room. There is nowhere for me to be except the main reading rooms. Where people talk.

I dunno. I have written in pubs and trains and coffee-houses; I should be able to write in the reading-room of a library. But. This is the Lit & Phil, and this is not how it's supposed to be...

320

Okay. I am back where I belong, down below where only the wind's voice reaches.

320 is the number of the words I have written today. So far. You should probably expect liveblogging of wordcount every page or so. And not much else. Limit your expectations. (Tho' I will just say, I passed a church today with a sign outside: "What are you giving up for Lent? How about texting?" That was it: no development, no obvious wordplay, no introduction of a biblical text or anything. Take it at face value, then: they suggest that you stop talking to your friends for a month. Presumably contact is frivolous, unnecessary, unspiritual. Bah, I say; also, humbug. So.)

526

Two pages, and there's the climax: right there. Plummeting to the depths. I could stop this scene and move on, leave the reader to fill in the gaps. (That would make it three pages, by the way. Same number of words, but the next scene is a new chapter gets a clean new page to start on. These are the little ways we like to cheat, and one reason why I still count progress in pages rather than words.) Or I could explore a little more, narrate a little more, examine, consider, predict...

I dunno. I think maybe I'll move on, and see if anyone thinks they were shortchanged. Not that art is a democracy or anything, but hey. Never let it be said that I will not listen. I'll always listen...

803

Four pages.

How many scenes make five? Scene, scene, scene and a half, half a scene and a scene.

I don't need that much. Just the middle slice, a scene and two halves. Got a half and a beginning. On we go.

1028

Five pages. Crux coming. Yes, of course the crux comes after the climax. One betrayal and then another, and then a third again. That's how it goes. You lay a card, and then a card, and then another card. If someone doesn't turn away from the table in shock or revulsion or despair, you're not doing it right.

H R F Keating

Harry Keating's dead. I didn't know.

He died last weekend, just one day after Diana. Have I mentioned, I have had enough of this?

I knew Harry for twenty years, give or take. In that time we shared many drinks, one controversy, and at least one publisher - the fabulous Flambard Press, which has also died this week, or at least announced its forthcoming death by grace of Arts Council cuts. I'm distressed about that too; I had been meaning to write an obituary, but, y'know. Novels, and so forth.

Flambard published my short story collection, Blood Waters; for Harry they brought out his Jack the Lady-Killer, a detective novel in verse. That was a measure of his mind, that he had sufficient twist of originality to think of it and then sufficient weight to carry it through. His wit was immeasurable, light and sharp and delightful; I never had the impertinence to measure his beard.

2114. And done.

Ten pages, albeit several short ones.

276 pages in total; 88,495 words. Shortest novel I've written since Shelter; still ten per cent over budget. Not sure if that'll matter, but it can be cut if need be.

The ending isn't right yet, but hey. It's an end. I'm stopping there. I'm going to the coast now. I may drink heavily.

Until tomorrow, people...