Author: ChanAtkins

On The Eve of Your First Birthday…

~ ChanAtkins ~ 4 Comments

A glass of wine to celebrate…

Head full of ; ‘this time a year ago I was…’

Your brother and sisters are behind me writing in your card. Your presents on the floor, waiting to be wrapped. All I can think is; how? How can it be a year already? A year is nothing. Not a blink or a breath. It’s nothing. I sit here trying to remember how that happened…how those months passed, what happened and when…how old you were when you did this, or that. But it’s a blur, it’s out of my grasp. Surely you were always exactly as you are now?

Your red curls are turning blonde. Your new hair grows in straight. When I look at you I see one of the others depending on your expression and your mood. You are a perfect mix of all of them, and yet totally and utterly you. Walking for two months now, you push my hand away when I try to take yours. Already. You like to climb. You want to do everything that we do. You try to sweep the floor with my broom. You try to carry their heavy school bags about. You put toys down the toilet and try to scale the stairs every time my back is turned. You throw everything. You shake your head when I say ‘no’. You hate going to bed. You say ‘bub-bub-bub’ all day long. You love books. I know how to keep you quiet. Give you a pile of books. Any books. Our books. Your books. Board books. Soft books. Anything you can turn the pages of…and you will sit there for ages, a look of sheer concentration on your face, and that’s when you remind me most of your biggest sister. And when you get cross. When you get all mad and go all rigid and throw yourself backwards, with your mouth an open wail. We are all cruel and sit and laugh.

A year, a year, how can it be a year? They don’t give you enough time. Parenthood is one big rush. One big blur. Tearing about, never catching up. Trying so hard to slow a moment down, to grasp it, hold it, feel it and treasure it, to somehow sink it deep into your bones, into your consciousness, into your memory forever, but you can’t, you can’t, time moves you on. Life rushes you on. Months fly by. So much about you changes. It never seems possible that you will be any different than you are right now, and yet it never seems possible that you have already changed. I’m flagging every step of the way, breathless, left behind, knowing helplessly that every time you change, every time you move on, you are leaving me.

Parenthood is not enough time. Motherhood is the fiercest thing in the world. The thing grows inside of you, is part of you, breathes as you breathe, lives because you live. You talk to it. You are never alone. It kicks you and beats you from the inside, preparing you for the pain to come. It keeps you awake for the same reason. It is a thing, an unknown, a stranger and yet you love it more than you ever knew it was possible to love…

You hate it when the pain comes. The agonies of labour make you selfish. Just get it out. Get it out now. You think only of yourself and you dying. You think only of it being over, over, getting it out, out, out, and then the wet pop. The gush of uterine fluids followed by the gush of maternal love. Love is not a big enough word for it. You want it right away, You want to claim it. After all that agony. Your hands reach down, clawing desperately for the newborn child. You still don’t know it. It is still a stranger.

Until you get it in your arms. Until you pull it up to your chest, smell its hair, muck and all. See its face. Then you know it, and it knows you. And it doesn’t matter about the rest of the world, or anybody else. It is just you and your baby. Your child. Your flesh. Your blood and bones. Your seed. Staring back at you. Eyes look black and sparkling under swollen folds of fat flesh. Hair wet and bloody. Nose flat and wide. Lips full and pouting. Tiny bird like hands curling and flexing. The most beautiful thing in the world. The thing you would kill for.

Silence. Mesmerized. You take each other in. That is the longest moment you will ever get. That is the moment you could almost bottle up. You could almost trap into your bones. That moment goes on, and on, and on.

Until someone speaks. Someone outside of you and your baby. They speak, and things start moving on. Wash the baby, weigh the baby, dress the baby, feed the baby, take photos of the baby. Your moment is broken. Life tugs you both on. Time starts again. Chugging you forward. Into the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the sleepless nights, and the endless nappies, and the first tooth and the first meal and the first noises and the first words and the first steps and the first birthday is here.

From then on you keep looking for that unbroken moment. You seek it out. I know them when they come. I know them and I hold them and I breathe them in, but I am as helpless as ever to the passing of our time. Me and you. Bub bub bub. Pulling at my lip. That little agitated giggle you do when you know you are about to be fed. The way you rest your head on mine, the way you wake up suddenly smiling, and laying your head on me, up and down, up and down. Moments of pure bliss. Pure joy. Feeding you in our bed. Feeling the tug of your latch, the milky swallows, the droop of your eyes, the smell of your head. The feel of your small body in my arms, in my hands, on my lap, on my hip. How I will miss it when you no longer fit…

Happy birthday my sweet boy.

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The Fears and The Panic

~ ChanAtkins ~ 4 Comments

Coming to the end of a book causes a special kind of anxiety in me. It’s like the rest of the time I am fine, smiling, getting on, doing my thing, rolling with the punches and above all else; looking on the bright side! Of course. You have to, don’t you? Only one life, and all that. Make the most of it, do your thing and be happy. I do this and I get this. But whenever I have a book finished, something weird happens to me. It’s like all the anxieties and all the panic that I manage to hold back the rest of the time, are suddenly let loose and permitted to run amok.

I’ll tell you what it feels like. Its a heavy sick feeling in my belly, right down in the pit, right down low. Its tight and knotted and it makes it hard to breathe. A breath is not just a breath anymore, something I don’t even notice. It;s something I have to think about. In, and out.

Finishing a book should be cause for relief and excitement, pride even. But even when I’ve drafted and re-written and edited a thousand times, that last bit, that last haul to the finish line, leaves me trembling with unspoken fears.

It’s this indie writers life. You might know what I mean. It’s ups and downs. Like real life, in fact. A rollercoaster of positives and negatives, of feeling on top of the world one minute and wondering why the hell you bother the next. If you let them, the fears come thick and fast. They knock you down and roll right over you. If you’re doing the whole indie thing, you might recognise some of them. The same ones rear up again and again, and never so violently as when there is a new book ready to go…

Financial fears…nightmares even. If your’re rich then you don’t need to worry about this one. You can throw as much money as you like at your books. You can hire a professional cover designer, you can hire a proofreader and an editor. You can pay out for promotional campaigns. You can buy likes and follows and boost posts and buy sponsored ads on facebook. The list is endless, I guess. But if you’re not, then the financial side can keep you awake at night. It does me. How much more money can I throw in? What is worth it? What’s a waste? What’s an investment? When will I see a return? Ever? I know for a fact I have spent more money on my books than I have made back in the two years I have been published. Sometimes I am okay with this, and sometimes this horrifies me. How can I justify it when I have a family to provide for? I’m reminded of my father’s words growing up. Don’t be a writer, he said. There’s no money in it. He wasn’t wrong.

Time. There’s not enough of it. Not in a day, not in a week. Not in a life. Life is too short for me to read all the books I want to read, to listen to all the music I want to listen to, and to write all of the books I have inside of me. Sometimes this is okay, and other times, like now, this pisses me off and panics me. I want to write faster. I need more time, but I don’t have it, not without letting something else slip. I feel like I am walking a tightrope all of the time. There are choices to be made when time shrinks so readily. I never feel like I am getting it right. I always feel like something or someone is not getting enough of me. And still the words pile up inside my head, drowning the real world out. These people, these voice, they all want to be heard, they all call out to have their turn, but I won’t ever be able to satisfy them all and keep my house and family on track too.

Promo panics. Ugh. I used to hate promo stuff, and then I got resigned to it, and then I got a bit smarter and then I quite liked it. The problem now is also time. I’ll skim through social media on my phone, (probably when I should be paying attention to something else) and I’ll see all these great posts from pages I have liked for the very reason that they post great things, helpful things, inspirational things. But then you need the time for these great things. Time to watch the video, time to read the article, time to find it again, or remember what it was. It shouldn’t panic me, but it does. What if I miss something really important? What if I forget to read something that could have really helped me? There just isn’t time to pay attention to everything. The same applies to finding an audience and building connections. I take this seriously, and have definitely made progress, but again, with everything else, time runs out. I know, take a deep breath you say, pick your battles, let some of them go. I know, I know. Just sometimes, it panics me.

Self-doubt. Well this must be the classic fear for us all. Not just writers either, but most of us as human beings. The first draft is always a horrible thing; messy, back to front, clunky drivel at times, but it’s also exciting. It’s a relief. Finally letting those voice speak, finally at last just getting it out, getting it down. Then there is the second draft and the third, and so on, and yes, it gets better. Everything is going well until the end. And then I start to question it. I start to realise how shit it is. I start to wonder who the hell would read this? I start to think forget it, just leave it, stuff it back where it belongs. My self doubt would never stop me writing, but there are times it makes me want to stop publishing my writing!

Ups and downs. It’s so weird, the way it goes. My books will sit there not selling anything, then out of the blue I will get a really lovely message on my page about an article I wrote, or a blog post. Little things can bring me down very easily, but usually something nice will happen very soon afterwards. Something strange and unexpected. I’m never down for long. An excited text message from a friend reading one of my books who is nearing the end with her stomach all in knots! A message from another friend who is reading the first draft of a new book and already wants to know what happens next, so can she please have some more chapters? An amazing review. High praise from people I really like and respect. All these things happen every week, and I always seem to get a good kick up the arse when something else has made me feel small. I don’t know why it works like this but it does. I like to think it is the Universe making sure I don’t give up. And I won’t. Well, not while these nice things keep happening anyway.

Dilemmas. Indie life is full of them. On a day to day basis I ask myself what I am doing. I often grumble and wonder why I bother. I often feel frustrated at the lack of sales.I wonder whether I should carry on as I am with each new book, or whether I should try the traditional route again, try to find an agent? Would it be worth another stab? Would it make much difference? Do I really want to put myself through that again? What does success mean anyway? Genuine fans and positive feedback? A certain amount of sales? Proving yourself somehow? Or is it something much more personal than that? Accepting your talents, as well as your flaws? Knowing that you have both, and that both need working on.

I know I will be all right once the book is out. Once it is released, I will let the panic go. I will already have my teeth into the next thing and the whole process will start again.

 

Snotgoblin

~ ChanAtkins ~ 2 Comments

I try to soak you up when I can. Addicted. You think I am playing when I sniff and inhale, but really I am trying my best to soak you up, to make you last. The snotty, toasty, chocolately smell of you. I wish I could bottle it up to bring out when I am an old woman. I’d be able to unscrew the lid and close my eyes, and there you would be. The warm sweet smell of milk and drool. I’ll close my eyes and open my arms and there you will be again, your chubby wet cheek pressed against mine, snot and dribble stretching from you to me, your ear and the way your red gold hair curls around it, and that fuzzy stiff bit that sticks out straight at the back. I’ll be able to feel your little fat hands gripping and pinching my skin. I’ll breathe in and out and I’ll smell the cheesy sweat in your neck, the damp of your nappy.

As for now, I do my best to hang onto you. But you are moving so fast. Snotgoblins are fascinating. A future unwritten, all that potential, all that possibility. Everything you were, and are, and will be.

What were you? You were an idea before you existed. You were a thought, a longing, a need, a want, an instinct. You were an ache in my womb. You were a dream at night, a wish in the day. Then you were a line on a stick. A positive. You were something. You were sick in the toilet bowl, and tenderness in the breasts. You were the taste of coffee changing. You were a possibility, a hope. You were tiny, you were alien, you were basic and primitive and roaring to life. You were a black and white image. You were snapped in time. You were my stomach writhing and twisting and changing shape. You were swollen ankles and heartburn. You were a boy or a girl. Healthy, or sick. You were everything.

What are you? You are a creation, a sticky mess, a mewling dependent, a cry in the night. You are heavy in my arms and in my heart. You are small hands in mine. You are some of me and some of him and some of them and some of you. You are big blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair. You are eating crayons and throwing cups. You are not like us, not yet. Not defined by rules, tradition or culture. Not narrowed down or constricted or affected. Not weighed down or strung out or lying low. You are all the wonderful gentle vibrant potential of human life. You are what exists before it all starts to go wrong. You are bright and shiny. Your hands are soggy. You feet are stamping. You are full of everything and yet you know nothing. You live on instinct alone.

What will you be? It can’t be predicted. Is it already written? Do you have a destiny or a path? What is around the corner as you grow? What walls will you hit? What disappointments will you face? What triumphs will be yours? We can’t say what you will look like, we can’t know what you will be like, we can’t guess what you will become. You are a mystery in snotgoblin form. A book waiting to be written. A song waiting to be sung. You could be anything, anyone.

But just for now, just for today, just for the smallest, briefest, sweetest moment in time, you are mine and you are in my arms, with your head on my shoulder, and I can smell your snotty, mucky smell, I can smell your day, and your fun, and I can feel your heart beating, and for just a second, you are all mine.

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How I Write A Book

~ ChanAtkins ~ 15 Comments

A few weeks ago I was chatting to someone and the subject of my writing came up. She asked what I had written and when I told her, she was politely impressed and asked me this question; ‘so, how do you even write a book anyway?’

It’s a great question, and one I have never really thought about before. To be honest I think I’ve always been a little bit scared to think about this question. In my head, my books just seem to happen, and yes, it feels a little bit like a lovely dose of magic. I like having magic in my life and I don’t want to ruin it. But seriously though, there must be a process, even if I am not always that aware of it. Recently I’ve also become more aware of how other people write books. This is fascinating! Spreadsheets and things! Now I have to admit, I am not really a spreadsheet kind of person. I exist in chaos and I quite like chaos. But this got me thinking about my process. How do I write a book? How does it compare to others? Do let me know in the comments at the bottom! But for now, here is how it works for me;

1) I never force anything. I never decide to write this, or that. I never decide to write Young Adult or Adult. I never decide anything. Which is good, because I don’t like making decisions. It all starts with a character. The ideas are there too floating about in the background, acting all shy. But the character is clearer. The sex and the age might come first. The character traits fade in and out. I don’t pay much attention to them to start with because I am always busy with other things. I’ll be writing or editing a book already. Or just living real life, and trying not to make too much of a mess of it all. So I try to ignore them at first. It’s not their turn yet, whoever they are. They will have to wait! Eventually they get braver though. They start chatting, they come out of the shadows and they become realer by the day. Soon I have a name for them, and a whole heap of issues.

2) At this point the notebook comes out. To start with it will be scraps of paper, or the back of a notebook I am using for something else. I will make note of their name and their character and some of their problems. Conversations will be quite frequent now, especially when I am out on dog walks. They all seem to start yakking then! I try to remember as much as I can, and when I get home I will jot things down. Before long, they need their own notebook.

3) The notebook should be a neat and organised thing, but it never is. It’s starts scrappy and it stays that way. There is the occasional stab at organisation. A time line here, a character bio there. But no, mostly it is a crazy mess of what would look like scribbled nonsense to anyone else. Luckily, it always makes sense to me. I will start writing the book when I have time and when the voices have become too loud to ignore. By this time the notebook will be quite full, with possibly the entire plot outlined somewhere amidst the scrawls and scribbles! Every now and again an idea will hit me, a character will suddenly develop, a dilemma will spring up, things will link up and a story with a beginning middle and end will weave itself together. Normally it’s pretty much all there before I start writing, but not always.

4) I start writing. With my notebook by my side I will dive into this story that has been niggling me for some months now. Maybe even longer. I can practically hear the main characters clapping their hands in glee. The notebook will now develop with the book as I write it. So if there is not a timeline, or character bio’s for everyone, then I add them to the notebook as I go. The first draft is always horrible but exciting. It feels like a massive relief to finally be writing it, and I can only hope that other voices remain quite while I try to concentrate on this one. If I haven’t got the whole plot figured out, I never worry. With two of my books, The Mess Of Me and The Tree Of Rebels I really had no clue how they would end, or what exactly would happen. I had the main gist of the story and I had the characters, and that was enough to get going. The complexities of the plots revealed themselves to be on the journey, and I never panic about this. I just wait for it to happen. With some of the other books I know before I start writing what is going to happen. This sort of makes it easier, I suppose! I can write a loose plot in the notebook and use this as a framework.

5) I never worry how good or bad the first draft is. It’s just for me. It’s just to shut them up. It’s just to get it all out of my head. It’s like pulling a plug, or picking a scab, or squeezing a spot! Relief. I don’t worry about how long it takes. I don’t worry about word count or page numbers. With every single book except for The Tree Of Rebels (which is aimed at my 11 and 12 year old daughters) I don’t even worry about who the audience is. I know this will shock some people. Surely I need to know who my target audience is before I start writing? Surely I need to research this group of people and find out what makes them tick? What to they look for? What do they expect? Then I will be half way there with the whole monstrous marketing and promotional thing, right? Well no, sorry, it doesn’t work that way for me. And to tell you the truth, knowing who the target audience was for The Tree Of Rebels made it the hardest book I have ever tried to write! It took away the fun. I’m not sure why. Maybe because writing has always been such a personal and private thing for me. I guess I’m doing it for me first, to quieten those voices, to reveal those characters and help them with their load. I’ll have so much fun doing this that I sometimes have to remind myself that I do want people to read the book as well!

6) Finish the first draft and send it to a friend. I am lucky I have someone I really trust who reads my work and helps me with editing and proofreading. She is not the only person I use, but she is the first to get her hands on anything. The draft comes back to me with comments and we’ll have a few conversations about the themes of the book, what works and what doesn’t. By now I will be more than ready to get my teeth into the second draft. I can’t tell you exactly how many drafts there will be. It really varies from book to book. I will tell you that The Boy With The Thorn In His Side has had the most, by far! So that’s kind of how it works for me. I use a notebook and a pen, and only use the laptop when it all gets to much to contain. I’ve never used a spreadsheet in my life. There is nothing organised or properly planned. My head just doesn’t work that way. But somehow, I hope, it all seems to come out ok!

So over to you, how do you write your books? 11124930_964965450189387_1781543778663520427_n11127478_964965093522756_6604301044566462222_n