Editing is what I ought to be doing. It's the fun kind of editing where I have to add extra scenes, think up character profiles and alter my character's um - characters. But I'm already panicking about finding the time to get it done during the summer holidays.
(It's okay now - someone has shot the yappy dog. Hopefully.)
So far, my editor has not given me a deadline, but this hasn't stopped me from making up my own deadlines and then worrying as they go whizzing past. Whenever I feel a burst of worry, I start working on the simpler, more technical edits (I have to make one character fall in love with a different person - which mostly means switching two character's names throughout the story. And I have to change one of my narrators from third person to first person.) But before I get too far with this, I feel another burst of worry that I'm not doing the more important editing. I suspect my editor is more interested in the extra scenes and the insights into the characters' motivations - even if some of it doesn't end up in the finished book. (I've read so many internet comments from editors about how they want their authors to work on the spirit of their edits rather completing each specific edit they've mentioned - like a check-list - and then going no further.) But - of course - it's the dreaming up of new scenes and character traits that uses up All The Time.
So now I'm blogging instead.
The end of term was also the end of primary school for Eleven-year-old and so, very emotional. He cried a lot. All his friends cried. Most of their parents cried too. I, however, did not cry.
No. My stubborn streak rose up and rebelled at this mass-hysteria-style weeping. I was determined not to be manipulated - as if by a Disney film or a John Green novel.
I watched the Leaver's Assembly, during which the headmaster described them all as 'a brilliant bunch of children with an extraordinary sense of fun.' And I did not crack.
I watched them put on a play about the importance of teamwork and friendship during which, a couple of the eleven year olds broke down live on the stage. Not me, though.
The play ended with linked-arm-swaying and a song about friendship. The girls with the X-factor-iest voices had to sing a high-pitched warbly harmony with the lyric, "I'll be your frie-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-end," which broke into high-pitched warbly sobbing every time. Tears were running down most of their little faces by this point and they started hugging and trying to comfort each other. This set off the parents in the audience, whose faces made the children on the stage cry harder than ever. It was a riveting thing to watch!
I got through it with slightly more blinking than necessary and a tight throat. No tears, though.
Then there were flowers and chocolates for all the teachers who were leaving - many of whom also cried as the headmaster read out little quotes about how loved they were (In one or two cases it was even true - Hello, Mrs Windsor!). After that it was time for the dads in their work-suits to start making those shuffly time-I-was-getting-back-to-work type movements, when the headmaster held up his hand and said, "Before you go, we have an award to give out..."
So...yeah...I couldn't withstand that one.
He called my own personal eleven-year-old up to the front of the stage and presented him with the Miss Phillips Award...and I had to be passed great handfuls of tissues all along the rows of parents Dammit!
Miss Phillips lost her battle with cancer two years ago and endowed an award to be presented at the end of the school year to the child 'who had grown during their journey through school displaying Knowledge and Perseverance through developing confidence in imagination and creative thinking.'
'And this description somehow put you in mind of my eleven-year-old?' I asked the headmaster incredulously.
(I didn't really, but it must've shown in my face, because the he told me the teachers had named my son unanimously.)
While presenting the award, the headmaster said "Although (Eleven-year-old) is a quiet character, he has huge determination and refuses to be defeated. He throws himself into everything and meets new challenges with enthusiasm. He will try anything, even if it seems scary or worrying at first. His artistic skills are exceptional yet he is very modest about his ability. He has a natural talent for creating beautiful images, patterns and designs in any medium."
He said this out loud and everything. Not just on the inside of my head. Although part of me still suspects I might've hallucinated the whole thing. Even husband was teary - a definite first for a man who'd just sat through a school play.
All through that last day, other parents and teachers who'd taught my son in the past came up and congratulated me - as if I'd done anything other than shout grumpily at my son for the last eleven years. #Ihaven't.
I'll stop now, since I'm making myself feel shuddery from too much boasting. I'm still feeling uncomfortable about my last blog post because it was all about me spending money. It was an awkward one to write, but I made myself do it (the writing not the spending) because it's the thing I particularly want to read about whenever I'm following the blogs of other authors. I want to see evidence of advances! I want to see pretty things that have been paid for with actual writing! It just never occurred to me how bad-mannered and show-offish it would feel from the other side of the fence.
Anyway, nothing boast-worthy has occurred since the end of term. We're halfway through the summer holidays now and they haven't been much fun. Mostly because husband developed pleurisy over the last few weeks. Definitely the ill-est he's ever been. And not in a Beastie Boys kind of way. He's been lying on the sofa every day, struggling to breathe, clutching his chest and pulling faces like he's trying not to cry. A few times, I've wondered whether I'd have to summon paramedics or try out some actual resuscitation techniques, but then he always managed to gasp some air back into his agonised lungs...and I went back to my panic-editing. Phew!
The boys, of course, have been totally unbothered by the distractedness of both parents. They've been dividing their time between art projects, iPads and the park next to our house. This seems to be the Summer of Studio Ghibli for them - so much beautiful art! They've been watching Up On Poppy Hill, Howl's Moving Castle and Spirited Away endlessly. Then - by way of a change - they'll put Ni no Kuni on the X-box and sketch the characters...
That's Pea by Eight-year-old and Oliver by Eleven-year-old.
Yesterday, I heard the rumours that Studio Ghibli are struggling financially and taking a break from film-making, so we're all really hoping it's not the end.
We're off to the seaside in a couple of weeks and I already know the editing will have to accompany me, but that hasn't stopped me buying some holiday reading...
Read this one already - and loved it! I bought it because not only did it win a YA prize, it's also historical like my own book. Although I'm pretty sure it's aimed at and marketed for girls, I read the beginning to my two boys - and they insisted I read them the whole thing. The Eight-year-old even clutched my arm during the scary bits!
I've been meaning to read something by Maggie Stiefvater for ages. Like Patrick Ness, she's a YA name that keeps cropping up (and being recommended) wherever I go. And her website is super-cool. Yet another site that makes me go 'I-want-to-be-Maggie-Stiefvater! I-want-to-be-Maggie-Stiefvater! I-want-to-be-Maggie-Stiefvater!' Until I remember that I'm 42 - and really ought to stop wanting to be people all the time!