Critical Mass

Pack nervously for weekend. Am attending critique group for current novel followed by visit to family.

Put in various pharmaceutical essentials intended to keep self fragrant, and prevent collapse into dusty wrinkled heap like Portrait of Dorian Gray. Add heavy clothing, extra jumper, and several pairs socks, due to Autumn and tendency of family towards Hearty Walks. Add book am currently reading and two more in case finish first one and uninspired by either of others.

Add laptop in case have chance to write anything. Add notebook and pen for use at critique group and in case laptop dies. Add emergency hip-flask of apricot brandy in case critique group utterly crushing as suspect it will be. Bag seems rather heavy, considering will only be away for one night, but Better Safe than Sorry.

Wonder, briefly, if tendency to overpack indicates massive flaw in psyche, and decide that probably, yes, but so many other flaws in psyche that is remarkable whole persona has not actually disintegrated into component parts by now, so am not going to worry about it.

Exit for coffee. Return to find bag has gained lump, and, when pick it up, not only even heavier but somewhat vocal.

Sigh, and remove cat from bag. Cat stalks off, with Sulky Bum. Amazing how expressive cat's bottom can be.

Wonder if removal of cat from bag is metaphor. Have, recently, let so many cats out of so many bags, resulting in metaphorical felines running rampant through life causing destruction and trail of small dead things, do not really need to be reminded of this. Perhaps should stop looking for symbols everywhere and concentrate on reality for a change.

Remember what reality currently involves, not least critique group, shudder, and decide would frankly prefer not to deal with it. Wish it was possible to actually make a living as hardline fantasist, then remember that is why have written three novels. Though first one doomed to remain hidden in depths of filing system forever, with any luck. One of more long-lasting fantasies was belief that first novel had any merit beyond typing practice.

Arrive pallid and shaking at critique group, weighed down by bag, to be greeted by reassuring smiles. Wonder if everyone preparing to Be Kind. Sit down, extract notebook and pen, swallow, and ready self to face music.

First critiquer says something through white noise of despair enveloping self's ears. Blink. Actually didn't sound completely dismissive. Listen harder and realize there was a compliment in there.

Pin back ears, and try to absorb rest of critique.

Various flaws pointed out, but overall critique remarkably positive. Scribble frantically in notebook. Next critiquer takes over, and points out some of same flaws and a few new ones, but is, in fact, quite nice about novel as a whole. Continue frantic scribbling.

Same process takes place, with brief breaks for drinks, around critique circle. End up feeling slightly punch-drunk but much less bruised than expected. Collapse with relief, and babble merrily to lovely, darling critique group who have shown how to turn novel into something that might not actually be too ghastly to show to agent.  Oh, the relief. May not have to move to Outer Hebrides and change name after all.

After half hour's relieved ramblings, realise am in danger of missing train, stand up, heave bag onto shoulder and nearly fall over.

Oops. Totally forgot that would now have several marked-up manuscripts to carry:  approx. 1,200 pages. Remarkable how heavy paper is. Bid fond, if slightly breathless farewells to concerned-looking critiquers, and stagger towards station.

Sister raises well-groomed eyebrow at sight of self carrying what appears to be military kitbag, suitable for six months intensive survival training in jungle or possibly two weeks in sister's own well-groomed but not exactly metropolitan village, but relaxes on being reassured that have not actually made plans to dump self on her for long stay, am merely loaded down with creative efforts. Try to remember quote from somewhere about something being "weighted with authority," but can't.

Spend delightful evening in restaurant with both sisters; restaurant almost deserted due to Major Sporting Event on telly. Receive yummy food, excellent service, and possibly slightly too much wine, not to mention, at least in own case, vast sense of relief that critique group is over, and become Loud. Mind you, when get together with sisters, have never needed excuse of alcohol to talk for hours on every subject under sun, interspersed with yelps of hysterical laughter.

World is wonderful, people lovely, have best critique group and best sisters in universe. Collapse happily into bed, grinning, and plunge rapidly into exhausted unconsciousness.

Wake briefly at 4 a.m., and think of way to insert one of critiquers' suggestions into novel. Also remember that quote about things being weighted with authority was from The Crucible.

Unfortunately, only remember bit about The Crucible next morning; bit about novel has vaporized into ether. Bother. Should have left notebook by bed as do at home, though admittedly early-morning scribbles frequently illegible and/or gibberish.

On way home, consider Sensible Option of leaving novel a bit longer before embarking on rewrite, but suspect sense of optimism may fade away with speed, and should get on with it before sinking once more into Slough of Despond. Also all too well aware that next novel is looking all cute and appealing like kitten in pet shop, and if allow self to be distracted by it, will not get around to rewrite for months, if at all.

Wonder if can run both side by side. Have heard of "weekend novels" produced by other writers, who work on one during week, and another at weekend. Suspect am not capable of this, partly as have day job, and weekends tend to get eaten up with various domestic and social functions not completed during week; also not sure can actually work on two totally different novels at same time, without them bleeding into each other like pink shirt in wrong wash. Some of new novel definitely unsuitable for current, now-in-rewrite, aimed-at-young-adult-market one.  New novel may in fact be too adult even for self.

Return home with stupidly large bag, and dump on floor, groaning with relief. Feed, stroke, and otherwise make up to cats for daring to be away for a night. Extract marked-up manuscripts and critiquers' notes, but cannot face it just yet. Will just look at new novel for five minutes first.

After all, is only sensible.

Gaie Sebold's short stories have appeared in, among others, Black Gate, City Slab, and Legend and she has received an Honorable Mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her first fantasy novel (first publishable novel, that is) is now with an agent and she is currently working on her second. She is a member of T Party Writers and commits occasional poetry readings. Her first poetry collection, Urban Fox (The Tall-Lighthouse, 2001) is available at Amazon.co.uk. Contact her at urbancat<at>talk21.com.

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