spoiled brat

I am the birthday princess.

My friend Sarine says that in Armenia, birthdays are seven days and seven nights. Which means it's still kinda my birthday.

We had a great time in Edinburgh. Every time I go there I like it more. We ate well, consumed numerous bevvies of all kinds, did a bit of shopping (yes Matt bought more clothes than me! but we both came back with shoes) and went on a sorta-scary ghost tour. I do love the creative energy of Edinburgh, though some of it seems a bit contrived in places. There's more buzz away from the city centre, where people live their lives away from the glitter of the castle and the royal mile and the posh shops of the new town. I like the guts of a city, the crumbling buildings with a story.

And of course, we watched the rugby. Murrayfield with beer! And at £3 per pint it's cheaper than at most pubs.
That's the Haka - very cool moment. We were near the top and amid numerous loud, brash Kiwi fans, but Matt's pipes always save the day and they loved us within minutes of his first attempt at the NZ national anthem. The rugby isn't really worth mentioning, but the afterparty is. Highlights:
- Matt piping himself out of the toilets. He's now done this in Rome and now at Murrayfield and I'm frightened that it might become a tradition.
- Meeting random French guy/Polish chick and their gorgeous 5-year-old; our mate John and I spent over an hour babbling with all of them whilst Matthew piped for a crowd of hundreds. Okay, dozens. (See them all hovering outside the beer tent? Who knew the steps could be a stage.)
- Some dude placing a beer cup at Matt's feet and the change rolling in; £17 took care of taxis and a round later on. Which is great for us if this doctor thing doesn't work out.
- The general chaos of Scotland fans and Kiwis as things got sloppier and sloppier…two small nations of big drinkers.
- Watching a dude do a line of coke off his wrist on Victoria Street in the looming shadow of Edinburgh Castle. I've never seen anyone just do a line on the street before. Class.

The ferry. Carbon footprints be damned; how about the ongoing sickness from the 'rough' North Sea? I have a newfound respect for my mate G who works offshore. 'Rough' seas are miserable. I may now have to justify the added expense of a flight to the mainland rather than a 14-hour nonstop up-down-side-side-down-up up up-splash – think a tiny motorboat ripping through the wakes of large yachts. For 14 hours.

No rain this morning so took a walk by the water and look who I ran into! He was huge, and didn't seem too mind a pesky seagull flirting with him while I tried to say hello.
Back to the scribbling…amazing how horrible first drafts are. It's embarrassing. I took a week off, though, and the story is fresher now. I always have to take a step back to see it with new eyes.

The good end happily, the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means. - Oscar Wilde.

May we all live in our own fiction.

The process of rewriting is enjoyable, because you're not in that existential panic when you don't have a novel at all. - Rose Tremain

This is central Lerwick in the sunshine. It's a pretty place. The weather lately has been crazy, sunshine in the mornings that leads into horrible rains for half an hour and back into sun, briefly, then the winds start. I've had a few beautiful early-morning walks along the shoreline this week before the rains and winds kicked in. This weather is good for me, actually. It's toughening me up.

So I finished the second novel on Tuesday afternoon. In writer-speak, that means it's got an ending. I've always had a problem trying to edit as I write, and this time I didn't, I just got on with it and got to the end. I wrote a short story in 2002 that I always wanted to evolve into a novel, and initially I had a completely different take on the story. I've changed it considerably from these early notes. This was the novel I was working on when I did the Radio Scotland Write Here Right Now event last February, which challenged participants to write a novel in a month, writing 1000 words a day. But most of what I wrote then has been tossed to the winds and reworked already. Now the re-writing begins, and this could take months. I had a goal of finishing this week, and to get it done two days early was fantastic. Now the goal is to have it ready to send to my agent before I go to America in November.

Late September is always special to me, because it's my birthday and I take an 'inventory' of where I am and where I want to go in the next year. Many things to think about this year. I'm looking forward to this weekend - real shopping! Real supermarkets! Real restaurants! We're taking the ferry to Aberdeen tonight (watching that carbon footprint after flying so much in the past few years) and driving down to Edinburgh tomorrow night in time for the Ireland-France match. Sunday we go to the Scotland-New Zealand match at Murrayfield. I've always wanted to see the All-Blacks live so really looking forward to that. And to being back in civilization!

Below, the bowling green. See? It is a pretty place in the sunshine.

The book everybody likes hasn't yet been written. - Kevin MacNeil

I am still buzzed from the weekend. Shetland hosted a film and book festival (called Screenplay and Wordplay respectively) which was fantastic. On Saturday I got to participate in an excellent workshop with Kevin MacNeil. MacNeil has written every genre and type of book/play/poem out there, and has a keen eye for detail and using all 5 senses to transport the reader deep into the story. He had everyone in the room write a 400-word Flash Fiction piece, using one of the following perimeters: a) A dream you remember; b) The last time you thought, 'wow'; c) Your first ever memory. He gave us about 40 minutes to write, and less than half turned up for the second part of the workshop. The outcome was interesting, as the group was filled with people from every walk of life imaginable on this small island, from fishermen to doctors to teachers to elderly ladies who publish poems in the local newspaper. The stories were all of a similar vein, however, and dealt with memories, not dreams. Perhaps dreams are too private to share, or too difficult to translate into words. I read mine first; my voice wavering and my hands shaking. I don't like reading aloud, not my work, not to strangers. It feels like an intrusion.

In a place as small as Shetland, it's easy to truly feel the vibe of greatness oozing from people like Iain Banks and Denise Mina and Kevin MacNeil. I saw many readings in this two-day event, and each author took the time to answer questions both in front of the group and afterward. I've been to numerous book festivals where the authors are cattle-prodded through reading and signing and reading and signing, and Shetland was refreshingly void of all pretense. The authors all stayed in the hotel next to our flat, and I was even invited to a drinking sesh last night with the heavyweights (which I respectfully declined, knowing my knees were shaking enough when meeting Iain Banks let alone having a beer with him. I would spill it on his shoes.).

It's weird being star-struck by writers who are keen to know about your own quest for your writing voice. In America, I often felt that other writers were more concerned about the competitive nature of publishing and marketing than of nurturing the writers within. And festivals are often so huge that they feel contrived. This was a good weekend for me, to be around writers who are keen to hear about the successes and pitfalls of those of us new to this animal. I had some great conversations with people who have made this scribbling their careers, and all of them were positive, encouraging, and eager to help with contacts in the UK should I stay here long-term.

Saturday night we were all invited to a ceilidh (kay-lee for y'all non-Gaelic speakers) in the south of the island. The hospital pharmacist and his wife told all the junior docs and medical students (and, by default, me) to come down for the dance and to crash at their charming croft house by the sea. We were less than half the age of most of the attendees, and once they were used to us, they welcomed us with open arms and feet. The band played traditional ceilidh music, with fiddle, guitar, accordion and drums, and the number of dances filled an A4 piece of paper. Of course we joined in - and once the regulars knew that we were all pathetic, they were kind enough to guide us all through it. All in all a fantastic evening of traditional Shetland music and dancing.

Weekends like this are why I was so excited to move here.

fore-shadow, flash-back

Things I Am Learning In Shetland
1) Makeup is unnecessary. Mascara will end up dripping down your cheeks, as the rain falls sideways here and directly into your face. Lip gloss is a nightmare as the wind blows your hair onto your lips and your hair is gooey for the rest of the day. Sunscreen is unnecessary because there is no sun.
2) It's cold and it's wet. The rain just hits out of the blue – no sprinkles, no threatening clouds, just rain rain rain that attacks from all angles and stops as quickly as it began. All-weather packing is a necessity each time you leave the house. There was a time when I would complain about this weather, but that's silly in a place like this, where the weather is as much a part of the people as their music or the land or the sea. I'm toughening up.
3) Umbrellas are futile. I brought my strongest (read: most expensive) umbrella to the supermarket on Sunday and I hadn't taken 3 steps out the door and the damn thing was upside down and broken. I have used my waterproof jacket more in three weeks in Shetland than in two years of owning it. Hoods are the new black.
4) For some reason, I brought skirts. I am not sure why – possibly because I thought I'd dress up at some point, but Shetlanders are logical folk. Dressed up is trousers and a nice sweater. I like this. And now that it's September I don't mind wearing my boots and coats. Somehow it just didn't feel right in August.

On to other things. The New Novel (working title: Sangria) is rocking right along at 40,000 words. I am not kidding myself though, as 30,000 of the aforementioned words are crap. It's going, though, and I am finding myself in the zone when five or six hours go by without my knowledge. I am having difficulty weaving the backstory into the text, as flashbacks usually don't work, and readers hate them. However, they are integral to this story, so I'm doing it anyway and hoping it doesn't explode.

Sangria takes place in Lisbon. I'm engrossed in reliving my time there. My memories of Lisbon have become a mix of people and light and noise and smells and intensity. The city is a central character in the book, and I hope I am doing it justice by allowing it to transform the other characters.

I'm getting kicked off the library computer now. It's taken longer to get internet installed in Shetland than in any other country I've lived in. Grr.

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. - Ray Bradbury

I sent it off yesterday, all 82,000 words of it. I had nightmares last night that I had forgotten to spellcheck and that the chapters were in a haphazard order when my agent received it. I also have begun to dream about my characters. A shrink would probably have a heyday with that.

I'm devouring books right now. When you're trying to be a better writer, reading isn't for pleasure. It's research. It's a classroom and a tutor and a lecturer and the guy at the back of the room who cheats off his peers. I can learn something from everything that is in print, even if it's how not to do something. The sins against the written word are numerous, and as a lexical snob, I am offended when I read something with weak plot twists, poor characterization, or unnatural dialogue. I have copious notes on how to completely lose the reader. I am equally thrilled when I find myself re-reading page upon page of beautifully written prose. Then it's learning from the masters. Then I get to balance imitation with my own creativity.

I just checked my e-mail and my agent has received the manuscript and is looking forward to reading it. My stomach just did a flip-flop just seeing her name in my inbox. I feel like a 12-year-old with a crush.

Good stuff of late: Bret Easton Ellis' Lunar Park, Iain Banks' The Wasp Factory, Marian Keyes' Anybody Out There (Keyes is among the best 'chicklit' authors, and this novel has stuck with me for numerous reasons). The others I've read have sadly been forgettable.

Banks is coming to Lerwick this weekend as part of Wordsmith, the Shetland book festival. It is showcasing writers from all over the UK, and I am especially excited to hear the local scribes read from their writings in their distinct dialect and voices. I'm attending a couple of writing workshops too, as it's always good to hear how others approach things.

Next steps are to continue work on a novel I began last spring that takes place in Lisbon, and do more work on a darker piece on domestic violence that I've been working on for nearly a decade. I'm not sure which one the muses will choose, but I'm ready when they are.