FATHERS AND STRANGE MEN

THAT'S NOT MY DADDY

(WRITING WITH SOMEONE ELSE'S VOICE)

I asked my Writers Group to compose a very short piece using the 'voice' of another character, for example, an old person, a teenager, a drug addict, a child, a harassed mother - the choice is endless. I chose the voice of a 5 year old child. Afterwards it struck me that the emotions involved in the piece must have been echoed in many other situations where a soldier has come home from the fighting to greet his children again.Here it is:

That's not my Daddy.

Miss Haynes said he was waiting outside to take me home, and I got so excited. I haven't seen him for a long long time. Not since he was sent to be a soldier in Af – Af – that place with all the sand and the bombs. I peed my pants a bit, just a little, when Miss Haynes told me he was there, waiting by the gates. I hope they'll be dry by the time I get home so Mummy won't be cross.

But – That's not my Daddy. My Daddy is very tall and he stands straight up and he has a big shiny, smiley face and . . .

I take a step backwards into the hall.

My Daddy has two arms and two legs. The man by the gates has only one of each and his face is sort of squashed up and crunched, like a paper bag that's got nothing in it. He's pretending to smile, but it's not a proper smile.

No, that's not my Daddy.

He's calling to me now. He knows my name. Lukey, he's calling. His voice is different. Sort of shaky and whispery. And then he raises his arm, the one that's got a hand on the end, and waves.

Come here, son.

I'm not supposed to speak to strange men. If one speaks to you, my Mummy says, don't answer them, just run back to where there are other people.

There are other people in the hall and the cloakroom. Miss Haynes and Mrs Batsby the Head, and Alfie and his Mummy. I can hear them laughing.

'Lukey,' says the man. 'Don't you remember me?'

I think he's crying, and I want to cry too, I can feel the crying coming up in my chest in big hard lumps.

But he's not my Daddy.

I turn around and run back into the hall.

HOW NOT TO CONSTRUCT A NOVEL

It's almost a year since I started writing about Charlie Churchill, ugly duckling in a dysfunctional scatty family of beautiful females. At that time the book was called THE SITTING TENANT. Here's my blog from last October:

"Charlie's a carer in an old people's home where Dingo, 89, a diabetic who's lost both legs and has failing eyesight, becomes her closest friend. When he dies Charlie discovers he's bequeathed her his entire estate: an enormous dog (Irish Wolfhound), an enormous sum of money and an enormous house with an embittered sitting tenant, a former soldier in Afghanistan who's also a double amputee.

After writing 6000 words I  decided it wasn't going anywhere.

So .... Keep the family - they're funny and colourful and I could have a lot of fun with them. Keep Mum's on-off toy boy, Ricky Capaldi, keep Arsehole Alan. Keep Dingo, even though he dies in Chapter 2. Keep the dog. Keep the sitting tenant but give him back one of his legs (another double amputee is too much of a coincidence).

4000 words later it still doesn't work.

So .... Keep the family. Dump the dog. Dump the tenant. Dump the house. Keep the money. Introduce a sexy lawyer. Introduce a writing class with a creepy would-be crime writer. Change the title from THE SITTING TENANT to THE WRITING CLASS.

7000 words on, where am I going? Who knows? Nobody said writing was easy, but it's fun!"
Since then, the only constant has been Charlie herself.
The writing class has vanished, the title is now ME, DINGO AND SIBELIUS, and Charlie has now bought the home for the elderly. Oh, and the sexy lawyer is still hovering. Sibelius? No, that's not the Irish Wolfhound.
At last I think I'm on the right track, plenty of conflict and colourful characters and I'm past the 40,000 words mark.
All these changes have added months to my writing schedule and I've ignored all the sensible rules of plotting and planning, but it's still the greatest fun I know!