Longdale Stiper

Photo of where Ruth grew up. (Photo taken Sunday 17th March 2013)

“And you were born and brought up, around here. Like, just down there?”

“Yep, in between where this hill...”

“Long Mynd?”

“The Long Mynd, yes, this hill – that stretches all the way into the distance – about 6 miles I think, in between here and that outcrop over there...”

“Which is called?”

“The Stiperstones. Yes, look,” she takes his arm, “look down there, those few houses. That’s where I lived.”

“Wow. And the valley, it's stunning. What's it called?”

“Umm, nothing.”

“Nothing? The valley doesn't have a name?” He is incredulous.

“No, don't think so, no, definitely not.”

“You were born in a valley with no name? That's amazing. Ha, no wonder you're so chippy about it. You were literally born nowhere, in the middle of nowhere. Seems unfair though. For it not to have a name. It should have a name. Everything should have a name. What was that rock called again? The Stiperstones? Let me see. The Stiper? No. The Stiper Mynd. The Long Stiper. Stiperdale.”

“Stiperdale, I like that.”

“No, got it. Call off the search. The Longdale Stiper! The Longdale Stiper. Brilliant. Big. Grand. Sweeping.”

“It sounds like a breed of dog.”

“Of course. Shropshire's finest. The Longdale Stiper. A hunting dog, obviously. Broad of back and long of leg. Bred to fight injustice and bring joy to all whom sail in her, or something. Here Benj, I hereby anoint you the first and finest of the breed. Next time anyone calls you a mere Staffy, or Staffy cross, or Heinz or mongrel or whatever, I shall say, ‘no, you're quite wrong’. I shall draw myself up to my full height and say: ‘For your information, this here's a Longdale Stiper; a Shropshire Longdale Stiper, have you not heard of them? A fine breed. A very fine breed indeed.’

First Draft Completed

Karin and I have finished the first draft of our novel, which seems to have changed title from 'Wish You Were' to 'Farewell Trip'.

Naturally we are delighted and have spent the weekend celebrating – albeit separately, a hundred miles apart.

Finishing a novel seems a momentous task. I've certainly never managed it before, and have half a dozen false starts in a box upstairs. And I wouldn't have completed this one either if I hadn't have been writing it with someone else. And with someone capable of putting their head down and pumping out 10000 words of narrative, whilst I dick about with a couple of pages of dialogue.

In reality though, finishing a first draft is barely over the start line when it comes to the process of getting it published. It's over two years ago that I finished the first draft of my Shropshire book and it's probably further away from being published now than it was then!

Next step, we're giving it to:
a) Our respective partners. (Eek)
b) A handful of people who said nice things about the first chapter. (Aah)
c) The person who licked my Shropshire book into shape, and who pulls no punches. (Ouch)


Then we'll see what we've got and have another bash.

Car insurance as inspiration

It's endlessly fascinating to notice how what happens in life, the littlest things, get lodged in my brain and end up on a page.

Like the other day when Mr W changed the car insurance for the first time in a million years. Car insurance has always been something I deal with - only because I worked for an insurance company for a while so, of course, insurance became my specialist subject. Anyway, Mr W changed the insurance and it stuck in my mind. Then it popped out when Ruth was talking to Trip about the things she's had to learn to do since he died; bank statements, electricity bills, that sort of thing. Little things that are not difficult in themselves but had never been her job, so seemed like a big deal. She was proud of herself for sorting out the car insurance and I was proud of her too.

A facebook exchange Gary and I had this week is another example of how ideas build on each other and turn up in the novel. It started when Gary posted the photo of magic mushroom mountain that's in the post below on my facebook page. When the book's published you'll have to look out for the references...

Gary Twynam This is magic mountain, Lampeter...where a bit of Trip lives...

Karin Dixon there's a man on magic mushroom mountain!

Gary Twynam Yeah- just a sawdust student jape though...

Karin Dixon they should have made his willy bigger

Gary Twynam Probably got worn off from all the people shagging on it...

Karin Dixon did ruth & trip shag on mmm?

Gary Twynam God no - (well Ruth may have). Trip's never been up there.

Karin Dixon this photo should go on the blog really

Gary Twynam Yes - will do. Was thinking about when they have alfresco sex in the park - could possibly reference it in conversation.

Gary Twynam I was also thinking - and if I remember it correctly, the farmer, or someone of a censorius mind, got rid of the willy.

Karin Dixon oh yes, that could go in. in fact, one of ruth's feminist friends went up one moonlit night and removed it, replacing it with anatomically correct women's parts including vagina, fallopian tubes and uterus. the farmer, who hadn't been bothered by a massive cock, was out the next day with a tractor.

Trip's Ashes (1) - Lampeter.

This photo is of a hill overlooking Lampeter University. It was taken in the early eighties. Which is the same time as Ruth and Trip were there. The identities of the people responsible for the creation of the giant man with the small penis remains a closely-guarded secret. You don't suppose Ruth or Trip could have been involved, do you?

Either way, Ruth scatters some of Trip's ashes on the top of that hill, at the end of Chapter 1. I fully expect, once the book wins the Conti's Coffee prize, for fans to go on pilgrimages around the world collecting pictures of the scattering sites. To Shropshire even! Here's number 1.

Oh dear

I'm in trouble. Big trouble. Possibly even big trouble.

It's February 28^th, you see, which means (since it isn't a leap year) that I'm about to miss my deadline.

It was a mutual agreement, a promise made with negligent optimism and a hand waved airily in the vague direction of the future. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy. Hardly anything left to do. Of course we can get it finished by the end of February.

Except here we are, 19.28 on the last day of the month, and all I have to show for my final chapter is this:

Paris, September 2010

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Inspiring stuff, I know, just wait till you see the rest of the chapter. It'll be done soon. End of March, I swear...

Excuses, excuses

So, how to explain the distinct lack of posts from me over the past couple of weeks...

1. I'm far too tired after work
2. I'll just check facebook before I start
3. I've got to concentrate on getting the blimmin' novel finished by the February 28^th deadline
4. I wonder if anyone's replied to that post I wrote on facebook?
5. I can't think of anything interesting to say
6. How can I follow Gary's last clever/funny/insightful (delete as appropriate) offering?
7. Damn, I forgot to spy on the kids' facebook pages earlier
8. It's not like we have hordes of readers hanging on our every post...
9. This book I've read before is so gripping I can't possibly stop reading now
10. Oh my god, look at those photos wotserface has put on facebook, unbelievable!
11. The tv I never switch on is on and there's a repeat of Location, Location, Location from 2009 that I haven't seen
12. Goodness, I haven't looked at my email since I last went on facebook, better just check in case
13. Maybe a blog about writer's block? Nah, what could I say? It's all a myth designed by writers to excuse their laziness anyway

The Happy Eater

We wrote a dialogue flashback scene on eating out yesterday. Ruth and Trip come up with their ten rules for a successful restaurant.

No, you'll have to wait for the book. Though I can share that Trip believes an essential ingredient is a fat chef.

It did, however, remind me of this poem.

The Happy Eater

Forget your cuckoo-spit foam, coulis, jus,
And hand-dipped chocolate afters;
In the seventies orange juice
Was deemed ample as a starter.
Then came the step-change:
Taramasalata.