Flash Fiction: Crossing the river alone

antiques-along-the-mohawk

Yesterday I asked the fat nurse to describe the view.

‘A river,’ she said, her big hands moving confidently as she changed my dressings. There was no disgust in her face, although even I can smell my decaying self, my rotting body.

‘And on the opposite bank,’ she said, ‘are two yellow chairs. What d’ya say we break out of here and go and have a nice sit down?’

Today it was a new nurse, thin. I imagined her fat colleague, weighing down one yellow chair, waiting. But I didn’t ask her to look. I don’t want to know that both chairs are empty.

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This is a Friday Fictioneers 100-word (or so) short story based on the picture provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and written about by writers all over the world.

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This week WordPress interviewed me about my writing, and included a big mention for the wonderful Friday Fictioneers. Read the piece here.

 

 

Flash Fiction: Rice would be Nice

emmylgant

‘We’re out of potatoes,’ my mother said, in a voice I wanted to mend.

I dragged my father’s garden spade (he’d taken the fork) to the vegetable patch. It hadn’t rained for months; his brassicas had gone to seed and his onions were flowering.

I jabbed at the ground, remembering the pale, earthy potatoes my father had let me find, like golden treasure hidden in the dark. I knelt and scrabbled, stuck my hands in the soil, my fingers discovering only a wet, rotten mess.

‘Rice,’ I said to my mother. ‘Rice would be nice.’

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This is a 100-word story inspired by the picture above. This week, my mind decided to go in the opposite direction to the picture: gardens and heat, despite my best intentions. Thanks to Emmy L Gant for the picture, and to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for leading the Friday Fictioneers. Click here to join in, or here to read other people’s stories.

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It’s been a little over a year since my debut novel, Our Endless Numbered Days was published by Penguin. I wrote a blog post about the good and the not so good things that have happened since then.

Some things I’ve learned in my year of being published

DSCF4159A year ago today, my debut novel, Our Endless Numbered Days was published by Fig Tree, an imprint of Penguin. Many things have happened since then which I could never have imagined – my book won the 2015 Desmond Elliott Prize for debut fiction, was published in nine territories around the world (with a few more to come), and was selected for both the Waterstones, and Richard & Judy book clubs. But it’s not just the (mostly) great reception that the book has received which has amazed me, but the things I’ve learned along the way – some good, some not so good. Here they are in no particular order.

Good: People

The Prime Writers

The Prime Writers

This has to be the biggest and best thing that having my novel published has brought me – meeting others who love books. The list of these lovely people is enormous, but includes other writers especially The Prime Writers, The Taverners and the Friday Fictioneers; Book bloggers; Editors and publicists; My literary agent and foreign rights agent; and many many booksellers. But perhaps most lovely of all are readers. Those who have turned up to events, those who chat about books on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, and those who have sent me messages.

Not so Good: Self-Comparison

Writers don’t talk publicly about this, but I’ve had enough whispered conversations to know everyone feels it: ‘Why is that book being promoted over mine?’ ‘How is that book doing so well?’ ‘Why him? Why her?’ And then we turn to face the crowd, sip our wine and smile. We barely even admit these feelings to ourselves, perhaps with good reason – they’re negative and can easily send us into a downward spiral, but I suspect all writers suffer from them. There’s always going to be writers many rungs above me on the publishing ladder, and sometimes they might have written a book that I think wasn’t very good, didn’t deserve the awards, the shortlisting, the publicity money allocated it.

I am learning to switch off self-comparison, but it’s something I have to work at, especially when I see particular books all over social media. But of course I’m certain some writers will be thinking this about me and my book. One way I’ve found that helps overcome it is to talk publicly about the books I do love, especially those I think should have won the award, should have been shortlisted, or had more promotion.

Good: Getting out there

Talking with Rowan Pelling

Talking with Rowan Pelling at The Curious Arts Festival

In the year since Our Endless Numbered Days was published I’ve done nearly seventy events – literary festivals, university talks, book club appearances, and more. And all of them because I wanted to. Before I sat on stage at my first ever event at Cheltenham Literature Festival I didn’t know I could do public speaking, and had no idea I would actually come to enjoy it.

Not so good: Learning how books are promoted

Before I my book was published, and I was just a reader, if I thought about it at all, I would have assumed that good books simply get found by readers, and that bestsellers are discovered, not created. The reality isn’t quite so simple. There’s some luck involved, and some passion, but also an awful lot of business. It never occurred to me that books get reviews, get talked about, get promotions, and posters (mine included) because the publisher has chosen to invest in that book. And they’re probably investing in it because they’ve paid quite a lot for it.

Putting this under ‘not so good’, perhaps isn’t quite right. Promotion and marketing isn’t aren’t bad things, I’ve just had my eyes opened to how they work, and why some books get to the top of the pile.

Good: Writing

In this year I’ve learnt a lot more about what I like about my own writing (I don’t like to do it, I prefer editing), what I like to write about (I keep an on-going list of my favourite things), how I write (better with deadlines). And I’ve learnt the absolute pleasure of doing this for a living.

Not so Good: Something for nothing

This is a debate that still has a long way to run. Of the nearly seventy events I’ve done in the past year, I was only paid for about five of them. Of course I could have said no – I chose to go, unpaid. I haven’t counted up the exact number of interviews, articles and short stories I’ve written in this year (I reckon it must be about forty), and again the majority were unpaid. It’s promotion, right? Yes, of course, but some of those literary events, newspapers and magazines charge their readers and have decided for commercial reasons not to pay the people who provide the content.

Good and bad: reviews

There’s no point in writing a book that doesn’t get read. And not all readers are going to like the same book. But a novel is a creative thing that comes from inside the writer, and it’s difficult when something you’ve worked so hard on is criticised without thought. I read all my reviews and I don’t engage. I might, however, shout at the screen a bit, and then go and read a good one.

Good: Some wonderful moments

There have been lots of amazing moments in this year. Here are a few of them:

  • I still haven’t seen someone I don’t know reading my book, but during some hovering in a bookshop (as you do when you’re an author), I did see a stranger pick up a copy, read the back and buy it.
  • Hearing the announcement in a crowded room at the top of Fortnum andDE3 Mason that Our Endless Numbered Days had won the Desmond Elliott Prize
  • Watching a couple of teenage boys holding hands under the desk at a sixth form college event I was speaking at. (They didn’t know I could see.)
  • Finding the courage to go and say hello to David Vann (Legend of a Suicide), one of my literary heroes, at an event in Oxford, and before I could speak, him holding out his hand and saying, ‘You’re Claire Fuller, aren’t you?’

It has been a momentous year. Next year please can I have more of the same, and yes, I’m happy to take both the good and the not so good.

DSCF4173

Flash Fiction: Into the Sun

crook

Cara goes by bicycle to the village shop. The sky is polished blue.
As I lie down with Peter in the grassy hollow I imagine Cara peddling home, into the sun.
Time slows: minutes become hours
Peter turns towards me.
Hours become days
I think of Cara squinting, stopping.
Days become weeks
Peter leans forward.
Weeks become months
I picture Cara pushing the bicycle, head bowed.
Months become years
One first kiss, and a shadow falls. We shade our eyes, look up. Cara, her face dark under her hat, frowns.

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This is a Friday Fictioneers story: a 100-word piece inspired by the picture (this week provided by Sandra Crook). Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click here to read other people’s stories, or here to join in.

I’d love to know what you think – constructive criticism gratefully received – leave a comment below.

 

Flash Fiction: Third Person

leary2

In books there’s always the drunk one. And the hesitant one. And the sober, sensible one – the person warning about the lake’s depth, the submerged dangers and the weeds to get tangled in. I should have been that person when we went down to the water in the dark, but instead we three were all the first kind. Giggling, we pulled off our clothes, plunged in, screaming at the cold.

A full five minutes of laughing and splashing went by before we missed him.

‘Peter!’ We tread water. ‘Stop messing around!’

In the blink of an eye we became the third person.

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Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this weekly 100-word Friday Fictioneers writing event. Join in. Read other people’s. The picture this week is supplied by Erin Leary.

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Another competition to win BOOKS. But this time not only Our Endless Numbered Days, but also books by Kazuo Ishiguro, Yann Martel, Kate Atkinson, Danielle McLaughlin, Julian Barnes and others. Click to enter.

Flash fiction: The Sable Stole

chateau-de-sable-ceayr

‘My Aunt – my mother’s sister – had a sable stole.’
‘Stole?’ Cara frowned.
‘A collar, a scarf, made from real fur,’ I said. ‘Once, I came home early and it was draped over the back of a kitchen chair. I was reaching out towards it when she came down the stairs, my father following her.’
Cara raised her eyebrows.
‘She said I could stroke it and touch the tiny paws if I said nothing to my mother.’
‘And did you?’ Cara asked.
‘Touch it, or say something?’ I sighed. ‘She left me the stole in her will. I watched it burn.’

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The name of this house took me in a less than obvious direction this week for my 100-word Friday Fictioneers story. Join in. Read other people’s. The picture this week is supplied by Ceayr.

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Author and book-blogger, Jen Campbell is doing a worldwide competition to win one of five copies of my book, Our Endless Numbered Days, or Sweet Home by Carys Bray. Click here to enter.

Flash Fiction: When They Were New

hh-spinet

 

The harpsichord had woodworm, much of the ivory was gone and one broken leg was jacked up on bricks. Peter flicked out his coat tails, eaten into fine lace by moths, and sat.

Dressed in ragged petticoats and crinoline, Cara curtsied low and I took her hand, kissed it. As we danced I thought of those who’d played and danced before us; the people who’d worn these clothes when they were new. And as if from above I saw Peter sitting and us cavorting on the dusty floorboards, fading and turning, turning and fading until we too disappeared into time.

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A Friday Fictioneers 100-word flash fiction inspired by the picture above, provided this week by Jan W. Fields. Click here to join in and write your own, or here to read other people’s.

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If you live near Bath, England, you might like to know that Our Endless Numbered Days has been selected as The Big Bath read by the Bath Literature Festival. You can get a free copy of the book, read it and come along to open book clubs, and a couple of events I’m speaking at. More information.

 

Flash fiction: The pump room steps

amy-reese

I lay at the bottom of the steps. It was dark and warm, and no one else ever had reason to come that way. I thought my nose might be broken, some teeth lost. I smelled blood and heard the sound of roots squeezing through stone, the tiny creaks and groans of something splitting, of new life forcing its way through. It was simple to keep still while the tendrils inched over me, wormed their way through my buttonholes, across my skin; easy to let the ants and the insects come.

I closed my eyes as the earth took me back.

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I really struggled with this story this week – started half a dozen and discarded them, and still not very happy with what I produced. A 100-word or so story for Friday Fictioneers. Picture by Amy Reese. Join in. Or read others.

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Writer and blogger Natasha Orme is hosting a competition to win one of two copies of my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days. Enter here. (Only open to UK residents – sorry!)

Flash fiction: Leaving on a Jet Plane

melanie-greenwood

Simon was whistling a tune, an old song I couldn’t place. I heard Cara huff. We’d taken a picnic up to the roof – cold salmon, cheese and bread, olives, too much wine – and we lay on the rug amongst the empty bottles and chimney stacks. When I opened my eyes an aeroplane trail had cut the blue sky in two.

‘What is that song?’ I said, turning onto my side.

Simon’s lips were stained red.

Cara staggered angrily to her feet. ‘Simon thinks I’m going to leave him,’ she said to me.

‘Well, you are, aren’t you?’ Simon said.

She swayed; whispered. ‘You’d never let me.’

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This is a 100-word (or so) flash fiction piece inspired by the picture above. You do need to know that old Peter, Paul and Mary song to know what’s going on. This week the picture was provided by Melanie Greenwood, and the whole Friday Fictioneers thing is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Join in. Read others.

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The paperback of my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days, has just been published in the UK, and I’m delighted that it’s been chosen as a Richard & Judy Book Club book (the closest we have to Oprah), and also the Waterstones Book Club. Read more here.

Flash fiction: Valentino

copyright-scott-l-vannatter

Cara leaned back on the warm stone. A cat, the feral one who lived under the old brewhouse, came to sit between us.

‘Careful,’ I said.

‘I had a cat when we lived in Italy.’ Cara reached out her hand. ‘Valentino.’

‘I wouldn’t…’

The cat raised its scrawny neck in pleasure as Cara scratched at its matted fur. ‘He would sleep in the bed between me and Peter, stretched out like a little furry man.’ The cat purred. ‘Peter never liked it, of course.’

I put my hand out towards Cara’s, still stroking. The cat opened its mouth and hissed.

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This is a 100-word Friday Fictioneers flash fiction piece, prompted by the picture above. This week provided by Scott L Vannatter. Friday Fictioneers is brought to us by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click here to join in, or here to read some more stories.

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This week, my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days was picked as one of the top reads of 2015 by Foyles – a wonderful chain of bookshops in the UK. Click here to read more.