Flash Fiction by Lynne Benton

 Actually, "Flash Fiction" is a misnomer.  It was the title of a session I ran last week at this year’s Charney Manor retreat, but it doesn’t have to be fiction at all – in fact, it can be anything you like.

I began by asking the group to call out a number between 1 and 20, and then I picked the number they’d chosen from a list of 20 words that I’d prepared earlier.  (These were all words which I hoped would conjure up a picture or a feeling, words that would hopefully inspire people to write.)

Then I gave the group 15 minutes in which to write whatever they liked, prompted/inspire by that word. 

After 15 minutes I called “Time’s up!”, everyone stopped, and I asked if anyone would like to read out what they had written.  Several people volunteered, and the results were fascinating!  Who could have imagined that so many different scenarios could come from just one word?  Some stories were eerie, some intriguing, while others proved to be nothing less than hilarious (most notably Cath Howe’s piece inspired by the word “glittering”!).  Many people even managed to finish their story with a punchline, which was quite something!

Anyway, I thought today I would reproduce one of the pieces I’d written (yes, I did my 15 minutes worth too, while the group were doing theirs).  Of course it is unedited, but that was really the point.

  The word was Tramp.

Tramp, tramp, tramp went the feet over the cobbles.  Tramp, tramp, tramp.  In perfect time with each other.

She looked out of the window in the tower.  Yes, it was the soldiers again.  What, or rather who, had they come for this time?  She shivered.  Was it her turn?

Tramp, tramp, tramp.  The footsteps stopped.  She held her breath, and dared to look out of the window again.  Yes, they were right outside the castle.

She knew then.  Of course they’d come for her.  There was nobody else.  Her older sister had gone with them yesterday, and nobody had seen her since.

Suddenly she made a decision.  She would not be afraid.  She would go with the soldiers and see what it all meant.  And she would come back – alive – and show them all. 

A moment later her father entered the room.  He was weeping.  She’d never seen him weep before, even when her sister…

“Come along, my daughter,” he said.  “It is your turn.”

She looked at him bravely.  “I am not afraid, Father,  I will survive, do not fear!”

“My darling daughter, I only wish I could protect you,” said the King, sadly.  “But I fear I cannot.  All I can do is send you with the soldiers, but you take my love with you.”

Then he turned, and she followed him down the stone steps and out of the heavy front door into the courtyard, where the soldiers were waiting.

“I’m ready,” she said, and her voice echoed round the courtyard.

The soldier at the head of the procession bowed to her.  “Your Highness,” he said gravely, “please come with us.”  Then he turned, and a moment later they all tramped off back down the hill.

Her heart was in her mouth as they neared the cave where the terrible dragon lay.  She could see his sharp teeth, his glittering green eyes and the fire billowing from his great jaws…

Now, if there’s anyone who fancies having a go at this 15- minute writing exercise, here are the four words I used during the one-and-a-half-hour session.  Or you could come up with others if you prefer.

glittering,   slide,   cavern,   tramp.

All you need is a 15- minute timer, some paper, a pen – and your imagination.  Right, off you go!

website: lynnebenton.com

Latest book: Billy and the Queen (published Amazon)

That Charney Magic by Sheena Wilkinson

For the last six years I have spent four days every July at the Scattered Authors summer retreat at lovely Charney Manor in Oxfordshire. Often, in the last three years, I have wanted to blog about Charney, how special it is and what an important role it plays in my year, but I haven’t felt able to, for one crucial reason – along with friend and fellow-writer Lee Weatherly, I organised Charney from 2015-2017. I think the three Charneys we organised were enjoyable, varied and helpful, but it wouldn’t have been at all the thing for me to have said so in public.

This year, however, for the first time since 2014, I was able to attend Charney as a ‘normal’ punter, and – yay! That means I get to tell you how wonderful it was. I’ve often blogged here about the need for writers to retreat, and I’m lucky enough to have several great places where I can just disappear into my work for a few days or longer. I know that I would mot manage my freelance life so successfully without those times: sometimes they have kept me from feeling completely overloaded. This seems to be as much the case now when I am ‘writing fulltime’*, as when I was a teacher desperate for (and better able to afford!) time away. 

What I love about Charney is that it can be what you want it to be. There are sessions all day – a great mix of sessions, some based on knowledge and insight sharing, others purely creative. The evenings are fun, with, this year, a Desert Island Books session, a comedy workshop, and a fiendish quiz. And of course much chat.

The Solar doesn't look this quiet when its filled with Scattered Authors...

You don’t have to go to anything; some people do try to attend all the sessions, while others like to hide and write – it’s up to you; anything goes. Most people love Charney for the companionship of other writers in what can be a lonely business, and for me, often feeling a bit out of the loop over on Northern Ireland, that is a big part of its appeal. Some of my most supportive writer friends were met at Charney, and every year it attracts new people, which means new friends. It’s open to all Scattered Authors, and what I especially love is that it attracts people at very different stages of their careers, from shiny debuts to doyennes with a hundred books to their credit. 

This year, I’d had a very busy spring and early summer, and had struggled to make meaningful progress with my work-in-progress, an adult novel. I was very keen to get some sort of a rough draft bashed out by the end of July, because of beginning a commissioned teen historical novel in August, but this seemed less and less possible. But this year’s Charney came straight after three days at Gladstone’s Library, three days when it was so hot I couldn’t bear to go outdoors until after eight o’clock at night, which meant I wrote 4,500 words a day. (Something I have never managed before or since!) I was, at last, feeling so immersed in the story that I almost begrudged the array of fun-sounding sessions at Charney. Flash fiction? Iphone photography? Treasure hunt? Creative collage? All I wanted was words on the screen!

But it would be churlish, I thought, not to turn up at these sessions which had been so thoughtfully organised. Maybe a little flash fiction (with Jo Cotterill) would set me up for the day and get me in training for my ‘real’ writing. What happened was that Jo’s first prompt sent me straight into my story. I didn’t manage any flash fiction, but by eleven o’clock on the first morning I had several scenes that I’ve been able to use, and some insights into characters and plot that I wouldn’t have managed if I’d been sitting trying to get them.

That afternoon, fired with enthusiasm, I had my first experience of Jen Alexander’s famous creative collage workshop. I had thought it would be fun, because tearing and sticking and making pretty pictures is fun; what I hadn’t imagined was that the activity would solve a central story issue and give me a strong recurring leitmotif. 

My collage 

These two workshops, both fabulously enjoyable in their own right, each gave me gifts for my work in progress, gifts I didn’t know I needed, but that I made myself open to receive. That’s the magic of Charney. That’s why, however busy I am, I’ll always makes time for those four precious days in early July. And why, in the midst of worrying about word counts and targets, I’ll remember to play. 

Thanks so much to Jo Cotterill, Ruth Hatfield, John Dickinson and Kit Berry for organising such a wonderful Charney. And to any Scattered Author out there who hasn't yet been touched by the Charney magic -- do join us next year! 

* haha.

In Between Days

I’m in between books. A place where I haven’t been for some time. It’s been a busy year of writing projects. Still Falling came out in February, by which time I was putting the final touches to another book, Street Song.  Then fate – or rather my publisher – threw me a curve ball, which meant setting everything else aside to write a completely new novel (in three months). Name Upon Name will be out in September; I’ve just submitted a new version of Street Song to my agent; I’m waiting to hear about another project I’ve pitched, and so for now I don’t have a book on the go. For the first time in well over a year.

Great! Because I’m tired, aren’t I? I need a break. I was certainly looking forward to having one. I went to the SAS  Charney retreat last week – oh, wait, I was helping to organise it, wasn’t I? So maybe that wasn’t a complete break. All the same, it was fun. For the first time at Charney, I wasn’t trying to write or edit: I concentrated on socialising and just being. Which was absolutely lovely, and very much in keeping with this year’s Charney theme, which was about well-being.

Charney Manor

 Lovely. But also slightly odd. Because I was surrounded by many more people than I am used to, but inside my head it was strangely quiet. When I’m mid-book, I have all sorts of extra people in there – my characters. Once they’ve been delivered to their fate – publication for Name Upon Name; submission for Street Song – they go dark. I can’t access them because the book is written now; I can’t do anything else with them.

And I don’t like it. I feel like Harriet (the spy) when her notebook is stolen. Banned from spying, she goes straight to the stationer’s for a new notebook. Because she’s a writer; it’s what she does.

surrounded by more people than I'm used to

I told myself I was having some weeks off writing. There’s plenty of admin I could be doing, and events to plan for Name Upon Name. I don’t need to be writing a new book. In fact, sending Street Song off to its fate, worried that it mightn’t be bought, I told myself I wouldn’t start anything new until I had some definite interest. No more writing on spec. Especially as I have a notion that my new YA idea might not be very marketable. No point in wasting my time, is there?

But it’s too quiet inside my head. Lonely really. And the other day, walking in Oxfordshire, my new characters started making their presence felt. Maybe I could only hear them because it was quiet. But contract or no, I know what I’ll be doing next week. Because it was wonderful to meet them.

New notebook. New characters. New plans. Because like Harriet the Spy, I’m a writer. It’s what I do.