Debs On What I'm Writing--Or Not Writing

DEBORAH CROMBIE:  This (see below) is beginning to look like a book, but it doesn't quack like a book quite yet.

I was making such progress on my poor benighted Kincaid/James #20, the end, if not in sight, was at least just over the horizon. Then, the past month I have been derailed by a number of things, including tax stuff and an excruciating repetitive stress issue in my left shoulder.

Thankfully, the taxes are done, the shoulder is finally better, and now I have got to dig back into my book and make my tortoise-like way towards the finish line.

It is so difficult finding little snippets in a crime novel that don't give away some part of the plot, but here is another little domestic scene for you:

Gemma woke with a start. The space beside her in the bed was empty and cold—Duncan must have been up for a while. Even Geordie was gone from the foot of the bed. Squinting, she groped for her alarm and saw that it had been turned off. Sounds began to filter in from the rest of the house, the children’s raised voices, a bark from Tessa. The smell of coffee drifted up the stairs. “Bugger,” she whispered. She was late. Duncan should never have let her sleep.

Slipping out of bed, she showered hurriedly, then dressed once more in her new navy suit. She didn’t wear black, so navy was the closest thing she had to a power suit if she was going to beard Pine in his office first thing.

Downstairs, she found Duncan and all three children in the kitchen, the children in their school uniforms and eating the last of toast and soft boiled eggs, Duncan with a mug of coffee in one hand and a hairbrush in the other as he tried to manage Charlotte’s curls. “Here, let me,” she said, taking the brush and the hair elastic from him. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep.”

“I thought you needed it. You looked exhausted last night. And I’ll do the school run, don’t worry.” He wrapped an arm round her shoulder and kissed her on the forehead. “You have can have some toast and coffee in peace when we’re gone.”

Wrinkling her nose, Gemma said, “Ugh, no. I’ll grab something later. I need to go.” Finishing Charlotte’s hair, she leaned down to give her a kiss. “There you go, lovey. You look like a princess.”

“I’m not a princess, I’m a unicorn,” Charlotte told her, a frown creasing her small face.

Gemma had half expected Charlotte to protest her not taking the school run, but instead Charlotte said, “Papa, we need to go. Miss Jane has a surprise this morning and Oliver said we should be first.” Oliver was her best friend and considered himself the leader of their daring duo.

“Okay. I’ll see you later.” Gemma stooped and tried to give Charlotte a cuddle, but Charlotte jiggled impatiently. The boys were already heading for the door, rucksacks swinging from their hands.

“Bye, Mum,” called Toby. “Are you taking me to ballet?”

“I’ll try,” said Gemma, knowing full well that it was unlikely. “If I can’t, Bodie will take you.”

“Bye, Gem,” echoed Kit.

“I’ll ring you if we turn up anything.” Duncan waved at her as he scooped up Charlotte’s backpack, and then they were gone.

It seemed like only yesterday that Gemma had had to carry a weeping, protesting Charlotte up to the door of her of school so that Miss Jane, the headmistress, could take her from her arms. She should be glad to see Charlotte so independent—she was glad, she was glad to see all the children so grown up and self-sufficient. But something in her felt it as a loss, too, and tears pricked beneath her eyelids.

She shook her head in annoyance and blew her nose with a sheet from the kitchen roll. Something about this case was making her feel unusually emotional and that was a weakness she couldn’t afford.

As you can see from the photo, I still print a paper copy of my manuscript in progress, usually a chapter at a time. I find I catch a lot more mistakes on paper than I ever do on the screen--and there are always things that spell check doesn't catch.

And, also, I have to admit, seeing that growing stack of pages is both satisfying and encouraging. IT WILL BE A BOOK, it really will!

Fellow REDs and writer pals, do you still print paper drafts of your work in progress?

And readers, are there things that you find still work best on paper?