The Voice.

Had a weekend in Donegal recently, for a family birthday.  It was my first time in that particular corner of Ireland, the homeland of the in-laws, and I enjoyed it immensely.  It was not the furthest north I have been, but it was definitely the most exposed to the north I have felt. 
The scenery was magnificent, the town sitting right on Loch Swilly, a massive, choppy sea loch surrounded by mountains that retreated to the ever ominous clouds. It was an ancient place, but I felt no real connection, very much a soft, modern townie exposed in a primal landscape. 
And the weather was truly painful.  The wind, arriving unimpeded from the north, was sharp enough to peel the skin, the rain falling violently, impatient to join the party in the loch.
The family themselves, large and long lived, were scattered randomly about the town in houses that ran the spectrum from homely to palatial, each house burning coal faster than the 'Flying Scotsman'.
We had a great time, welcomed and treated like returning kings, and the party broke up late, after the customary fight between some of the young bucks.

SUN!!

 

 

 

Back at the desk, the recently finished first draft lies in the drawer, stinking up the place like three day old fish.  I finished it just before the new year, spurred on by a competition that I had entered purely to give me an aiming point, a deadline, the motivation that had been missing to finally drag my hero through to the end. 
And having done so, I put it aside, as everyone advises, to gain a fresh perspective.  Instead, I think I have grown to hate it. 
I realise, with the competition in mind, I have written a turkey, my natural voice lost, exchanged for flowery exuberance in an attempt to impress some anonymous judge.  Despite myself, despite telling myself the competition was no more than a means to an end, I lost sight of the reader.

I'm back in Ireland at the end of the month, this time to the soft, wet, welcoming midlands, to the very spot where I have based my grand opus, and I plan the re-write for when I return.

This time, I write not to impress, but to stir.

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