My writing process begins with taxi drivers. Whenever I get in a cab I quickly let the driver know I’m a writer so, when he asks, “what are you working on now?” this is my cue—now I MUST attempt to tell the taxi driver my story, no matter how nascent the idea:
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“It’s about a viking who is left behind after a raid…”
The dark of a cab is a great place to uncover the holes in a plot, to notice where the driver is bored, or laughs or gasps. Each telling places me in the eternal present tense. Live telling is more plastic than typing or thinking or making notes. In the face of a cabbie’s silence my brain will conjure a funny idea or an exciting story beat:
“…and then one morning a mysterious young woman turns up! (gasp). She wears a green velvet dress and long red hair.”
*
It’s March 2023. I’d been speaking to cabbies now, for over a year. Usually, when I’m ready to write, I book myself a two week stay in a cheap hotel. It must be in a remote place but have some connection to my story. I want no distractions, no luxury, no interesting cafes, or nightlife: just a room, a desk, a window and three meals a day.
This is the moment of no return. When I next see this place, I must have written forty thousand words.
The hotels on Iona are closed in March and Norwegian hotels were all eye wateringly expensive. Where could I go which was sufficiently Viking-y, Iceland? York?
An ad popped up on my Facebook feed. I must have been lingering over pictures of the sea because it was for a twelve-night cruise to Norway: “In Search Of The Northern Lights.” Being off-season and a late booking, the whole package was cheaper than the hotels I’d found. More crucially, it was a boat, and what could be more Viking-y than a boat!
Tilbury Docks is a post-industrial wasteland of car parks, motorways and an old brick terminal whose walls are coated thick with the memory of emigration.
We make an incongruous sight. Our colorful luggage, bright fleeces, grey hair and comfortable shoes feel odd amongst these sad walls. We process cheerfully through the vast departure hall guided by well-groomed young crew members with brochure smiles. As the cruise photographer takes our official “departure” picture, I feel ashamed, as if we’re dancing in an empty cathedral.
The MS Ambience carries about a thousand people. My cabin is high on the port side. I look down at the drizzle of the freight yards. I stare at the churning brown water of the Thames. This is the moment of no return. When I next see this place, I must have written forty thousand words. In the right order.
With a loud blast of her horn MS Ambience pulls slowly out into the flow of the estuary in a cold winter rain. I get used to the low vibratory hum of the engines and the feeling of falling into the primal embrace of the sea.
My first task is to lay out The Cards.
I begin with the pink story cards—every beat of the story as I told it to a thousand cabbies is written on a pink index card. I lay each card out in order to make a spine on the cabin floor.
Looking at the cards physically makes it easier to see which beats need to cluster together, where a caesura might be interesting, where there may be a beat too many.
Next, l lay out the blue “image” cards. These cards have on them thirty or so pictures or thoughts from my notebooks. Next the green “dialogue” cards, ideas for lines or moments, and finally yellow debate cards. These contain arguments which I think it would be fun to explore. “Fighting versus martyrdom—a Viking chides a monk.”
I will write, without stopping, until I run out of puff. If I find myself uninspired, I will write down what’s written on the card.
I spend a happy few hours moving the colors; shaping and reshaping ‘til it feels right. By the time I’m happy with it, the lights of Essex have disappeared and I can feel the heavy swell of the north-sea rising and falling beneath my feet.
In the morning I’m woken by a sprightly “Bing! Bong!” Carl, the entertainment manager, outlines the day’s activities.
“Salsa on deck two with Trish, fun trivia quiz in the cocktail lounge at two, wildlife photography on deck four with Kevin and then karaoke after dinner in the Purple Pumpkin Lounge.”
After Carl, Egil the Captain comes on. Egil is a friendly Norwegian, He tell us our itinerary, the sea conditions before closing delightfully with the declaration that he looks forward to seeing us “oowt and aboowt!”
Disappointingly, when I do later that afternoon see Captain Egil “oowt and aboowt,” in the gift shop, I find he is clean shaven and a bit short for a Viking.
Later that morning, in the Purple Pumpkin lounge, I gather up all the index cards and randomize them with a long and vigorous shuffle.
My process will be this: Every day I will find a conducive place to write—a cafe, or bar—then when I’m settled, I will turn over the top card in the pile and write something—anything—in response to that prompt.
I will write, without stopping, until I run out of puff. If I find myself uninspired, I will write down what’s written on the card.
When that’s done, I will label the piece of writing with its appropriate number and turn over the next card.
After two weeks, when all the cards have been turned over, I will arrange the fragments back into their proper numbered order. If the system works, I will, in twelve days’ time, have a rough collage of my first novel.
I write on my phone. I write in little bursts, distracting myself with walks and changes of scenery. Everything about my process is designed to trick me into thinking that I am NOT writing a novel. No, I am sketching, playing, daydreaming, or idly following a line of thought. Nothing artistic, nothing important.
Walking back to the ship through the drifts in the sun, I realize what it is: I’m happy. I’m enjoying this. I am enjoying this novel.
The phone is good for a novella too, because thumb writing in notes is a pain in the arse and encourages brevity.
Five Books I Took on the Boat
A History of God, Karen Armstrong
Women in the Viking Age, Judith Jesch
Frontier Stories Vol. 1, Louis L’Amour
A Woman’s Place is In The Brewhouse, Tara Nurin
The Bible, New International Version
North we go to Bergen, Alesund, Molde, Trondheim. With each new day, we retreat from the spring back in time to winder. Temperatures lower, drizzle becomes snow, the mountains turn white.
We steam past the sharks’ tooth peaks of the Lofoten Islands. The fishing grounds here are full of cod and dozens of trawlers dot the horizon. The shoals attract diving gannets and orcas. The MS Ambience’s bow rises and crashes dramatically into the deep, sea-troughs sending up a wild spray as far as the bridge.
By the time we reach Tromsø (home to the world’s most northerly Burger King) the snow is piled shoulder height along the roadside. Sitting in the cafe window I realize I am feeling odd today. I can’t place it. Giddy? I’m not ill, not sick, but I do feel funny. Walking back to the ship through the drifts in the sun, I realize what it is: I’m happy. I’m enjoying this. I am enjoying this novel.
Five Cafés In Which I Wrote
Got Brød Floyen—Bergen
Raccoon Coffee—Alesund
Kaffee Brienen Bakklandet—Trondheim
Tollefsenhjornet—Tromso
Alta Extra Cafe—Alta
We’re above the Arctic Circle now. The aurora dance at night in green and red sheets against the dark. It’s karaoke time again. Karaoke on Ambience mainly consists of elderly monk-like men croaking out album tracks by Black Sabbath, and grey haired women wailing out ABBA songs. Today the writing went well. I am happy. I am bold. I am free. I decide to do something I have never ever done in my life. I put my name down for karaoke.
Five Karaoke Songs I Sang
Delta Dawn
Whisky in the Jar
Son of a Preacher Man
Bad Bad Leroy Brown
Fix You
Our most northerly stop is the small, wintery, city of Alta, in Finnmark. Babies here are moved around in sleds, not prams. Huskies bark in yards. Reindeer is on the menu in the cafes. This day I write in a small supermarket cafe looking out over the fjord. I am just under half-way through the pile. The story is moving. I have momentum.
I turn over another card.
There is a long way to go but something, this thing, is coming into being.
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The Book of I by David Greig is available from Europa Editions.