Guest Blog by Sarah Fox - Exorcising the Ghost

When I started to write my first novel, I was entirely seduced. It was like being caught in a spell – seeing real words appear on the screen, the story unfolding before my eyes. And, never knowing what twists and turns the plot might happen to take – well, that only added to the thrill of creating an entirely new world of my own.

But then, perhaps I was too selfish. The Diamond was all about me, the sort of novel I wanted to read, with no thought of maintaining a consistent genre and no concept of sales and marketing teams and, despite securing an agent, my story was only published in Russia. Not that I’m ungrateful for that, and I think the cover is ‘Brilliant’ which by chance is the name in translation! But, to write a whole book and then be unable to read a word unless I do a crash course in Cyrillic – well, that’s quite a cruel irony, don’t you agree?

It was set in a sinister Victorian world of dark circles and amoral tricksters. It had a maharajah, a cursed diamond displayed in a golden cage, and...Oh, there I go again. But, it’s been so hard to let go of that book when I didn’t just write it, I lived it. I peered into every dingy room, and smelled the acrid candle smoke, and walked every gas-lit cobbled street as if I’d become my heroine: that naive crinolined narrator beset by ghosts and dissolute cads.

And now, I wonder if I was possessed during one of my séance scenes, because all of my characters seem too real. I still muse on what fate had in store for them next – where they went, what they did when I wrote THE END. They’re the dead who still walk, who refuse to rest, who keep drawing me back into their world – so much so that, over the past few months I’ve rewritten the start and added more scenes. I’ve tossed and turned in the depths of night with their voices hissing around me like snakes. It’s been almost enough to drive me mad, except – and might this be too much to hope? – I may have recently stumbled upon a way to throw the spirits off.

I’m going to reclaim my own destiny. I’m going to kill my antagonist – the glamorous and cunning fiend who, despite all of his villainous deeds, I just couldn’t bear to leave behind. It’s painful, but it has to be done. He’s been having his wicked way for too long, seducing and then almost ruining me with his unfulfilled promises and dreams.

I must take a deep breath and prepare to be strong. This time there will be no going back, and I know exactly what to do. He’s going to burn in a terrible fire when a candlestick is knocked to the floor. I can already hear the crackling roar as the flames take a hold of his bed sheets. Oh, but how will I bear his agonised screams? I know – he’ll be drugged and senseless. That way, I won’t hear him call my name and be tempted to save his life again. He’ll die, and my soul will be exorcised.

And, in case that doesn’t work, if I weaken and fail to carry it through – has anyone got a crucifix – or some holy water – or a wooden stake? Desperate times require desperate measures!

As a form of diversion therapy, Sarah has recently started a blog: THE VIRTUAL VICTORIAN – FACTS, FANCIES AND FABRICATIONS. She would love to see you there. http://virtualvictorian.blogspot.com/

Guest Blog by Sarah Bengry - The Addiction of Writing

Hello. My name is Sarah, and I am an addict – a writaholic.

They say there’s a genetic predisposition, but it wasn’t always like this. For twenty years I held down a ‘real’ job, was successful – was solvent – until the awful obsession kicked in. I can’t even blame the excesses of youth. At my age, I should have known better. But then, it was only a matter of time; a staving off of the inevitable.

I guess it began in a casual way, a little dabbling at the weekends. I really got off on inhaling the smell of a pristine, A5 lined notebook. But, writing in longhand – well, it’s so slow. I quickly found myself losing the thread. And the indecision, the procrastination – the hours spent choosing a character’s name!

I’ll never forget my first. Mr Dent, or was it Denton? Whatever – he combed his glossy dark hair, stepped out of his door in Belgravia – and then disappeared in a puff of smoke, because that story never progressed. But I did read, a few years ago, that Dent, or Denton, is the most common name plucked out of the ether by ‘aspiring writers’, and just how weird is that! Maybe it proves my grand theory regarding this addiction of writing – that there’s some ‘greater power’ sending out little poisoned pens to zoom in on any susceptible minds – a sort of literary Cupid, minor god of purple prose and hearts. And, if we get injected or ‘dented’, then we might as well face it, we’re hooked for life. No matter how strong the resolve to resist, the hunger keeps nagging and gnawing away; just a matter of fixing on the right prescription – which, in my case, was something with more oomph and speed. I went out and scored a computer.

OK – it was reckless. I never thought it would kick in like that. One moment, I had it all under control, the next I’d given up my job, convinced of success and a publishing deal. Well, they say self-delusion is part of the game. But, it’s not just the writing any more. It’s all the sites that keeping luring you in – the crack of Write-words, daily doses of blogs, and best not to mention the Twittering.

And the side effects! Just look at what I’m reduced to – mooching around in pyjamas all day, living on biscuits and cups of tea, ignoring the door or the phone when it rings, just staring and staring at this bloody screen. My wrists are riddled with RSI. I’m in a torment from lack of sleep, all those ideas buzzing round me like flies. I’m plagued by blurred vision, the bruising, mauve bags hanging like suitcases under my eyes, the pallid complexion from lack of light; the dreaded, spreading ‘writer’s bum’. One night I dreamed that my legs dropped off, withered away from lack of use. I woke up retching, in a cold sweat. And still I try to tell myself, I can stop – I can stop – any time I want.

But, my finger are itching to press the on button, my ears long for that sweet little Microsoft tune. And when my words appear on screen, so perfect and slick in Lucinda Bright, there’s nothing quite like that sweet, rushing high, that heady adrenalin pumped through the veins – except that I fear for my sanity. It’s the voices, you see. They just won’t go away and sometimes I think I must be possessed; that my mind has been hijacked by wandering ghosts. Those parasites say they’re my ‘characters’ – but I know they’re sucking my blood! And, right now, there’s this tragic, Victorian woman who sits in a crumbling country house, and she can’t find her bottle of laudanum – and with both us well over-due for a fix, perhaps you’ll excuse me...I’ll just go and type up a few more words...I’ll just describe how she pulls out the cork. We’ll both calm down when we’ve had a good swig. Cheers!

Sarah Fox worked as an illustrator for twenty years and began writing almost three years ago. Her first book, The Diamond, a gothic Victorian novel, has recently been published in Russia. She is currently working on her second - another gothic Victorian novel! An obsessive pattern is developing...