What if she did follow Jack to Australia?

Back at the flat she sat down at her tiny desk and pulled a crinkled sheet of paper from the stack of notes, mail and statements teetering on the edge. She took a pen, paused, then drew two columns – one for PRO, the other CON.

In the PRO column she wrote:

· Being with Jack

· Never seeing Gundula again

· New work opportunities?

· Have a family

She squinted, searched, gnawed at her lower lip trying to form a picture in her mind. It dissolved. What did Australia even look like? She had only ever thought of it as Jack’s home – and it ended there.

His mother seemed nice, or at least caring. What was her name again? She vaguely remembered Jack mentioning… Margaret, Martha – Meredith! That was it. Her name was Meredith. Elsie felt her chest tighten, twirled a strand of hair around her thumb.

Okay, what about the CONs?

· Missing Lars & Sue

· Missing London?

· What about National Insurance?

· Can I drive there with my UK licence?

Elsie rubbed her forehead, closed her eyes. Breathe – Sue had once taught her this for when she panicked. Let pictures form in your mind, then let them pass. Just like emotions, they come… and they go again. Nothing is permanent.

Jack’s face began shaping in her mind. His twinkling blue eyes, the little dimples when he smiled. She could feel his soft, slightly open lips that promised more, the warmth of his body. Her chest filled with a light, spreading flutter. She smiled.

Opening her eyes, she drew a line under the columns and wrote:

AUSTRALIA — OUR HOME

This about describes my current relationship with Substack in a nutshell.

I came to Substack because I wanted to re-engage with my writing and meet like-minded people. Both worked brilliantly. I can wholeheartedly say that Substack changed my life in the sense that it held me accountable to showing up regularly to share a piece of writing. I’ve even managed to largely stick to my once-per-month post goal.

I’ve also met many wonderful people whom I am having real, heartfelt exchanges with when in real life I struggle to connect outside the premise of my home in the countryside. Substack helped me take my writing and my novel more seriously and I learned a huge deal about both the craft and the publishing process from the brilliant people I follow here.

And then there is the algorithm. Or the posts that either brag about how many subscribers they’ve gained over night or shout out the latest hacks to work the algorithm. At first it was a flicker across my feed I could ignore and scroll past, but like a dripping tap it eventually started flooding my consciousness.

Notes is where it’s at, it says. Posting them three times a day to get subscribers. Gosh, I was racking my brain about what to write in my monthly post, how would I come up with something to say THREE TIMES A DAY?!

I don’t know how many times I started writing a note, because I felt I really ought to, and all that came out was either whiney, passive aggressive, or nonsense. So I ended up sharing nothing. And then life happened - as it likes to do in regular intervals - and I stepped away completely. What a relief!

I did consider quitting for a moment. I wanted to write my novel, not spend my time slaving at the whim of the social media Substack seems to become.

What has changed since I started writing on this platform and felt in seventh heaven?

I think the truth is: I’ve changed, or it changed me.

When at first I just wanted to meet people like myself and have a platform to share thoughts, experiences, and pieces of writing on, I now feel much stronger about getting my novel out there. I’ve made real progress with it. And it’s important to me.

I want to build an audience so that when my story comes to see the light of day it can reach the people it needs to touch.

In short: My motivation has changed. I realise that the moment it became marketing it became business. Work. The stuff I do day-to-day which writing is my escape from. What’s worse: Feeding the algorithm for my writing feels like I’m trading a piece of my soul. It feels inauthentic when, to me, writing is the one pure thing left in this fast-paced, modern life.

So what’s the answer?

I asked AI and it came up with something that really excites me: I have time. My book is a long way from being published and I can build something slowly and steadily. Like that dripping tap now gradually pooling into a well for my creation instead of flooding me with noise and overwhelm.

It starts as simple as building a landing page - or minimalist website - which I can build in a day with AI and connect to my Substack newsletter. And then it’s back to my once-a-month post, thank goodness, which I write with love, intention and thought in the time that it takes me. You should hear my long exhale right now.

From there it’s AI taking over using pieces of my original content to spread across a couple of social media platforms leading back to the message, story or point that I am making in my real piece of writing that is actually alive, that is actually ME. Back to the roots so to say.

Ironic really how in the modern world we need AI to give us the space to become ourselves again.

Well, that’s the idea. Time will tell if it works, or if I even like it once put in place. I’m sure it’ll come with caveats, like everything does, but the concept seems much more authentic to me than posting random notes about what I think each moment of the day just to feed an algorithm.

I want to share what’s really important to me, but that naturally comes spaced out. I have a business and life to attend to 90% of the time while still holding on to a dream: a published novel, one day.

How are you dealing with the tug of war between feeding the machine and staying true to yourself?

The letters took me from boarding school through to the war, then on a ship to Korea in the 50s, with a brief stop in Egypt - PT in the sun was unbearably hot! I witnessed the mother’s day-to-day social engagements – luncheon or tea with Lady Campbell was a favourite – or the provision and arranging of flowers in support of the parish church. One exchange in particular, between the heir and a woman he fell in love with, became the more heartbreaking for what wasn't said. It didn't end well for him.

This is probably the best day-to-day account I have of the time and I took notes on expressions used, or common habits and customs. And while the letters are crafted in polite, traditional English, they still give an insight into people’s concerns and worries at the time.

After that, I cast the net wide and read about life in the country house through personal accounts as well as novels that seemed more or less authentic in their description of the 1950s and following decades.

What surprised me was that I didn’t find much material for after the 2^nd World War. Most non-fiction works begin hundreds of years back, or at around the turn of the century, and cut off at the end of WWII as if nothing happened since.

But country houses went through a particularly difficult period since the war, mainly characterised by their demolition. Many custodians couldn’t afford to repair and maintain their requisition-worn estates and the most cost-effective option was often to pull them down. The 50s to 70s constituted a dark age for the country house, the glamour replaced by decline and despair.

The autobiographical works by Lady Anne Glenconner - born at Holkham Hall in the 1930s and later Lady in Waiting to Princess Margaret - describe the strange existence between lack of dress material, food and finance on the one hand, and glamorous high society parties on the other. Lady Violet Manners () interviewed Lady Anne recently for her Hidden Heritage Podcast and it is one of the most insightful sources I’ve come across - a candid insight into aristocratic society of the 20th century.

Now, if the aristocracy had it difficult, think of the smaller landed gentry across the country in their manor houses and estates. My main character Rosalind finds herself transplanted from stately home to country manor in the early 50s, which challenges her on various levels. But it also presents an opportunity for reflection on identity and asks the intriguing question what to make of it in unprecedented times.

Lady Anne’s memoirs hugely inspired me. The unwavering can-do attitude, resilience and determination to make the best of the hand one is dealt with, even if it’s vastly different from what one expected it to be. I admire that, and Rosalind’s character might take a leaf or two out of Lady Anne’s book.

Besides my non-fiction research, I also enjoy reading well-written novels to grasp the atmosphere of the past. Three novels that draw a vivid picture of the time are The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters, Small Bomb at Dimperley by Lissa Evans, and The Cazalet Chronicles by Elizabeth Jane Howard, which is a sweeping family saga following an upper-middle class family from the late 30s through to the post-war years.

The Chronicles may feel a little slow to the modern reader, but I can recommend the BBC-produced audio version, which brings the story and atmosphere very much alive.

Now I must admit, when I first had the idea for the novel, I pictured Rosalind as a glamorous young woman in a glitzy, decadent environment. But my research changed that! Instead I’ve come to the conclusion that it makes for a more interesting story to watch Rosalind grapple with the difficulties the post-war era presented, and watch her make her own way through.

And while Rosalind is an entirely fictional character, I am taking thoughts, interests and desires from those various sources, and of course the letters of my heir’s mother. Her ink on the time-worn, faded stationery, the increasingly arthritic handwriting – it becomes barely readable in the 70s – create a connection. It makes Rosalind feel alive and real, even though she never existed.

What helps my process as well are little artefacts: A fountain pen set sits on my desk, and photographs of the house and family that inspired Granbury are always on display. I also light a rose-scented candle when I write; it helps me travel to a time and space where memory blurs with imagination and channels words onto the page.

Finally, a recent Instagram post by Liz Fenwick - a Cornish author who writes beautiful novels set in Cornwall - reminded me that the best research means sometimes leaving your desk entirely.

For example, I learned that Powderham Castle here in Devon ran a finishing school for young ladies in the 1950s, because Lady Anne went there. It is the perfect setting to introduce Rosalind to Devon from where she eventually finds her way to Granbury House.

I am planning a visit to the castle to take notes on the setting and its atmosphere. I hope to interview someone about the social dynamics and customs of the time and maybe talk to the village’s historical society.

Now I’m curious: What is it that draws you to historic, or dual-timeline novels? Why do you choose them over contemporary fiction?

I’d love to read your comments below.

Helene

My bones have become weak with time, my joints now thick and knotty with nature’s perpetual zest for growth, inevitably preceding decay and death - before it starts all over again.

Yet I’m still here, revelling in the memory of the beauty I once was, carefully tended by gentle, knowing hands. Each aspect of my appearance arranged to give comfort, to please, to entertain. I miss those hands, so fine and pale, often gloved.

Footsteps crunch on the gravel outside, passing by. Always passing by since those hands have faded.

An unfamiliar sound, a rattle at the door. I hold my breath. A fumbling with the latch, a sharp knock, and the door pushes open a sliver, stuck in rusty hinges. Another push and light streams in: Rosalind!

I have to concentrate to trust my weathered eyes. No.

I sigh.

A young woman stands in the doorframe staring at me, wide-eyed, gaping.

I take her slender body in, my gaze stops at her hands: fine and pale, just like Rosalind’s. They show great care, a grip that understands my soul: resilience rooted in this ground, in time, and generations past.

I have known capable hands on many before Rosalind’s, but none like these.

She has come home. I will be young again.

When I was younger, those were historic novels set in foreign lands, then family sagas, later followed by a long spell spent in Ancient Egypt. This so engrossed me that I ended up studying Egyptology for a few semesters, learning hieroglyphs. As you do.

And while I was discovering that mummies and museums were probably not ‘me’ for the rest of my life, I opened up to other topics and ideas, became more interested in classic novels. It sounds stereotypical, I know, but it’s true.

I even found some classics that I really liked: the Picture of Dorian Grey, Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf, and Perfume – The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Süskind, to name a few. But if I was really honest, I just wanted to lose myself in an easily digestible story taking place in a beautiful world.

I remember the day I first came across Lucinda Riley. My mother gave me her novel The Light Behind the Window, but I didn’t pay it much attention. The cover looked vanilla, like a book my granny would read, the type that usually lingers on the REDUCED or 3 FOR 2 table.

“I really enjoyed this,” my mother insisted. “You should read it.”

Dutifully, I put it on my to-read pile and didn’t give it another look.

When summer break came around and I needed an easy-read for the train, its cover gave me a stern stare from the shelf. I sighed, grabbed it, and shoved it into my backpack.

To my surprise, I was completely hooked when I started reading it. It was the first dual-timeline novel I ever read, and there was something about connecting the past with the present that gave me goosebumps.

Lucinda’s story weaving kept me turning the pages and I found myself lost in a gripping drama of the past and enthralled by the majestic houses and mysterious family dynamics of the present. Watching the heroine transform as the connection between past and present came to light was an utterly satisfying experience.

I’ve read every single Lucinda Riley book since and have clearly found another field of interest. I even narrowed it further down by only seeking out stories that were set in the English countryside, and involved an English country house.

For some reason the idea had captivated me to a degree I wanted nothing else anymore. I felt obsessed and invigorated, wholesomely nurtured and desperate for more while diving deep into these multi-layered worlds of heritage and legacy.

It’s probably no surprise then that I ended up writing a dual-timeline novel myself. It may seem obvious, but to me it wasn’t clear at all as I went along my own life story. Instead, the idea for my novel developed slowly and in stages over a set of experiences around an English country house which I eventually felt an urge to write about - in a fictionalised way.

What I also didn’t expect was how much my world of thought would expand in the process! My reading habits have significantly changed since then. In fact, I do little else than read in my spare time these days:

What used to be TV-time after work is now an easy period-read; lights-out late has been replaced by early nights with potential comparison titles and style ideas; the manual work in our business has morphed into an opportunity for listening to background research. It is incredible how much learning – and entertainment – you can cram into a day if you try!

My reading now circles around three major categories:

The Research - This takes me deeper into understanding how people lived, and what concerned them, in the 1930s-1970s Britain. I am using a mix of non-fiction and autobiographical works as well as well-crafted historical novels - for example by Sarah Waters - that give an authentic sense of the time. These I mostly listen to during manual work, with a physical copy on the side to make notes when I come across something that could be relevant for my book.

I have just finished listening to A Very Private School by Charles Spencer, a most chilling account of British boarding schools in the 1970s, and well worth a read if you can stomach it.

The Craft – When I began writing my first draft, it felt incredibly awkward and I felt like I couldn’t bring across what I wanted the reader to experience. It sounded flat, lacked atmosphere, and didn’t have the effect I experienced when reading other people’s books. So I looked for help.

The first book I listened to was Stephen King’s On Writing, and it wasn’t what I had expected. It is more of an autobiographical work than a structural approach to the craft of writing, but entertaining nonetheless with a few gems of insight towards the end. However, in it he recommends The Elements of Style by William Strunk as the one-stop for good writing. It’s a very short, concise book on grammar, paragraph- and language shaping. I should really have started with this one…

But I tried John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction instead, which I still haven’t finished. It is a little hard-going and needs to be read rather than listened to. So far I’ve learned some new aspects and perspectives on the art of writing. Part two will delve more into technical aspects, but I get the impression that at times he can’t quite make his mind up on whether something is good or bad writing - as these things can’t be easily generalised - and uses a rather elaborate choice of language to say so.

E.M. Forster’s Aspects of a Novel also sits on the pile. I dip into it on the weekends. Its flow is much lighter than Gardner, because it’s based on a series of lectures he once gave. He uses practical examples from literature to showcase his teachings and talks about theory in a light-hearted, almost conversational way. I quite like it.

Another book I am dipping in and out of and enjoy for its casual tone - despite discussing more serious literature - is Look Closer by Robert Douglas-Fairhurst. It’s written for readers to get more out their reading experience, but in my opinion is just as good for aspiring novelists, because it analyses the elements which turns a written piece into a deeper experience for the reader.

This is what I am digesting at the moment. Any tips welcome!

The Style – This is probably the most exciting, and mind-expanding, category for me! There are so many different styles of modern, quirky, immersive and period writing out there I didn’t even know existed. Because I need to see in action what I’m trying to achieve with my writing, I branched out into genres and writers I hadn’t tried before.

For example, I was looking for the expression of atmosphere and feeling - ideally around an old English country house - so I began considering new angles: the gothic ghost story (Zoe Apostolides The Homecoming - loved it!) – or a more literary work by Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger which left such an impression I couldn’t get the characters out of my head for months thereafter.

I would have normally never touched these and put them down as ‘not my genre’, or ‘too slow and hence boring’, but I learned that by focusing in on the immersive language itself, the grip of the atmosphere seeps into your core so much deeper than a fast-paced action plot could ever do.

Another one I must add here is The Other Side of Paradise by Vanessa Beaumont - a fantastic example of character immersion, so much so you can literally feel and smell the people you’re exposed to by watching them closely, most intimately.

But there is also a downside of this new-found writer’s eye for reading: I often get so focused on HOW something is crafted that I sometimes forget to enjoy the story. I take notes in the margins on why I like a certain passage, or what it does really well, stylistically, as an examples for my own writing practice. My consciousness when reading has definitely opened up gaping since I’m writing my own novel!

Reading different styles and genres allows me to enter new worlds I didn’t know I liked to linger in. And I can even go seasonal now: Literary, ghost and gothic stories in the darker months, lighter dual-timeline and romance novels in the summer. Who knows, I may stray into foreign countries too as I am currently eying The Artist by Lucy Steeds.

And because crafting your own story requires a piece of your soul, a pinch of magic, and oodles of inspiration from the world - what better way is there than through the magical doorway of a book?

It happened slowly, quietly. I didn’t notice it at first, but one day I heard my voice change. It suddenly sounded deeper when I discussed work. I felt in charge again, and it felt good! I even began to enjoy our business more, which is a strange thing to say, because I co-founded it. It wasn’t forced on me.

The business and I have a funny relationship. Whilst I love what we’ve created, and the community we serve, it does take it out of me sometimes. I can’t just put it aside when I have a bad day… or week. Start-ups take continuous attention and a lot of problem solving while doing the hard yards. Some of it is creative, but a lot of it is just hard graft.

Carving out my 20-minute writing routine in the morning and blocking out a writing day each week when feasible feels like a huge emancipation act to me. And it is: It has changed my life for the better.

Every day I write I feel my steps weigh heavier, both in business and in life. It’s grounding me in the most wholesome way.

I noticed this especially when it was temporarily taken away recently. We had an insanely busy two weeks around a trade show. Tasks, routines and demands were all over the place. I felt pulled in all directions and couldn’t focus on what’s within. As a result, I didn’t write. There was nothing to draw from except internal rage. I felt resentful, trapped like a bird in a cage.

I realised how I missed my quiet mornings. It may only be 20 minutes of writing, but I can count on them, at least most of the time.

The act of sitting down - for myself - and expressing an aspect of my soul in written form gives me a sense of peace and inner harmony. It is confirmation to myself that I exist. Even if no one ever reads my words, I feel a sense of accomplishment in externalising what’s meaningful to me.

And to express what’s meaningful is so immensely satisfying: I shed a weight yet gain more solid footing on the ground. When that is taken away, I stumble and fall, victim to external circumstance. Or so it feels.

There are so many ways of self-expression: Some write, others paint, play beautiful music, or express their calling through the work that they do. Whatever the channel, I believe that self-expression is so fundamentally important because it keeps us connected to our humanness - regardless of followers, fame or monetary success. It’s our claim to life and gateway back to the root of all meaning: Love.

So please take heart. If words are your channel: Grab a pen and write. Every day.

So what brought me to it in the first place? The setting of an English country house of course. In The Little Stranger it was the country house of the 1950s that I was keen to learn more about: how it looked, felt, smelled; what the circumstances, attitudes and problems were. I can’t imagine it possible to bring this to life in a more authentic and immersive way than Sarah Waters did. It was enthralling and quietly disturbing, chilling and atmospherically so powerful it held me in its grip. The house became a character in its own right.

And this is why I landed on Zoë Apostolides’ debut novel as my next read: a gothic ghost story around an old country house, but set in the present this time. I came across it through an interview on the Write Club Podcast by Writers Online. What attracted me was its premise and setting – I was eager for another atmospheric country house ghost story – but what made me buy it immediately was the fact that the protagonist was a memoirist.

In the interview Zoë talked about how she had worked as a ghostwriter writing biographies. This was of particular interest to me, because my main protagonist Elsie writes memoirs for a side income.

I do read quite a bit of non-fiction for research, but I enjoy reading novels for information much more. And this novel was two jobs done in one hit: atmospheric description of an old country house and learning how a memoirist works. An added bonus: the book is surprisingly short! Only 234 pages, yet a thoroughly immersive read.

It’s not your average page turner, however, where you’d expect a lot of action, twists and turns. It is careful observation instead, interspersed with gentle activity and the occasional skin-crawler. It really hones in on the atmosphere and character of Elver House as well as its mercurial owner, the elderly Miss Carey.

The pace follows the mood of the house which seems lost in time and space, removed from the real world while not trying to be unreal. The story isn’t outright supernatural, but it isn’t entirely grounded in the world as we know it either. I think this is what makes it so mesmerising. It lives in the in-between, inviting the reader to wonder, to ponder, and to reach into the realm of possibility. Maybe.

I haven’t finished it yet, so I can’t give away any spoilers. How it ends might change my opinion entirely however. It’s happened before. I’ve loved some books until the very last chapter, but when the ending fell flat - solving the mystery and all its problems miraculously and all at once on the final page - it left a hollow, slightly sickly taste in my mouth. To me, a happily ever after needs to feel earned otherwise it ruins the book.

I do hope this one doesn’t fall into this category. But I doubt it. It doesn’t seem to follow a typical formula. Save the Cat, you know. It is observant, reflective and draws you in. That’s what it does really well.

I do like a formula though - when it’s well done. But I am also starting to appreciate atmosphere and depth much more these days. Because it is what most intrigues me in a story: the bigger questions we ask, and how a character deals with them. In this book I am not sure what the overall question is. There is a backstory that slowly unfolds on the side. We learn, little by little, that there is a disintegrating relationship on the protagonist Ellen’s side. It keeps us guessing who that person is and what their relationship is all about - why it matters?

I suspect it will be important for the ending of the book, but personally I am finding this side story a bit distracting from the here and now at Elver House. Once in the house, I want to stay in the house and not wander off to modern city life. But that’s just me. I’m sure it’s intriguing to others. I felt a bit sad yesterday that it’s Ellen’s last night at the house already and that she’s heading back to London today. I’d like to stay a little longer.

And I think that’s the best you can achieve as a writer: For a reader to want to linger, to live in your story, to have a felt experience in it. I do hope that I can create something like that with Granbury House. It’s very much alive in my mind, but can I invite the reader in to stay a little longer, accept a drink in the drawing room and pause at the window to watch the story unfold around them?

Time will tell.

Helene

The Bare Bones

I would probably classify my novel as historical women’s fiction, because it follows a heroine in the 2010s who experiences profound change, externally as much as internally, through difficult choices she has to make throughout the book’s journey as well as the captivating story around Granbury House, which spans from the 1930s to the 1950s.

The story revolves around an old English country house, the legacy of which shapes both the past and the present characters of the novel. The connecting piece between them is Elsie, the modern protagonist who gets commissioned to write the memoir of Edmund Ashbourne, the ageing owner of the estate.

The contemporary timeline is fast-paced and relatable through struggles we all experience in modern-day life, and love. The historical timeline, on the other hand, transports us to a long-gone era at Granbury House: ancient interiors, vast gardens, sweeping staircases and magnificent architecture. We see the house move through the peaceful 30s, the 40s at war, and the austerity-stricken 50s with their faded glamour - inherent pomp mixed with slow decline.

What the story is about

With her dream career in London faltering and Jack, the love of her life, moving to Australia, Elsie takes a leap of faith and follows him. What she doesn’t know is that Edmund Ashbourne’s memoir is about to unsettle the future she has so carefully planned out. As the past comes to life, she begins to question the decisions she has made and is ultimately faced with an impossible choice:

Whether to give up the love of her life, or give up on her soul’s calling?

The novel explores themes of identity, belonging, and legacy. It’s about finding one’s truth, and the courage to follow it; the shedding of learned beliefs, and listening to the whisper of one’s soul again – the voice that tells us where we truly belong.

Granbury House reflects these themes in its own struggle for identity in a changing world where traditional narratives no longer apply, and the idea of legacy seems obsolete. Or does it?

Ultimately, it is both Elsie’s coming-of-age story and a quiet reflection on the purpose of the country house today. Or this is what I would like it to be. Whilst I have planned the novel beginning to end, I have only just begun to write it. So who knows where it’ll lead.

What I do know is that the themes and settings are meaningful to me, and that I truly enjoy exploring them through this story. If this resonates and is your cup of tea as well, then follow along as the novel evolves.

Yours,

Helene

1. My business and daily chores took every last drop of energy towards the end of the year.

2. I decided to spend my weekly book day entirely on my novel rather than on Substack, because I’d like to stand a chance of finishing it one day.

3. I hit my first ever mental block in how to proceed with my book and story. I needed time to process and reflect.

4. Christmas and a overflowing social calendar made me forget about writing entirely, which, as it turns out, was a good thing. More on that below.

5. I didn’t actually know what you would like to read about, so I found it hard to focus in on a specific subject.

Now one point at a time: I don’t want to dwell on #1 too much, because that’s just life and happens to everyone. It’s more a matter of self-discipline, time management, prioritisation and so on. I know I need to get better at it. My husband gave me a pep talk yesterday and I’m starting to listen.

Point two: This is where it gets interesting. My weekly book day is when I do practice self-discipline as if my life depends on it; and this is why I have actually made quite a bit of progress in the last three months, despite – or because of – being pretty much absent from Substack.

My book day varies each week and depends on which day I can most afford to be absent from our business. Granted, I do get my hands dirty at the end of the day packing up orders, but nonetheless, I don’t touch anything but the keys of my laptop to work on my story, or research it. I don’t even empty the dishwasher or do any other housework until my writing day has officially ended at around 5pm, or when it gets dark and I get tired.

This has allowed me to finish - to my best ability - the structure and plot of the first book of a two part dual timeline novel. I know it sounds complex, and it is, but it’s a burning desire which was inspired by an experience I’ve had and wrote about in this article.

Now on to point three: Whilst it was riveting to develop and finish my main character’s developmental arc with all its twists and turns and a grand multi-point finale, I was gasping at the enormous holes I suddenly discovered in Act 2 of both timelines when I laid it out visually on my wall:

This hit me somewhat. It was at the end of the year, in the middle of a busy work marathon, and I suddenly started doubting myself. I began wondering if I was actually capable of doing this. Because something else was now creeping up on me: the question whether I would be able to write ‘novel-style’ at all. I am so used to writing down the words I hear in my head, but that’s my own personal voice. Writing a novel is a completely different thing!

In order to bring across to the reader how a character feels - what they see, hear, smell, experience, and the psychology that lies beneath it all - bringing that across so that the reader can feel it for themselves is an art form I hadn’t really thought about before.

When I started drafting my first chapter it felt aweful! I couldn’t find the right words to express my main character and struggled figuring out what she would actually say, or anyone in the scene for that matter. It was like touching an alien body: cold, taut and slick. I couldn’t penetrate its skin somehow to get inside of it.

I had read enough by now to learn that it’s normal to have to write one’s characters for a while before one gets a feel for them. But still, I felt alienated. I think the reason it surprised me so much is because I had spent so much time thinking about these characters, I knew their background stories, their psychological priming and motivations, I knew why they acted in a certain way and not another… yet when I tried to finally bring them to life they rejected me!

My immediate response: ‘I need more background research to fill those gaps, I need to work on my literary skills’, and on it went. I convinced myself that I needed everything perfect and in place before I could actually start writing it. As a result, I began reading novels more intricately, noting how they describe feelings, actions, atmosphere, how they layered pieces of information and different elements of fiction from dialogue, description, action, background and so on. I analysed and tried to replicate, made up scenes with one of my characters in them and trying to write them to the same formula. I found it difficult and unnatural, but I feel like I’m slowly getting better. I am beginning to feel the flow of the elements a little more.

My aim isn’t to imitate anyone else’s work, because the whole point of creating a written piece is to express oneself and not someone else’s inner experience. But besides that, and the fact that I don’t know yet if I have any talent at it: I am not a native speaker. I simply lack the vocabulary to write elaborately like some of those brilliant authors I love to read.

Nonetheless, it got me massively preoccupied and added more layers to my already crumbling self-perception as a novelist. I felt more and more that I would never be able to write a book as deep as I would like it to be, or as felt by the reader as I intend it to be.

So my next logical step was to acquire a more structured understanding of the fundamentals of fiction writing. I bought a couple of books, one of which is John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction – Notes on Craft for Young Writers, which I am currently working through while also following a curriculum developed for me by ChatGPT which I quite enjoy for its immediate feedback.

Point 4: The holidays happened. I went to Germany the second week of December already, because I had some catching up to do with friends and family. I only visit once a year, which makes it a bit of a social marathon. Whilst there, and away from my daily ruminations, I had a few a-ha moments… before I forgot about my novel altogether and found a lot of distraction in happy, hazy nights of drink with my dear, old friends.

But what stuck, and what I had suspected for a while, was that I was procrastinating on actually writing my story. I was somehow afraid of it.

Thankfully, my party-infused holidays were exactly what I needed to forget about it all, reset, and realise that there is no other way of writing a novel other than writing it. I sat down one afternoon at the beginning of the year and looked at all the floating pieces, all the loose ends, all the started readings and works to educate myself, and decided: I’ve done my planning to as far as I can get it, now it’s time to let the story unfold by itself.

I’ve read a lot about plotters vs. pantsers. I’m definitely not a pantser and I’ve been plotting obsessively, with great joy, mind, but I am coming to the conclusion that some things just can’t be planned to the T. Just like in life you simply have to dive in and give it your best as you go along, learn and improve while you’re at it and get better over time while you’re right in the middle of it. That, I think, is true in life as much as in novel-writing, or that is what I understand it to be at this moment in time.

I have never written a novel before, so I’m bound to make mistakes, or make life harder than it needs to be, but then, as far as I can see, there isn’t just one way of doing it. Different things work for different people and my approach is explorative, moving along as my intuition tells me to. I regroup ever so often to look at the big picture, and it does change frequently, but at the moment my plan looks like this:

Spend 20 minutes every morning drafting my present timeline story, no frills for the first draft, while my book days are reserved for both writing and researching my past timeline to make sure the developments are authentic. Oh, and of course little writing lessons to improve my novel writing skills on the side. I am still on the theoretical part of the Gardner book, but find it generally helpful to gain new perspectives while actively practicing with ChatGPT.

Finally, the last thing that stopped me from writing another blog here was that I have no clue what you are interested in reading about. I would love to hear in the comments if there is anything in particular you would like to follow along while I go about writing my first novel.

I hope you found these insights useful. Maybe you can relate, maybe you have a completely different experience. In any case I’d love to know.

Until next time.

Yours,
Helene

The sun is warming my face and my hands as I am writing this. I am sitting on a white, vintage garden chair on the front lawn, just a little bit away from the enormous canopy of the old copper beech.

Next to me is a round garden table of equal design with several chairs scattered around it. I didn’t care to dress any of it except the chair I am sitting on. It’s wearing a green, stripy seat cushion with pinky ribbons to tie it back.

My feet are resting on the chair in front of me. It feels nice to sit and reflect in the sunshine. Particularly at this time of the year when dry and sunny days are rare.

I’m having a glass of chilled white wine which is resting on the lattice table. My first instinct was to put something underneath it, a coaster, to stabilise it so it doesn’t wobble on the holey and uneven surface.

But then, once put down, it’s steady. It just sits there. Comfortably.

The shade is creeping in now. Soon the beech’s densely packed branches will cast a shadow over the table and chairs and it will be cold.

I can hear voices just outside the gate on the road. People gathering at the village hall.

They sound elderly, having a good chat about what’s new in the village.

“You take care darling.” And in response “Bye bye my love” and off they go. A few bins rattling, their voices fading as they walk down the road.

Finally. Peace. Just me and my garden. Birds singing, the odd car driving past, but no more voices. It’s 5pm.

I can fully focus on the serene setting that surrounds me here. I see the tree’s gnarly trunk rising from the ground spreading its wide canopy across the lawn.

The sunshine penetrates some of its outer layers and creates a golden, late-summer glow around everything it touches.

At this time of the day, the light enters from a lower angle and creates a world in which fairies dance along nature’s form with the lightest of touch, a faint glistening.

I can hear the leaves rustle just above me, bees humming in the flower beds beside, a boy calling “Daddy” in the garden two doors down.

Another person is sorting their bins for recycling, a friendly neighbour pointing out “Oh sorry, you’ve got one more,” dogs barking on the other side now.

There are always noises in the village. You are never quite alone.

I wish the sun would stay a little longer, but shady tongues are closing in. Five minutes and it will be cold.

For a second I wonder if it’s worth topping up my glass, just to extend the view.

But the moment has passed.

The sun has gone.

For many years the thought of writing a novel had been stirring in me. To write a novel that weaves in the various parts of my life. Because there are so many, and I can’t count how often people said: You should write a book about this. But it never felt right, too raw, too personal, too recent, too much about me.

I didn’t want to share that what looked so exciting from the outside often came with a lot of inner turmoil and difficulty to find my way, literally in the whole wide world. I lived in more countries than I can count on one hand, and all of them came with their own exhilarating and complicated story.

Love was of course a huge part of it. Lost love, troubled love, unrequited love, but mostly lost love. By ‘lost’ I don’t mean death, I mean circumstances that didn’t allow for it to work no matter how much we wanted it to. I grieved for a long time and across several countries until, about a decade later, I found another love. The now biggest constant in my life. My husband.

I finally settled in the beautiful English countryside, which to me is the most wonderful place on earth!

Here I fell in love again. This time with a house. When we first came to England we weren’t sure how long we would stay and thought of returning to Bali eventually. We just wanted to dip our toes in to see what it’s like to live in England together. Our relationship was young but serious. From a certain age, and with enough experience, you just know when a partner is right.

So we looked for rented accommodation. Furnished please. Bali provided that as a standard, with electricity, water, internet and a cleaner thrown in for good measure. And the English countryside? ONE single flat came furnished, and it was rotten. But we were intent on the English country experience so we kept looking.

Eventually we found a flat in an manor house that was for rent. And that was it. I was sold! But I don’t want to glorify it: It was a rough start to our England adventure: It was COLD!

Being used to Bali temperatures, the old English country house experience with storage heaters from the 90s, huge, draughty sash windows in high-ceilinged echoey rooms, one as big as a small ballroom, and no fire in the fireplaces allowed: We suffered!

I remember my husband walking around the house in a huge faux fur throw wrapped around him like a cape. I mostly wore UGG boots, long underpants, thermal undershirts and woollen jumpers, often topped up with a thick cardigan and a scarf that never left my neck as my daily home wear.

Furniture was another problem. My husband had some furniture in storage from his bachelor days, but when it was delivered it looked like a sad little pile plonked down in the vastness of the universe. It didn’t touch the sides of the amount of space we suddenly had to fill.

It’s not hard to imagine that by the time we had finished furnishing the place, bought a car, paid all the bills… council tax? a new, creepy concept for my German self… we had little left to our names and realised: We were committed! For better or worse.

Sometimes life just does that to you. It throws you into a tornado and before you know what happened you find yourself in a situation you would have never dreamt of. But we trusted that this was the right path for us. And indeed, I’ve never looked back and our relationship grew the stronger for it.

The first 1.5 years were bliss. We got to know the other people in the house and it all felt so harmonious. Everyone was very respectful and considerate of their neighbours and genuinely cared about the building.

It wasn’t uncommon to ‘claim’ your own spot somewhere on the grounds and make it one’s own corner. I looked after the flower beds around our side of the house and later expanded up the grounds, because I discovered my joy for gardening.

All of this was overseen by a lovely couple who also lived on site and had been part of the estate since long before the last owner died. My husband and I spent many evenings by the fire listening to tales of the days when the ‘old man’ was still alive and even though he didn’t seem to have been an easy character, they always spoke fondly of him.

Everything was maintained as it was during his lifetime: The lines on the grass tennis court were drawn anew every year in spring, the hedges cut turret-shaped as he had always insisted, the wild grass mown at certain times of the year, all following a seasonal rhythm.

It was so peaceful and over the years I somewhat melted into it, as if I was becoming part of its form, or the place a part of me. It truly felt like home, a place where I belonged and felt sheltered, embraced and free. It was a feeling I hadn’t felt since I was young and had been searching for ever since.

Suffice to say, I never wanted to leave. But inevitably the day came. 6 years in, the house became financially unmanageable for the trustees and was put up for sale. It was a long, drawn-out and painful process. Because of the state it was in and its listed status, it wasn’t an easy sale either. Countless amounts of viewers marched through our flat and it ate me from the inside.

At the same time, we knew we would soon be home-less if we didn’t start looking for a place of our own. And so I did.

I couldn’t bear the house-hunting process. What should have been an exciting time in my life felt like trying to make the funeral of someone you love an amazing experience.

It just didn’t work. No house I viewed came even close. There was only one that had a few aspects that remotely reminded me of home, because it had a lovely English country garden wrapped around it and was set in a quaint village. This had to do. So we went for it. And what followed was an absolute disaster.

Despite the supposedly most thorough survey one can get, the house turned out to be a wreck and we had to largely take it apart and put it back together at an enormous expense and we didn’t move in for another 1.5 years!

As if losing my home hadn’t been enough, I now had the joy of living on and overseeing a building site for the best part of a year. Suffice to say I hated the house for all the mental and emotional torture it put me through. But at least it distracted me from my grief. I didn’t have time to dwell, I had to function and sort out daily building problems to get that house in order so we had a place to live.

The building ended about 9 months ago, but I didn’t recover from the uproot, chaos and anxiety it caused until quite a while later. In fact, I feel like I’m only now coming back to my senses and getting a feeling for myself again. For my soul and where, or who, I am in this new space.

Writing practice has helped me to get things out and process what’s happened. I am now more than ever itching to move forward with my novel. I’ve crafted the present timeline so far and the story just flowed naturally and gave me so much joy to line out, because I felt that for the first time in a long time I could write my own story again.

The main character started out as a character based on parts of my life’s experience, but the more I worked on the story the more the main character Elsie started to develop a life of her own and I became her mesmerised observer. I couldn’t wait to get to the past story of my dual-timeline novel and build out an imaginary past of the house I love so much.

The letters are what remain of the house and I wanted to use them as an inspiration. But now that time has finally come for me to open and read them, I feel dread when I look at them. They, in turn, are just silently sitting there staring back at me.

A part of me doesn’t want to go there, because it still feels too raw and too recent. But then it is what my heart and soul are willing me to do: Write that story!

Last weekend I began sorting the letters chronologically so that I can read them in order. While doing so I noticed that they span across both the 2^nd World War and the Korean War. I also, just by address, saw that the house may have been requisitioned during the war, because the letters went to a different address nearby for a period of time.

This little activity has helped me ease into the idea of going back to the house and embracing the good and the bad memories attached. Because no one knows better than myself that in order to move forward I need to face the past… and find a new narrative for it.

Instead of thinking of it as opening old wounds and drawing out the funeral of lost dreams, it is the revival and celebration of a place and its people otherwise lost to the world. And while the letters will give me insight into life at the house during the 1940s and 50s, the characters will be of my imagination.

But its essence remains. This house is more than just a pile of stones. Over the past 250 years it’s witnessed joy and tragedy, saw people succeed as well as losing hope, it saw weddings and it saw funerals. It is a metaphor of life itself and will continue to carry meaning both for its custodians and the community around.

And while I am writing my book, the house is starting its own new chapter. But instead of parting ways, we will stay writing companions. Breakups are never easy.

“Readers bring their own experiences to your writing, and they add stuff in their head. Leave room for their imagination to embroider your words.”

So many dots connected in my mind when I read this.

Dot One was that I often struggle with description or simply lack the perfectly nuanced vocabulary to express the finer details of late summer’s golden glowing sun for example.

Dot Two is that I felt reminded of an experimental movie I once watched with Nicole Kidman in it… and not much else. The whole movie plays out on a stage which has the village streets and houses drawn on the floor with actors pretending to knock on doors that aren’t actually there.

It takes a good half hour to get over one’s natural urge to switch it off and not waste two hours of precious leisure time. I have sat through many an overly artsy film only to be left with utter frustration about the little I gained from it.

But this film is different! Once you’ve settled into the story and made peace with its setup, everything suddenly pops up open in your mind like an all-immersive 3-D wonderland from a 2-D birthday card.

Dot Three is that whilst I enjoy an elaborately written novel if the story interests me – i.e. Portrait of a Lady or Wuthering Heights - I often run out of steam when I have to concentrate too hard on picturing endless intricate details of what I am supposed to see in my mind. If anything, it helps me lose the plot of the story.

This is why I love the idea of less is more in writing, which doesn’t mean that I am a master of it. I have only just stumbled upon the concept, but I can tell already that it is affecting my practice. I keep re-reading what I’ve written wondering: How can I use less words, but bring the idea across better?

Because awareness leads to attention leads to focus leads to learning new patterns I wouldn’t have noticed before and one day will be able to replicate in my own way.

Summer, I reminisce while the rain is pelting down onto the ancient stone drive outside our single-glassed equally ancient cottage windows, oh how I already miss you! The dreamy days of immersing myself in a novel, sunk into the cushions of a garden bench accompanied by the humming bees on the surrounding rows of lavender and summer flowers, birds chirping, while feeling the welcome heat of the sun on my bare arms and legs.

I’m pulling my woollen cardigan tighter around my shoulders. I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet. A steaming mug of hot tea sits on the bedside table next to me. I am gazing at the summer robe with its delicate and fine translucent texture gently caressing my body, not too tight, not too saggy, just like the natural flow of water around pebbles feeling a light, unburdened freedom to just be, comfortable in my skin. Its rich pattern of delicately drawn yet bold and vibrant flowers effortlessly gliding across its tapestry wrapping me in a spirit of endless possibilities, new landscapes to explore…

A knock on the door. My husband pokes his head in holding his phone out to me: “Have you seen this?! 20 new followers on Friday and someone sent us a message about their reel which went into that other folder we never check. How did we miss this? We need to repost and comment. Come on.” He tilts his head impatiently to say: Get up! We have work to do!

I stare into the distance for a second before I shake off my last reverie of summer. When I lift the duvet to get up, my bare legs are exposed to the cold air. I shiver. Grabbing my mug from the bedside table, I notice it has gone cold. How long have I been dreaming?

I am currently in the process of plotting my novel with the help of Blake Snyder’s beat sheet, adapted for Novel Writing by Jessica Brody.

It’s really helped me plot out what was once just a flash of an idea into an exciting two-part novel series. To be transparent, I have only just finished the present-timeline story. The past timeline is next on my list, and then to be woven into the present-day structure. I hope this is the way to do it. I have no idea, but it seems sensible to me.

I am a complete novice to novel-writing and have so far only followed the leads which have naturally come my way and felt right to me. However, the people I tell about it often ask: But when do you start writing? My answer: Whenever I know exactly what it is that I am writing!

I need clarity in my mind first before I can be creative about it, if that makes sense? Maybe it doesn’t, but it makes sense to me.

I have heard about the plotters vs. pantsers and I would definitely classify as a plotter, but I am sure things will be shuffled around and changed again once I start writing.

My reason for being on Substack is that I want to connect with like-minded people to share thoughts and experiences, and be a little less on my own.

In the meantime, my intention is to share what I learn along the way, snippets from my research around English country houses in the past and present, as well as pieces of my writing practice to help me find my style.

But who knows, it may all turn out differently, which we all know to be true both in life and fiction. I’m looking forward to learning more!

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