15 December 2003
Looking back ...
I have nearly finished my complete typescript of Labyrinth. Yesterday I killed a character. I'm afraid it is still a painful experience.
There was also an IT scare. Moving text from chapter to chapter, reorganising the order in which certain scenes play, I lost about 2900 words. It felt rather like being stranded on a lonely road in a broken-down car.
Frantic searching. Restoring the computer to a previous date. I finally found a back up copy in the recycle bin. Phew!
I also found a text that I wrote - then cut - four or five months ago:
Blagnac was all pale tiling and marble, surprisingly clean. As if no one really passed through. All the usual paraphernalia of travel by air, but with none of the shoosh and panic and anxiety of a major international airport.
Stocky men in heavy overcoats stood smoking at the bar, drinking panaché and coffee. Silver foil ashtrays, emptied at speed by the waiter, betrayed how many had waited here. Their wives, eyes rimmed black in heavy make-up, perched on the thin heels that clicked and tapped on the shiny floors. Flight information screens, arrivals gates, shops and counters.
She rummaged in her pocket, fingers feeling the width and size of the coins until she found a 10 franc piece for the pinball. She pushed it into the slot and felt the rumble as the machine shook itself awake. Lights flashed on the backboard, illuminating the women warriors and the space fighters forced to perform whenever someone paid them.
She glanced towards the sliding doors, even though his flight was not due for fifteen minutes yet. On the television screens, the letters unravelled themselves: Geneva, Marseille, Paris, Hamburg, London Gatwick.
She didn't let herself think about what she'd do if he wasn't on the flight. She pulled back the lever and shot the first silver ball ferociously into the belly of the game, working out her fear. Fifteen minutes.
I reread the passage, recognised why it was cut but felt that same tiny shadow of loss.
The idea of these diary pages is to show just how personal the craft of writing a novel can be.
The author lives in the real world and the Labyrinth.
