Beginnings

“My own experience is that once a story has been written, one has to cross out the beginning and the end. It is there that we authors do most of our lying” - Anton Chekhov.

"Love your work, Anton."

I am currently in my second week of a creative writing masters and, fittingly, we're studying beginnings. I thought that I'd pretty much come to a locked-in decision about my beginning – simple, to the point, setting up Dasha's earliest life and memories – but now I think I might have been wrong. A very clever man who I won't name, because I'm sure he has enough on his plate without being inundated with pleas for advice, suggested that I start the story in the middle of Dasha's first dramatic happening; in this case, her frostbitten fingers and Lilia's unsympathetic ministering. Okay, I thought, this is good stuff. But then again, where does this practice stop? If we were to start everything at the most dramatic point, what would happen to all the lovely in between bits that build subtleties in the characters? Where are those sometimes boring backgrounds that you need to turn a character from an idea into a possible entity?

Beginning just sounds too ominous. There's too much pressure to begin something well. Perhaps instead we should call them points of departure. I'd like to take the opportunity to quote from Gabriel Garcia Marquez on the matter of his departures. After all, anything I can say he could say better:

“I start with a visual image. For other writers, I think, a book is born out of an idea, a concept. I always start with an image. Tuesday Siesta, which I consider my best short story, grew out of seeing a woman and a young girl dressed in black with a black umbrella walking through a deserted town in the scorching sun. In Leaf Storm, it’s an old man taking his grandson to a funeral. The point of departure for Nobody Writes to the Colonel was the image of a man waiting for a launch in the market-place in Barranquilla. He was waiting with a kind of silent anxiety. Years later in Paris I found myself waiting for a letter, a money order probably – with the same anxiety and I identified with the memory of that man” - from The Fragrance of Guava : Plinio Apuleyo Mendoza in Conversation with Gabriel Garcia Marquez pp26-27.

Lara S.

Inspiration

I've been stuck over the past week for something to write about. The novel is still going strong, the characters are learning and loving and losing, but I can't put my finger on what exactly has propelled me in this activity. Perhaps it's the first week of university throwing me off (that's right, I've FINALLY started classes). Either way, I decided that the best way to move forward would actually be to take a step back and explore my inspirations. Below are six of my most favourite books by six of the most fabulous authors currently working and all of them have had a huge impact on my style of writing. For one thing, they all write about my most common subject: the dysfunctional family.

1.

Gerard Woodward - I'll Go To Bed at Noon

 

I first read this book in 2007 while studying at Sheffield University and its portrayal of a family in crisis almost broke my heart. Woodward has a beautiful sense of comedic tragedy which softened the altogether soul destroying narrative but what I remember most isn't the sadness or loss. It's the strength of stubborn family love through almost insurmountable odds. 

2.

E. Annie Proulx - The Shipping News

 

Annie Proulx, I hear you all sigh. An obvious choice but an important one none the less. I read this book in 2003 during high school and have reread it almost every year since then. Proulx writes absolutely miserable stories but I chose The Shipping News because it shows a man rebuilding a family from the shreds of one long lost. There is hope within the hurt and the promise that family is something that can be recovered.

3. 

Gail Anderson-Dargatz - The Cure for Death by Lightning 

This book is particularly special as it was the basis of my third year creative writing degree thesis in 2008. I'd never heard of Dargatz before stumbling into my local second hand book store and seeing the cover (yes, I do judge books by their covers) but discovering her writing was a blessing. This book is shocking and brutally upsetting but it's an excellent example of family crimes that allow no redemption and roads that once walked can not be swept clean.

4. 

A. M. Homes - Music for Torching

Another discovery in 2007 at Sheffield University, Music for Torching is an unusual book and one I didn't really understand until the final page. It navigates a family tragedy before it occurs, delicately describing the joys and disappointments that lead to a truly heart-breaking calamity.

5.

Miriam Toews - A Complicated Kindness

I have one of my lecturers at Wollongong University to thank for this rare discovery in 2008. This book is so poignantly written that I immediately went out and bought her entire opus. Unfortunately, her other books weren't as memorable but A Complicated Kindness remains one of the books that most shaped my writing style. Its protagonist watches as her family abandon her one by one and the strength and shame of this character is a touching mix.

6.

Tim Winton - Cloudstreet

This is a controversial choice as readers tend to either love or hate this book. I loved it. From the first moment I read it in 2004 I thought it was one of the most beautiful family sagas ever written. Few other novels manage to capture such a large breadth of time while staying so true to the characters within those years. I can only hope my book, spanning three decades, comes close to such honesty.

Now I want to hear from you, my readers. What are the books that shaped you? Are there any on my list you agree with? Maybe we could have a mouthy debate over one or two of them? Share your novel soul with me and I'll meet you half way.

Lara S.

Love Part Four - The Father

This, I promise, is the final post regarding the men of Dasha's life. I saved the saddest for last - Dasha's father who, as you already know, goes unnamed throughout the entire book. He only actively participates in a handful of scenes throughout the first half and after he dies Dasha mentions him in confession but never to either Sam or Lilia. It may seem like he disappears from their immediate lives but really he remains as an invisible force holding his wife and daughter together through strings of memory, responsibility and guilt. I haven't said much about his personality (because frankly Dasha doesn't remember a whole lot about it) but I can expand on his professional appearance.

He is a botanist and the biography in his first book, titled Sub-dependence in Climbing Tubers, would read as follows:

“Father Unnamed” studied at London College and received his PhD from the University of Greenwich in 1976. His first paper, Rhizome Interaction and Cultivation, was published in The British and Foreign Horticulture Journal and won the Distinguished Economic Botanist Award in 1979. He teaches botany studies at Birkbeck college and lives with his wife and daughter in Staines.

See what I did there? He teaches rhizomes and acts as a rhizome for his family.

There is one scene from the book that I'd like to include in this post; it's the perfect example of the awkward relationship between the three members of my imaginary family and the almost accidental care this father feels for Dasha.

For her ninth birthday, Dasha's father relented from his schedule and took her and Lilia to London Zoo. They went first to the elephants. Rushing right past the gift stores with their stuffed and dead-eyed offerings.

-Such a bad smell.- Lilia turned away from the enclosure, straightening the umbrella Dasha held to block the sun. -I don't think it's right to have such big animals near people. What if they got out? They could destroy half the village.-

Dasha looked up at her father. Ignoring Lilia.

-Did you know that the grass they're eating is called elephant grass?-

Shook her head.

-Well it is. And do you know why?- Talking around Lilia's sighs. -Because it's an elephant's favourite food. And so tall.- Pointing toward a wooden trough where ten-foot blades of grass dangled exhausted to the dirt. -And those flowers growing in the tree branches. They're bee orchids. Can you see, they look like bees. When a real bee goes to say hello, they get pollen all over their body. The next flower they go to, poof.- Clicking fingers. -They leave the pollen there and more flowers can grow. It's interesting because the flower doesn't even need the bee. It's just a little bit of extra help.-

Dasha swayed at the responsibility a bee carried with it. Those fat-hipped bumble bees that bumped against her ankles like they would give way in honeyed strings. Voices like rolling coins close to her ear.

-I think I will stay over there,- Lilia intervened. To her husband, -make sure she doesn't burn.- Dasha watched her retreat into the white and brown walls of a cafe. She would make one cup of black tea last until they had walked the entire zoo around.

-Why doesn't she want to come?- Dasha asked her father as they moved from the elephants to the giraffes. One lone adult with bent neck.

-Don't worry about Mum. She doesn't like animals very much. That's why she makes me kill the mice that get under the floor.- Leaning close in conspiracy. -I think she's a little scared.-

-Of a mouse?-

-Even elephants are scared of mice.-

Dasha couldn't imagine an elephant confronting Lilia. -Is that why we don't have any pets? Other girls bring photos of kittens into school for show and tell.- Kittens clutched to chests. Pink tongues like startled moles.

-We used to have a bird. When you were a baby.-

Dasha couldn't recall the presence of any creatures in her home. -What kind of bird?-

-A finch. He had tiny little wings. I used to feed him sunflower seeds and your mum hated the mess he made.-

-What was his name?-

He picked up an acorn. Rolled it around until its hat toppled. -You know, I can't remember.-

Lara S.

Love Part Three - The Russian

Of all the characters I've ever written, Aleksandr Babikov is by far my favourite. He's Dasha's uncle, Lilia's brother, living in Russia until the end of the first half of the book. Lilia sends for him after a particularly nasty situation arises between her and Dasha and his arrival heralds a whole new lifestyle for both of them. Dasha loves him instantly but of course that would mean her life had gained an element of happiness. Does that sound like something I'd write for her? The whole point of Dasha's upbringing is to leave her unsatisfied, thus propelling her to confront the option of the memory manipulation. I'm not a total dog – Dasha deserves hope for a loving family. Aleksandr is that hope. And he also looks like Richard Griffiths.

Aleksandr moved into her father's disused study. Lilia had pushed a single bed frame and spring mattress against the far wall. Apart from a three-foot bookshelf and the desk Dasha once sat beneath, the room was empty. Aleksandr threw it a cursory glance before swinging his cases onto the bed. Dasha watched from the top of the hall stairs. Her eyes burned when he held a hand to the wood of the desk.

For supper, Lilia made a dish Dasha had never seen before.

-Bitochki,- Aleksandr crooned when she spilled some onto his plate. -I was expecting some kind of this fast food. French fries and bread.-

Lilia scowled. -We don't eat that here. It's bad enough with Dasha's school dinners. At least she will eat well when she is at home.-

At school, Dasha only ate the plates of potato, vegetables and pasta but Lilia refused to believe that her daughter would fail to take advantage of the grease-traps.

-You like your mother's cooking?-

Dasha put a piece of meat on her tongue, round flavour of onion and sour cream, and nodded. She did. Had always loved it. Lilia gave a stiff smile.

After supper Aleksandr reclined in his brother-in-law's arm chair, Dasha curled on the floor near his feet; Lilia replaced crockery with coffee brewing at her back. Dasha showed Aleksandr the best of her charcoal drawings; he held up a sketch of a daffodil in half bloom.

-This must be my favourite. So bold. Velikolepnyi.-

Dasha had never heard her mother's language before. It was harsh, like stones being forced together. -Uncle Alex, can you teach me some Russian?-

Aleksandr arched his back, rubbing one hand across his bulging stomach. A button was missing at the bottom of his shirt. -Of course, darling. What do you know already?-

-Well, nothing.-

-Nothing? You mean your mother has taught you nothing?- He looked over at the kitchen door. As if in answer, Lilia stacked the plates slightly louder.

-No.-

-But she still makes this Russian food? Our own mother with canned soup and burgers and here Lilia jellies her own chocolate.-

-She says that English food will kill you.-

-She has taught you to cook?-

-Yeah. She just doesn't want me to learn the language.-

-Lilia,- Aleksandr rumbled when she backed into the room carrying thick slices of apple charlotte. He smacked his lips before continuing. -What is this I hear? Dasha knows nothing of Russian?-

-You forget, Alexi,- she said slowly, -that I came here to be English.-

-Ahh, glupyi. You will always be a Russian. Take a look at yourself. At what you eat.-

Lilia's lips thinned in a way Dasha recognised. -It isn't easy here. Dasha is better off knowing only English. Better off not standing out.- She returned to the kitchen and Aleksandr shouted after her.

-She is beautiful. Every man she ever meets will be enchanted. She will always stand out.-

Lilia didn't answer and Aleksandr put both hands on his knees, leaning toward Dasha. She gravitated nearer. -She was not always like this, my sister,- he whispered. -Used to be proud of Russia. Proud to be Russian. She was a koroleva.-

-She was what?-

-It means 'queen'. You should have seen her when she met your papa. Magnificent. Brought him to eat with us, taught him to speak. Wanted to stay in Moscow. He would have made a great Russian.-

-They met in Russia?-

-Yes. At Sokolniki Park in Moscow.-

-Mum said they met here in London.-

Aleksandr blinked and sat back in the armchair. -What lies she has told.-

Lilia came back with a mug and an unlabelled bottle of clear liquid.

-At last, vodka,- Aleksandr crowed. Dasha started to say something to her mother but caught Aleksandr shake his head infinitesimally. She understood.

-I'm going to bed.- She kissed her mother's cheek, a thing she hadn't done since primary school. It was hot under her lips. Aleksandr patted her jaw and creaked open the bottle cap. Lilia had slipped slices of strawberry inside. For Aleksandr's coming.

From the hallway she heard Lilia ask, -will you come to church tomorrow, Alexi?-

-It has been a long time.-

-It would be good for Dasha.-

No hesitation. -Then I will come.-

-Spasibo.-

What else do you really need to know?

Lara S.

Love Part Two - The Church Boy

It's trite I know but I love novels about love. Particularly doomed love. It warms the cockles of my heart to read about people writhing and expiring in the heat of hopeless passion. This doesn't come from a place of bitterness but rather one of belief. Why does the old adage 'nothing worth having comes easy' exist if it weren't true? I'm not saying that Dasha's life will be a constant state of disappointed love but then again I can't promise where my brain will take her. Is she a woman destined to come to terms with her memories as they are alone or will she recapture the only man who got close enough to help?

His name is Sam. So far there isn't a first meeting between Dasha and he but it is mentioned that they become friends at church. While his parents aren't particularly God-fearing, they do desire to instil some sort of Christian charity into their son and so along he goes each week until he hits sixteen and can bully his way out of things he no longer sees the point of. He first appears in the book on Dasha's thirteenth birthday – he gives her a charcoal pencil (details on that later). He's basically a sweetheart but of course, Lilia doesn't approve. In fact she goes so far as banning Sam's presence at her house. Hence he and Dasha share the following moment in secret on her eighteenth birthday. All you need to know is that Sam is showing Dasha a selection of home movies for her birthday enjoyment:

Sam's parents were very young, his mother lean and blonde while his father seemed paunchy in youth. They holidayed at seasides; punted through canals in summer; stood outside abbeys and churches; blew kisses to the camera while dolphins twisted in the water behind. Dasha watched hungrily. A whole past contained in one tape. It continued, suddenly showing a small child in a red romper suit. Careening across the grass and falling. Dasha put a hand to her mouth, recognising a baby Sam. He was embraced, swung, fed, scolded. Another child, his older cousin, screamed for her turn with the camera. There was hardly a moment of silence. Not once did the camera stop; followed the family in every move they made. The first tape went for an hour and Dasha immediately asked for more.

-You were so cute.-

-I'll put a later one on. I think it's mostly from Italy. No wait.- He rummaged in the bag. -This one.-

It showed Sam, just grown out of chubby childhood, approaching a familiar door and knocking. A woman answered, chestnut hair tight behind her head, dress black and pleated. She spoke, looked suspiciously left and right before letting him in. Laughter was heard from the person holding the camera. Sam paused the tape.

-Why did they video that?- Dasha asked.

-It was the first birthday party I'd been invited to by a girl.- He rewound and froze on the woman's face. -Your mum looks so annoyed. Did she know I was coming?-

-I don't remember.- Dasha leant forward to better see Lilia. She looked no younger. Her back still hunched, shoulders secretive.

-Do you want to keep watching?-

-Show me more of when you were little.-

He brought out two tapes, stacked them by her feet. -You pick.-

They sat on the lounge floor, eating cake and watching Sam's family history, for the rest of the day. Dasha didn't take her eyes from the screen. His family were an enigma she couldn't understand. A mother and father keeping record of something as simple as their child's experiences. She watched them measure his growth against a doorway, marking it with a black pen. He turned and looked, comparing it to the last, and cheered. Dasha had no such blights on her doorways. Barely a record of how she had looked as a baby, a child, a teenager. The few photos Lilia had framed on the mantel were school pictures. Awkward smiles and ties too tight around the throat. And one of the three of them, taken by a stranger at London Zoo. Dasha's hair in her face, Lilia's hand on her shoulder. Her father staring off past the lens.

-I wish I had this,- she whispered as another tape clicked to an end.

I think this is the best scene to introduce Sam and Dasha's relationship. Sam becomes a constant source in her life but I haven't decided in what way. Will he stay or will he go? Or will she decide for him? I'd appreciate some thoughts on the matter – after all I'm writing this for all of you!

Lara S.

Love Part One - The Boss

As many of you may remember (and the rest can simply scroll down to refresh their memories) my first post gave away a little tidbit of Dasha's adult life. Contrary to the title of this post, it wasn't actually about love; it was all about sex. Or at least a pulled scene of Dasha having sex with her boss. A man I simply can not imagine looking like anyone other than Tom Selleck:

Actually there is a degree of love in Dasha's decision to bed her employer. The relationship between them is one of varying states of powers – he vies for ownership over her body while she uses him to manipulate her own memories of lost love. There is no tenderness in the way she approaches this arrangement and the affection he lavishes upon her comes from an almost fatherly desire to please and control. There could be nothing further from love than the link between these two characters. They are anti-love: not merely the absence of love but the state that is found on the other side.


I haven't yet written the section when they first meet but I know how it's going to go. An interview, her honest abilities and his slick acceptance of a new apprentice. Dasha is a striking woman but he is the only man in her life, those in the past included, who won't look past her beauty. He doesn't even try. He loves how she appears on his arm but doesn't consider what incredible insight she has into his business. It would be like employing a recovered heroin addict as a drug counsellor because they spoke in a calming tone. You're missing the point!


I made this post part of a series because understanding Dasha's loves is an integral part to understanding why she ends up in such an unenviable position in the second half of the book. To be so bereft of happy memories that artificial implantation is the only answer feels to me an extremely sorry state of affairs. But there's a growing niggle in the back of my head that tells me this isn't why Dasha is considering the treatment. Until I figure out the real reason I'll just have to give life to her men.


Lara S.

Cruel to be Kind

As I've mentioned before, Lilia deserves a post of her own to explore her history and treatment of Dasha and her husband. Thinking about it more, I've decided to dedicate a series of posts. This first one is a slice of writing from the fourth scene in the novel. I've structured In Memorium's early chapters into snippets from Dasha's childhood with a gap of two to five years between each section. This one below kills two birds with one stone: a glimpse of Dasha at age six and Lilia being, well, a bit of a bitch.

To protect Dasha from the bright lemon bursts of sun, Lilia kept her indoors throughout her childhood. Each short English summer her skin thickened in their smoky lounge and set like solid cream.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays she watched her neighbours throw balls against the walls and smiled to think of them in twenty years; bent and brown while she was vampiric with flush that turned her cheeks translucent. Her hair grew redder. She matured with no memory of sunlight.
Vitamin E and lavender cream mixed in a shallow mortar, its skein lumped and broken. Lilia would paste it along Dasha's arms and throat until she shone under the kitchen fluorescents.
-It itches.-
-Don't rub it off. It has to sit. Soak in. Keep you soft.-
-Why don't you have to put it on?-
Interruption from her father. -Because she has always had the most beautiful skin. That's where you get it from. And this.- A hand in Dasha's mane of hair. Lilia touched her own; greying but still shivering warm.
-I had to do this, just like you. My mother used zinc. You should be grateful for some things.-
Every night Dasha left a film on her bedsheets like powdered limestone. Early morning when dawn sidled onto her pillow she picked particles of grit free, mounded them like so many anthills by her head. Their smell was pale. Watery and reminiscent of basil. On her skin it evolved into something live and warm. Beating of blood at her throat rolled the scent into fragrant doughs that tickled the nose of the postman at delivery.
Winter meant freedom. Lilia believed in stiff cold air to shrink the pores. Allowed her daughter to play around the greenhouse wearing only her overcoat, stockings and a pilled scarf. One day in December she came inside with frostbite edging out under her fingernails. Lilia rubbed them with vaseline until she cried.
-I want Daddy.-
-He isn't here. Give me your fingers.-
-It hurts.-
-Of course it does. Playing in the snow all morning.- Her lips a blue line. -Stop. Fidgeting.-
Dasha sobbed and looked away as layers of skin surrendered to Lilia's ministering. When the feeling returned she sat miserable on the rim of the bathtub, throbbing hand floating in a sink full of Radox and warm water. Wintergreen and lavender steam around her temples. She watched the pink crawl back into her flesh. When Lilia dried them she pressed their tenderness to her lips twice, quickly. As though she hadn't done it at all.
Dasha could still see scars around her cuticles ten years later.


Lara S.

Settling In

When I was first thinking about In Memorium I found myself dwelling on the characters and not their setting. This was long before Lilia was Russian or Dasha went to Sunday confession. It's not the easiest thing, choosing a home town or even country for a long piece of work. With every decision I make a dozen questions rear their insistent heads; what were the immigration habits at the time of Lilia's arrival from Russia; what is their financial situation; where would Dasha's botanist father find the most work; where would Lilia insist upon living? So I started simple and chose a continent.

England. After four years away I've just this week returned to the UK and it truly was a homecoming. What better place to set these characters I've come to love? I've had a little more trouble with the city. During my many years back and forth to Great Britain I've lived in Devon, Bristol, Poole and Sheffield but none of these felt right. Devon is too posh, Bristol too unlikely, Poole too pretty and Sheffield too far north. Should I take the easy road and just put them in London? There are a few benefits to this. London was a common choice for those immigrating in the 60s and 70s and there were low income areas that didn't suffer from excessive violence or council housing construction. After all, can you imagine Lilia agreeing to live in a four by five flat with boys chucking rocks at her windows all day?

And now I come to the tangle of specificity. When I read a book I look for details; street names, locations of pubs, descriptions of churches; everything that turns a setting from an idea into a memory. Obviously I will need to do this in my own book. But what will be an appropriate area of London for my little family? One of these low income hotspots with terraced houses and access to the ring roads, possibly even Heathrow. I asked my Dad

Lara S.– born and raised in the UK – where he would recommend. He said Slough but since the airing of Ricky Gervais' The Office I don't think anyone will take that location seriously ever again. He countered this argument by suggesting Staines and my first thought was 'what a brilliant metaphor for Dasha's childhood'. I did some research into the physicality and location of the housing areas, looked at the population and employment rate between 1970 and 1990 and found the perfect church for Lilia and decided that Staines was the only choice for me. Now I can look forward to hours of minute detailing throughout the eighteen years that Dasha lives there. Why eighteen? You'll have to wait to find out.

Enhancing My Betas

Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, I think I've got it! After copious amounts of research, some very imaginative sketching and a helpful dream or two I can safely reveal the details of In Memorium's memory manipulation. A lovely bit of alliteration there.

I started my research at the science department of Cambridge University. There seems to be an over riding opinion on memory manipulation in the wider community (one that I mentioned in my post The First Hurdle). Not only is it controversial but doctors are suggesting it it may be unethical. I'm not sure I agree that the softening of painful memories could ever be considered an immoral practice but then again I'm not well versed in the long term affects of such treatments. From what I can tell, beta blockers and hypnosis are utilised in shifts to break down the connections inside the memory segment of the cerebral cortex. Obviously this is one hell of a dangerous option – one slip of the watch and a woman's wedding night could be completely removed. Actually, depending on the husband, that may be a good thing.

So what if I invented beta enhancers? Something that builds extra connections between event and memory? With enhancers and hypnosis, doctors can implant patient-designed memories by repeatedly describing the scenery of whatever is desired. I'm a little worried about the details of all this; I don't want to write sci-fi but I need to make up some very non-existent science. I wrote this as an example article for the treatments:

Scientists at Cambridge University are asking the question of whether deliberate and permanent manipulation of human memory will be a possible procedure in future years. Vanessa Palmer, a behavioural professor, agrees that treatment of post traumatic stress syndrome can be achieved with the use of beta-blockers, but wonders if the opposite effect could be realised. The commercial possibilities of providing a patient with completely new, designer memories is a tempting factor but Palmer insists that the treatments would be used as a form of psychotherapy.

Anyone have any thoughts on how feasible this sounds? 

Lara S.

Father Unnamed

Has anyone else noticed that the titles of my posts make this blog sound like a child raising guide? I'll have to rethink how these come across. Although writing this thing does feel a little like giving birth. What an overused cliché that is.

I've talked a little about Dasha's mother, though she really deserves her own post, but her father is one of the first supporting characters mentioned. Despite this, I'll never name him. He is a fleeting influence in Dasha's life; a figure not forgotten but no longer a constant. This doesn't make him any less important in her recollections of her youth. One reads like this:

In truth, Dasha needed her father in absence. Without him she dreamed the hundred kind things he would say to her. During the occasional hours he spent in his office, her lurking at the door or by his feet with a blue-eyed doll, his fingers reached for her. Caressed the flash of her hair. She listened to him mutter aloud from his journals. Learnt the water table levels under Dorset and the injurious properties of rabbit manure. Replaced the word 'bulb' with 'you' and thus received low, crooning sentences of love that carried her through his research trips when her only company was Lilia and a steel-handled spoon. A spoon that smarted her knuckles each time she reached for a nugget of dried apricot or banana before her breakfast was finished.
Her first taste of a fresh crab apple was taken at the age of seven, under the safety of her father's desk. Its crisp centre was massed with raw hatching maggots. Dasha spat into her hand, pulling on her father's pant leg with the other. He ducked his head to see and she showed him the half devoured bruising.

-What do you have here?- he asked in a voice she took into adulthood.

-It's gone bad.-

-So? Waste not, want not.- He took the rest of the fruit, picked up his ivory letter-opener and cut free two small squares. Dasha wanted to eat them but the maggots and their sweet skins sent her scuttling to the kitchen bin. She would never again enjoy the smooth glass-crunch of apple between her front teeth. It was a thoughtful type of fear and for the first time, Dasha realised that life was made up of moments just like biting into a rotten apple. No experience was judged on its entirety but on bracketed seconds bringing the scenario to open and close. Her father's cutting of the rot was a moment of pleasure before the remembering of her taste buds. Not even the mush of putrid apple on her tongue could fade the smell of his cologne or feel of callouses running from palm to fingertip.

There's a dangerous belief that a girl with father issues will grow up to develop relationship issues. I don't know how Dasha will end up yet – she's barely turned ten – but she certainly won't be a shining beacon of healthy human interaction. Whether this is due to her father or to Lilia's unaffectionate nature is still unclear. I do know he is a good man. A botanist, an atheist, a country-town Brit. But why did he marry Lilia? And what happened to him? You may as well ask what the last line will be. Anyway, I don't want to ruin one of Dasha's most important familial memories. Although I will show you who would play him in the movie.

Lara S.

Gaining a Religion

For those wondering, I haven't cracked the memory treatment yet. But I will. Until then I'm going to explore the religious elements of my novel. I myself am not religious; spiritual yes but I've never belonged to any kind of organised group. Dasha, however, does. Her mother is an extremely orthodox (over-exaggeration in term?) Catholic – confirmation, Sabbath, aversion to taking the lord's name in vain, the lot. I think it would be uncharitable of me to say that I chose this path because I wanted her to be a harsh and unloving role model. After all, Catholics aren't all this way. What I really wanted to utilise from the Catholic faith is the idea of confession. Throughout the novel are scattered scenes of Dasha confessing her often trite secrets to Father Boughers (though they become decidedly more impressive as she ages) and the memory of this confined space wherein she describes her precious trespasses affects her personal interactions with every other person she meets. After all they are innately terrifying in a kind of bottomless maw way.

Her desire to be honest and her fear of moral judgement are lingering backlashes of the strict upbringing she received but I don't feel like religion alone will wholly capture Lilia's severity. What past does this woman have that makes her so unloving? She needs a heritage. A race. And then I had it. Lilia Eddelson began life as Lilia Dubrovsky; girl-child in Russia; product of poverty and faith; lonely for home but rejecting its memory. She refuses to speak or teach Dasha Russian, won't tell of her early days in Moscow, frets over money and recycling teabags, scorns her husband's gentleness with his daughter and expects Dasha to settle for motherly love from the Virgin Mary. All this on top of being a Russian orthodox Catholic. Come to think of it, I may have overdone it.

Lara S.

The First Hurdle

East was the first person I told about In Memorium snowballing into a full length novel. I tried to explain what I wanted to do with the story and what I wanted from the characters and he was well and truly stumped. He just didn't understand what my point was. I explained that I wanted Dasha to be a representation for lost or never received memories; she would interview clients for memory insertion and discover if she could ever undergo the same treatment. East asked me if it was like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. No it bloody isn't, I replied. It's the opposite. Clients are given memories as adults that they never had as children. He still couldn't see the difference and so I vaulted into a long and stumbling description of exactly what I meant. Problem was, I didn't know what I meant yet. I just knew it wasn't this:

At first there was a whole other part to the process. I wanted there to be donors who came and sold their memories which were then manipulated, matched to a client and uploaded into their brain like photos. East pointed out that this didn't make sense. How would these memories be recorded? And why would the process mean they had to be deleted? I rethought the basics and decided that donors were an unnecessary complication. Instead, clients described their ideal memory and the company would design it (think photoshop with a cerebral cortex instead of a palette) and copy it over. Obviously this kind of science doesn't exist yet but I don't like writing into the future. My way around it was to push the beginning of the story back to 1975 and invent the technology in the present day. Thus Dasha's first days at the company are in the mid 2000s. Let's say 2007. And what about the technology? I started my research into memory manipulation here:

“The human mind strives to maintain equilibrium between memory and oblivion and rejects irrelevant or disruptive memories. However, extensive amounts of stress hormones released at the time of a traumatic event can give rise to such powerful memory formation that traumatic memories cannot be rejected and do not vanish or diminish with time: Post-traumatic stress disorder may then develop. Recent scientific studies suggest that beta-blockers stopping the action of these stress hormones may reduce the emotional impact of disturbing memories or prevent their consolidation. Using such an intervention could, in principle, help people who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, but the idea of doing so is controversial.” - Cambridge Quarterly of Healthcare and Ethics

All I need to do is create a procedure that achieves the exact opposite of this. Sounds easy enough. I'll let you know when I crack it.

Lara S.

Naming a Baby

How do authors come up with their characters' names? Even I don't really know. Maybe there are specific reasons now and then. A family member, friend from infancy, a name picked at random from a baby book. I'm sure some names come from nothing at all. When I was writing one of my longer short stories, I took my main character's name from the lovely Montserrat Lombard in Love Soup:

And my protagonist was male. Shows what gender really counts for. Plus it made a great talking point when he met new people.

It was hard naming my characters this time around. For one thing, I decided to make my leading lady of Russian descent with a British father. I racked my brains for a Russian name I could connect to. One that sounded good with an old fashioned Anglo Saxon surname. I came up with Dasha, inspired after a wonderful writer from Wollongong University. She once wrote a story where she described a count (or perhaps he was a duke) as a heron. I always remembered the description.

My character's full name is Dasha Mae Eddelson. I don't remember where Eddelson came from. I think I wanted some contrast to how severe her mother is turning out. She, incidentally, is Lilia. A name I found online under 'Russian Christian Names'. I wonder if this unoriginal naming practice will haunt me later. At least it wasn't as bad as naming her brother after Mikhail Baryshnikov in Sex and the City. Although he was a damned good dancer. In real life, that is. Not with Sarah Jessica Parker.

Dasha started life as a fleeting shadow in a short story. Then she stuck somewhere inside me. Grew wings and expanded until I couldn't see the words behind her. This is the very first scene I ever wrote for In Memorium:

She decanted the sherry Aleksandr had sent from Lucerne. Dark and sweet smelling like peat. Left on the counter for later. He brought out a bottle of rose from his own cellar. Chilled in the ice tray it waited for tasting. Two glasses, hers lipsticked.

Capers and chicken and snow peas in a pot on the dining table. She moved her work onto a chair, straightened the cloth again and again. Three spoons of potato, peaks like cream. He fed her the husk of a pea between fingertips. Its crunch fresh in her teeth.

-I want to talk to you about Eugene West,- she said.

-Now? Over dinner?- He put down his knife and patted her cheek with his palm. -Can't you ever get your head out of work?-

-I thought you'd like that in an employee.-

-Not in you.-

A spot of gravy in his moustache, tempting her to wipe. She took the wine and left the cork by her plate.

Later, her body dreamt across the mattress and he propped above. Smell of antiseptic on his knuckles, her hair in flames around white-sun skin. She wondered how this would look in a memory. Knew she could have chosen so much better.

Notice there are no names yet? And suddenly I had another character; a love interest and employer. I was still seeing this as a short work at the time so I wondered how to move on from here. How to indicate the beginnings of an affair and her subtle remembering of a past I would never explore. I persevered with the short story form for a couple of weeks before giving in. I fought hard. After all, Montserrat is still waiting for his tale to be told.

Lara S.

Conception

“Getting to the bottom of memory is like having a secret you share with a person inside. Small looks, gestures, nods to appreciate a moment unnoticed by others. But can you contain a memory only within yourself? And is there anything you could hide away from the rest of you? We try to forget things because we can't ignore them and can't bear talking of them. Cut a tree at the roots and the whole thing comes down but not before some very serious rot sets in.”

This is what started it all. A tiny page of writing done at the blurry time of three am from my apartment in Seoul. The beginning of what I thought was a short story. Just four thousand words about a woman working for a memory company; interviewing possible clients, hearing their wishes for memory insertions and struggling to decide if she wants to go under the hypnosis knife.

I spent days thinking how I would fit such a huge concept into a small framework of words. Maybe I'd extend it into a long short story. Or write two and market them as serials. It took a long time for In Memorium to become the book length creation it now is. With this decision came a whole other side to the story: the woman's childhood, early adulthood, her disasters and pains. I wasn't going to have to deal with any of that in a short story but in a novel? You can't get away with throwing the audience into a life half lived already. Not unless you're Vonnegut and even he loves a thrilling bit of flashback. I'm not so keen on these. So my solutions were these: take away her past or turn her into a whole life. I'm always one for self punishment.

In truth I've already written 20 000 words of what I still wish to call In Memorium. My mum promised she would get the name of my first published novel tattooed on her back and when I told her the working title of this she seemed to go off the idea a little. I can't see how it would matter. My mum has never dressed as lamb so I don't see who would even get a glimpse of it apart from the mirror. But what of my 20 000 words? What of its characters? I want to talk about how I met them, guided them, was told off by them, let them go out on their own, everything that's happened since I started writing their world. So I'll start from the beginning. Which I think is quite enough for today. Next time I'll tell you their names.

Lara S.