"Any eggs?" asked one of my regular customers, hope on her face. "No, sorry," was my reply. Every time. She gave up asking after a few weeks.
It was frustrating. The chickens had never done this before. One or the other would continue to lay throughout the winter months. But now, with a larger proportion of pure breeds who stopped laying when broody, moulting or when the days had little sunlight, and, in turn (I'm sure) influenced the hybrids, we were lucky to get one a week.
Then, finally, a few weeks ago, we had our first dark brown egg. It was one of the new chickens. Then there was another. Then a white one, a blue/green one. More brown. All of a sudden we had a dozen.
Have you read I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith?
I don't recall reading it as a child, so read it for the first time a few years ago.
"Goodness, Topaz is putting the eggs on to boil! No one told me the hens had yielded to prayer. Oh, excellent hens!
And this is the line I thought of when the eggs finally appeared.
This is my first proper vlog. A vlog with talky bits. A vlog with my face. Where I document how I'm undertaking a structural edit of my novel.
I don't know what I feel most daunted about. The edit (it's a major edit) or putting my face up there onto YouTube.
It's incredibly exposing opening myself up like this. It is also incredibly scary. Am I risking criticism, trolls, comments I can't handle? Possibly.
Undertaking an edit like this though is something I've never attempted before. And when I'm scared, with little confidence, I'm prone to procrastination. I'll put all my energies into other projects and put this one off. Because it seems so big. Massive. Like I could never achieve it.
The only way I could see myself going through with it, is by filming it. That is my deadline.
It is one thing writing 70,000 words. It's quite another to craft those words, those sentences, paragraphs and chapters into something cohesive. Something that'll entertain, keep the reader gripped, and tells the story that you've had in your head for so long to the best of your ability.
Right now I'm at a pretty low point with my writing. And exposing myself like this could go one of two ways. But, I'm trying to convince the 25% of myself that wants to give up that writing is worth pursuing. So this is almost do or die. Pushing myself to do something that frightens me.
One of the most frustrating parts of being ill with the flu is not being able to write or create. (Or eat, or go outside...but mainly the not writing.) All you can do is lie in bed and think; too weak to read, eyes too tired or sore to watch anything, not wanting to sleep again.
You think of everything you want to write. Of ideas for blog posts, for possible vlogs and how to arrange the editorial calendar in your new job. If you're anything like me you sketch it all out in your head, get incredibly excited then frustrated again, and end up not being able to sleep anyway.
So in the last, (ooh, has it really been) five days, of enforced rest, I've been thinking about what my priorities are. Because as well as worrying about my writing I've also been thinking of all the others things I'm not doing whilst lying in bed. Getting the garden ready for winter, cleaning out the chickens, finishing off the bedroom sort-out I was part way through when I was struck down, finding my daughter's piano books I accidentally put in a safe place, making sure my son finishes his homework..
Yes, my brain has not had any rest the poor thing.
And it occurred to me that it was time. Time for me to start editing my novel. I alluded to bad news in this post and, although it isn't catastrophic and could actually work out for the best, it did stop me in my tracks for a while. Because it was related to writing my novel.
But I've had enough of sulking now. The time is right to get on with it because I know I can do this.
In an interview I did with Katy Colins over on Novelicious she mentioned setting herself deadlines gave her the impetus to get things done. I'm absolutely rubbish with self imposed deadlines. So I need another stick or carrot to drive me forward.
That's when I decided to record my writing process. I've fallen in love with making films during the course of this year. So why not record myself writing my book? Who knows, I might even show my face on it and, you know, speak. Though a) I need to get over the flu first and b) need a good foundation to calm my rather weather-beaten face.
Anyway, this is my first mini-film of the very start of a very big structural edit of my novel.
I shouldn't have held his foot.
We were on a mission. The four of us. Myself, husband, son and daughter. We'd left the brightness of the house; the laughter on the TV ceasing as we closed the door and stepped outside into the darkness. I urged my husband to hurry up. He had the torch yet was straggling behind at the back, making our shadows loom up menacingly. I urged him again. It would not do to step on a hedgehog.
Our mission was to move the cockerels from the coop nearest to the house, to the one we'd moved earlier that day down the bottom of the field. I'd covered it in tarpaulin and tree branches, their dead leaves languishing; fluttering slightly in the breeze. I wanted to soundproof it yet still allow the air to circulate.
For the last week one of the cockerels had been crowing. Slightly hesitant at first, he became louder and prouder as the week went on. He seemed to strut, bossing the other two cockerels, keeping them in their place. And, when he felt like it, he'd jump on top of one of the girls. His youth only then showing as the girls turned on him, pecking at him and he would flee, squawking, confused.
I would watch him walking around the field during the day. He'd stop, his feathers around his neck would rise, he'd extend his neck and open his mouth to crow. It was a lovely sound. But I was anxious. The other two would start crowing soon, too. Our neighbours are not far away. And too many cockerels would create tension and fighting.
Every morning I'd wake early. Not because of the crowing, although that would start soon enough. But because I didn't know what to do with them. I advertised on a website but there was no interest. And I even thought about finding someone to kill, gut and pluck them.
At that stage I thought I could eat them.
That was before I held his foot.
But when I went out during the day they were the first to come running towards me. Obviously it was cupboard love. When I reached out to them they wouldn't come close. Not even for corn. Their mum, Wincey, was fiercely protective of them when they were chicks. We weren't allowed to touch and if I picked one up she would fly at me. I only did it once or twice and fortunately there was a barrier between us.
So I'd never held them properly. And certainly not as adults.
Tonight though, on this mission, I would have to. We were, after all, moving them.
We opened the back of the coop and my husband shone the torch inside. There they were. The three boys, and their sister, Trixibelle. Perched happily, ready for sleep.
They were not amused as I picked the first one up. My son grabbed the second. Oh the squawking. Their collars ruffled up. Shout, shout, shout.
"Let him grip your finger," my son said. His had calmed down as we walked slowly down the field. I did as he instructed. Placing my finger on the soft underside of the cockerel's foot. His toes immediately curled around my finger. His squawking stopped and his feathers around his collar went down. It was like a baby's grip. I felt a connection with the bird. I knew he was scared and wanted to reassure him.
Just five months or so earlier this year I'd carried the fertilised eggs carefully and placed them underneath Wincey. I'd watched, awestruck, when these boys entered the world. The first one breaking out of his shell I managed to capture on film. Every hour I would pop down to the shed, to check on their progress. The first time they came out of their little house. The first time they came out of the shed and stepped on grass. The first time they met other chickens. I was there throughout.
I was reluctant to let him go, but carefully, I placed the cockerel in my arms into the coop with his two brothers and they were silent. The darkness calming them. In the morning their crowing could not be heard from our bedroom. Result. I walked down to release them. Hesitantly they stepped out and we herded them back up the field to their food and water. One stopped to crow on the way.
We repeated the process the following night. It was working a treat.
But then, the following day, they went to their new home. The man I'd been in touch with who said he could take them was ready to collect.
My stomach sank with sadness. I should not have held his foot.
But it's ok, really. They've settled in. I can see their progress on facebook. And the rest of the flock are a lot calmer now they've gone. I feel the girls are saying, thank goodness for that.
