I finished the 'opening bits' this a.m. and everyone hated them - babes, my publisher, new readers. Hate is too strong a word, I know, but it reflected what I knew when I printed it off: I was just trying to please the new readers who found holes in the story (bless and curse them). It really wasn't where I was heading with this story.
Still, I don't think it's going to be too hard to fix. The key point was that the they did not care about Rosie as much as I needed them to so my aim was to show the connection between the two young leads.
My lunch time, today: Babes calling me over to their table in the dining room. 'Mrs Roxborogh. We need to meet. Please sit.'
'Meet?' sez I. 'Why?'
'This new start,' sez Dannielle. 'Barks like a dog.' (actually she didn't say that but I love that phrase from an NZ ad with a groovy NZ actor)
The rest nod.
'Smacks of info dumping,' Imogen says. 'You can do better.'
I sigh and look out at the persistent rain which has been falling now for three days and nights. 'I'm over it, girls,' I say.
'No,' comes a chorus. 'Don't give up. It will be okay.' They give each other meaningful looks. 'We are here for you.'
Imogen pats my hand and smiles. I look at my Columba sub sandwich and want for the all the world to retreat to my warm classroom.
As I battle the blustering wet, three Year 9s nab me. 'Aren't we supposed to be on the trip today?'
I pause. Trip. Trip? Oh, hell, trip. I look at my watch. 'Yes ladies,' I say convincingly, tearing myself away from 11th century Scotland. 'To the bus. To the bus.'
And so, I have to push away my thinking of one of the greatest stories ever to help my dear wee petals think about Otago, one hundred years ago.
Rosie and Flea better sort out their deal before I'm driven insane.