G J Rutherford

Writer, Caregiver & Ever So Free With His Old Man Advice.

Month: October, 2014

Gauging Writing Progress

Earlier this year, I started rewriting a story that first inspired me to write. -A huge fantasy that I imagine will spill into at least a half dozen volumes. It has entertained a fair few beta readers over the years, mainly stalwarts who forgave me poor grammar and diction.

I’d considered the first two volumes I’d rewritten this year as quite good and, whilst considering improvements to them, I reread the subsequent volume I’d created two years ago. – It was poorly structured, flabby and technically inept, but it was a far, far more entertaining read. – At first I felt pleased, but then the doubts set in. – I wrote far better two years ago than I do now… My writing had more depth, and the characters felt real… – Now they look a lot better polished, but something is missing…

I had two supporters in the earliest days, Deb Sainty (who died aged 37 on October 4th) and Mark Condren. – Mark, a plain-speaking Australian, warned me about losing the ‘passion’ I poured into the written word with my desire to improve. – Around three and a half years on from when he first made it, I finally get what he means…

When I first started, I could concentrate on nothing other than the story, for grammar and style were alien concepts. – Now, as technical ability finally knocks on my door, I’ve changed my emphasis, more concerned about a repeating word or a clunky phrase than the tale I am relating.

It is said that recognising a flaw is the first step towards correcting it, and I damn well hope that’s true, because I’ve sterilised my writing a little this last year.

Not good. :/



Four years ago, when I took my first tentative steps at writing, I befriended a young lady called Deb Sainty, or Stonesinger as she preferred. Married, with three kids, she became as a little sister and a friend who I was yet to meet face to face.

I’ll never get that chance now, as she passed away this weekend. She was in her thirties, and was so enthusiastic about the future she’d forged for herself. That future evaporated with her passing, and a great many people are left with a hole that can never be filled.

Every word I’ve written was read by her. Every idea I ever had was approved and improved by her, and she’ll never get to see where it will lead but, by God, her soul is immortalised in every page I’ve written. She was more than a friend and muse, and she never realised just how special she was and, even if she had, she would have just shrugged it off.

I swear she’ll never be forgotten and, although I feel like my heart has been ripped out, I’ll see the project we embarked on together completed, and let the world know all about the diminutive southerner with the tender soul.