Chess pieces by Salvatore Vuono/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

On a recent visit to Venice, I stayed in a rental apartment. A pleasant one, with light filtering in from the canal outside the window, traditional arched windows and comfortable sofas (essential for good laptop sessions). Since this was an apartment used by its owners, and not one furnished from IKEA for visitors only, there were pictures and ornaments. And, on the large, low table in front of the sofas, a fine chess set.

I’m not a chess player. I used to play with my father, long ago, but not for years. But I can remember how the pieces are laid out. First off, the queens weren’t in their proper places, the white queen was sitting disconsolately on a dark square, while the red queen was on the wrong side of her king. Queens sit on squares of their own colour, so they had to be swapped round. Then another glance over the board revealed that a white knight was trespassing on a bishop’s territority. He was put back in his own square, and everything was in order: neat ranks of pawns in front with stately superior beings in the rows behind.

The next morning, the pawns weren’t so neat. In fact, not a single one was in its right place. It was clear the pawns were getting uppity. Maybe even planning some kind of demo. Why should pawns be dispensable? Why should it be so hard for a pawn to rise through the ranks and achieve the highest office? What happened to democracy here?

Perhaps they’d been watching scenes from Syntagma Square on TV and picking up some tips. One red pawn was on its side and, judging by the way a red knight had edged forward, it looked like authority was exerting itself. I set the pawns back on their squares, put on my sunglasses and went off to do a spot of research.

When I came back, more trouble was afoot. The red bishops were in a huddle with the red knight, and on the other side of the board, a white bishop was standing next to the queen. The white king, who looked haughty but dim, was off the board, gazing up at the beamed ceiling.

When bishops start plotting, you know there’s more trouble to come. Moreover, the pawns on both sides of the board had drawn closer together – and, for heaven’s sake, three of the red pawns were right across the board and standing shoulder to shoulder on the same squares as a couple of white pawns and a white knight.

A few quick moves, and order was restored – again. No more TV, and I’d keep an eye on them during the lazy, hot hours of a summer’s afternoon. Siesta time for them, they could snooze quietly on their squares. Absorbed in my work, I didn’t notice the shuffling going on in front of my eyes, until a pawn landed on my keyboard.

That was it.

They could repress and revolt on their board, but there’s no way I was going to let those pieces near the internet. Half an hour with Google, and the Venetian Republic could be in danger.

I needed a box. Preferably two boxes. But the apartment didn’t have these useful containers, so the white pieces went into a Billa supermarket bag, and the red pieces into the bag marked Venetian Biennale 2011. A firm knot in each case, and that was them dealt with.

What will the owners of the apartment think when they come back and find the chess pieces in bags at opposite ends of the table, and the chess board turned upside down?

If they do.

If those cunning chess pieces haven’t fought their way out of the paper bags.

If…

If we edit and criticise what we write, as we write it, how can our words flow? And if the words don’t flow, how good is our writing going to be?

I’m a trained touch typist, and there are times when the words on the page I’ve just written don’t have a single error.

Good?

Bad!

That means the words aren’t flowing. When I’m away with the fairies and my muse is in charge, my typing is so full of mistakes it looks like the cat’s taken over the keyboard.

A neuroscientist might be able to explain this. I suspect my brain switches over from the thinking part to the imagining part, and co-ordination and control of my fingers belong to the thinking part.

So I welcome a page of typos, it tells me I’ve been writing, not typing. Mind you, the well-typed stuff isn’t awful. I’ve put in my 10,000 hours and a lot more, I know what I’m doing. Yet it lacks sparkle, the story doesn’t fly, I’m never pleased with it.

Good enough is not good enough.

When I’m thinking-typing, my internal editor is definitely in charge. In the shape of black Snarker, sitting on my shoulder, peering at the screen. He (Snarker has an alto voice, but he’s masculine all right) starts off in helpful mode:

– Oops, spelling mistake there. Go back and correct it. What do you mean, it doesn’t matter now? Spelling is really important, you have to get it right.

– I can do it later, go away, you’re interrupting.

– Do it now. Now, now, NOW. (Snarker’s beginning to raise his voice.) Do you want red crosses all over the page? And grammar, what about that apostrophe in the wrong place, how can you tolerate that for one single second? Correct it, please. Let’s get this right.

– Look, shut up, okay? I’m writing a story, not taking a typing test. I can put it right afterwards, let me just get on with it. I’ve got this character hanging by his fingertips from the cliff, do you want him to plunge to his death?

– Better he does than you write their when you mean they’re, how could you do that?

Now Snarker’s warming up. He’s got me worried about spelling and grammar, but that isn’t enough:

– You might as well let that guy fall off the cliff. He’s a dumb character, anyhow, who would ever care about him? All your characters are two-dimensional, did you know that? And a cliff edge? Puh-lease, don’t you know about avoiding clichés? Besides, he shouldn’t be there now, you clearly didn’t learn anything from all those writing craft books out there. You’ve reached a climax at least thirty pages too soon.

– Buzz off, will you? As it happens, I’m not writing my scenes in order. I’m working on the key ones first.

– How sloppy is that? Amateur, I’d call it. You’ll never get a book finished that way.

– I always do.

– Maybe if you didn’t do that, you’d be a better writer. Maybe you’d be a million copy bestseller if you just listened to me. Because you’re going nowhere with this story, you do realize that? If I were you, I’d bin it, start again, and this time pay attention to what I have to say.

Thanks, friend.

Anti-Snarker techniques:

Number 1: Blank out the screen. If you can’t read what you’re writing, nor can he.

Or, Number 2: if you need something on the screen (and want to be sure you’re not typing into an email to the gas board), shrink the text to a size where you can’t read it.

Number 3: Use a dictation program, and speak into a digital recorder.

Other suggestions:

Take up advanced meditation so that you can remove Snarker from your consciousness.

Buy a Snarker zapper on eBay.

Get the cat to write your stories.

How do you deal with the critic on your shoulder?

By nature, inclination, recklessness – and maybe laziness – I’m a plunger.

This has its consequences in life as in art, as when, way back, a schoolfriend and I leapt into a dubious pool up-country from Calcutta. I was lucky and got a bad attack of dysentery. She wasn’t and nearly died of typhoid.

Plunging into writing a new novel may not carry such physical dangers, but it’s still  full of lurking threats. And I know this, and I still do it, every time.

The idea arrives from nowhere, that tingly sixth sense buzzes in some remote spot of my mind, a spot not yet pinpointed by the neuroscientists. Then the characters saunter on stage, talking among themselves, ignoring the director until the action begins. The plot comes jumping along, an incident here, an encounter there. It’s happy time, with nothing demanded of my conscious mind. I can see the whole book, like a tapestry, I know how it begins and probably how it will end.

So, plunge time!

It’s great. I swim triumphantly through crystal clear waters, no beasties lurking here, until, at about ten or fifteen thousands words in, the water’s beginning to look a bit murkier. At twenty thousand, twenty-five thousand words, it has that sinister green colour I remember from my Indian childhood.

Trouble.

Every time, trouble.

It’s the hundred page barrier, I tell myself. All novelists, everywhere, hit trouble at page 100. It’s a rule, it’s the muse’s revenge for being summoned when she had better things to do, it’s the power of numbers.

And that’s the moment when I start to think about all the other books I could be writing instead of this one. Why did I for a moment imagine this story was worth the telling, or that I was capable of telling it?

Siren voices call to me:

Look what a delightful character I am, why not write my story?

Hey, how about a contemporary, don’t you know historicals are past their sell-by?

You know that great fantasy plot you thought up?

Have you thought of looking at the job ads?

Don’t you know how grubby those floors are?

Chocolate?

I know better. I’ve been here before. Twenty-eight times, to be exact. Talk about repeating an action and expecting a different result!

And I know what I have to do. It’s finally time to write that outline. I know where I’m starting and I know my destination. I set off driving by the stars, now it’s time to come down to earth and use a map.

All roads lead to Rome, but you have to choose which one you’re going to take. I can opt for a scenic route, top speed by motorway or threading through busy city streets – and, mostly, a combination. But I need a route to follow.

Oddly enough, at this stage, my mind, which shunned the very idea of an outline, is ready to obey and obliges with an acceptable plan. Mind you, I reserve the right to take a detour, or to hop off the motorway to visit a fascinating site, or to stop in the city for an unexpected assignation. Then it’s back to the map and the words fly by, until, amazingly, the hundred thousand marker flashes past, and there it is, just over the next hill, my destination.

Of course, every time I swear I’ll do it differently.

THIS time, I’m going to outline. I’m going to write a detailed synopsis, bios of my characters. I’m going to Snowflake, Save the Cat, Truby it.

And then I think, the devil with this, weeks are passing, and the story isn’t getting written, and these characters are getting restless – time to go.

Just once more, I’ll take the plunge…

Of course you do, everyone does.

I want to learn the piano, to speak fluent Italian and to get to grips with the ninety percent of my Mac that I never use.

But the skill I really want to acquire is a lot tougher than any of these, and it’s a skill that doesn’t have any online or real world resources to help me. No clubs, no classes, no courses, no manuals or videos.

Lucca is an amazing city in Italy, in Tuscany. It has its share of tourists, but not as many as the hotspots, because there’s nothing spectacular to draw them here. No Ponte Vecchio, no Uffizi, no Palio, no Grand Canal, no Roman arena, no glorious relics of ancient Rome like the Pantheon or the Colosseum.

The beauty and attraction of Lucca is the city itself. It is one of only three cities in Europe that retains a full circumference of walls (the others are Avila in Spain and Carcassonne in France), and it’s packed with charming buildings, including the famous Giungini tower with trees on top.

The walls are immense, and are a linear park – the width of a wide road, lined with trees, with vistas of mountains on one side and the streets of the city on the other. And, amazing in Italy, car free.

But not bicycle free, because the other wonderful thing about Lucca is that it’s a city full of cyclists. Unlike most Italian walled towns, it’s not on a hill top, but flat. And its street pattern reflects the grid of the Roman town it originally was, so no going round in circles.

Lucca residents cycle. Young, old, plump, thin, workers, pensioners – everyone is on a bike. The centro storico is banned to most traffic, so cyclists have the road – and (this is Italy) the one-way signs don’t apply to people on bicycles. It’s not all smooth sailing, however –you need to be savvy, to reckon at which of the many crossroads the other guy has the right of way (or thinks he has) and at night, you need cat’s eyes, because the Lucchesi don’t go in for lights on their cycles.

I kid you not. It’s kind of scary to go out after dark on foot, and even scarier to ride a lampless bike. Here my English half kicks in, and I have LEDs fore and aft on our bikes (in Lucca, we’re a two-bike-no-car family).

So what’s the skill? If we have bikes, I must be able to ride a bike, surely?

Yes, I can ride a bike.

What I can’t do, is ride a bike in the rain while holding an umbrella up. Which is what all the Lucchesi seem born able to do. A drop or two of rain, and click, up goes the umbrella, without missing a beat of the pedals.

More than that, they can ride a bike in the rain, without lights, holding an umbrella and having a conversation on their telefonino (that’s Italian for cell phone).

That’s the skill I’d like to acquire, and I have a feeling I’m going to be playing Bach fugues on the piano before I’m out there on my bike in the dark and the wet with my umbrella in the air and my phone clasped to my ear.