A scene evolves (SPOILER)
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August 28, 2025
Ever wondered how a scrappy block of notes transforms into a living, breathing scene? For me, it’s part chaos, part chiselling, and part listening for the voices in my head. Today I thought I’d pull back the curtain and share one of those transformations—from guiding note to messy draft to something closer to finished.
This is Scene 10, Act 2 of The Art of Stealing Chips in the Mizzle. The gulls have shifted their base to the roof of St Ives Rugby Club. From here they swoop down on the Cornish village of Mousehole, raiding tourists and clashing with the local gulls. They return bloodied but victorious—bellies full, feathers ruffled, pride intact.
The Guiding Note
Draft 1
Draft 2
The Guiding Note
(Every scene in the book begins with one of these—a compass point to keep me on track. For this novella every scene was listed prior to the main body of work commencing.)
Scene 10: Act 2. That evening on the rugby club roof, the gulls celebrate their successful raid. Racket retells his triumph whilst eating flapjack, Twitch allows Snap to take advantage, and Wencastle entertains with his humour. But amid the noise, Flick notices Samoel sitting alone. The victory feels hollow. As chants rise and Malivor promises more raids.
Draft 1: Messy Energy
(Written during my “one scene a day” sprint.)
That evening, on the roof of the rugby club, gulls squarked, jostled, flapped and boasted well into the darkness. A few sported missing feathers and fresh wounds. Racket was re-enacting a dive, describing the thrill and success. Even Twitch seemed to be enjoying herself, jabbering deliriously beneath Snap, who had, at last, succumbed to her charms.
On the pitch below, a fox slinked along the hedge line, casting a cautious glance at the roof before moving on. A few gulls threw out warning cries, but nobody was in the mood for a party pooper. At ground level, occasional car headlights swept the grass, catching the spiked stems and glittering dew.
Flick was with Racket, only half listening as he jabbered about recent events and their effect on the value of ring pulls.
From a neighbouring rooftop, a window swung open. The domed head of a human popped out.
“Will you shut the fuck up!” the human screamed into the night. “Some of us have work in the morning!”
The roof exploded with squawks. Wencastle mimicked the voice perfectly, sending many almost mad with happiness.
“Let’s squit on his car!” a gull cried. This roused sufficient interest that a small group took off immediately.
At the centre of it all, holding court, was Malivor. Wings out, head high, pacing the ridge like a king.
“They didn’t know what hit them,” he boomed. “Well, St Ives hit them. And we’ll do it again, and again, and again!”
The roof erupted again.
“St Ives! St Ives! St Ives!”
Flick’s gaze drifted from the scene. Across the way, on a neighbouring rooftop, Samoel sat alone, huddled against a narrow chimney stack. Silent, staring down at something Flick couldn’t see.
Flick half wished he hadn’t chosen this life. If Flick hadn’t enticed him to their ways, that day on the Tate… maybe he’d have learned to hunt, to forage, to survive the old-fashioned way. Maybe he’d have stayed clear of all this. Then again. Maybe he’d have caught the sickness from mother and father.
But the Mousehole raid had worked, hadn’t it? They’d eaten. They’d struck back against those who refused to help. Made a mark. That meant something… didn’t it?
He looked at Malivor, basking in the adoration. He wanted to believe. In the power. In the plan.
But Samoel’s face, in Mousehole earlier—the young female—the disgust in his eyes.
That hadn’t been right.
On the roof, someone started a chant. The celebration surged once more.
Wencastle landed next to him.
“Malivor says we hit Marazion. Tomorrow.”
Flick nodded, but his gut remained tight.
What was Malivor’s end goal?
Where was all this heading?
Draft 2: Sharpened With Wine
(Revised 28th August, evening, fuelled by a glass of red.)
Note for those not of these shores: Wencastle is a Geordie, has an accent.
That evening, the rugby club roof bounced with noise. Gulls jostled, flapped, squarked, showing off fresh nicks and missing feathers with pride. Wencastle re-enacted his ‘Mousehole dive,’ the stunt he wouldn’t shut up about.
“ Table long as a landin’ strip,” he crowed. “So a just fookin’ landed—glasses an’ scran gannin’ aall ower, like!”
Those nearest erupted. Wings slapped bone-dry corrugate, cries rising.
Flick surveyed his new home. Didn’t seem so bad on a full belly. Headlights swept the pitch below, dew glittering like stars in the grass. A window banged open on a neighbouring pitched roof. A shiny-headed human appeared.
“Will you lot shut the fook up!” the human bawled.
Wencastle mimicked the voice, pitch-perfect, then added,
“Pebble-heed’s hoyin’ a reet strop, like. One sarnie short o’ a picnic, man!”
The flock tipped back their gullets, unleashing a rare and beautiful bellyburst: a run of consecutive quadruple belly squarks.
“Do his car!” A mob launched at once, wings whumping in the cool dark air.
Amongst the chaos strode Malivor, wings wide, head high, pacing the ridge like a king.
“They didn’t know what hit them,” he crowed. “St Ives hit them. And we’ll do it again, and again, and again!”
The chant ripped out: “Do them! Do them! Do them!”
Flick’s gaze slid away. On a smaller roof nearby, Samoel hunched by a chimney stack, silent, staring down at something Flick couldn’t see.
Flick’s chest tightened; he wished Samoel wasn’t here. His brother might’ve learned to fish, forage—stay safe. Then again—he might've have died with mother and father. The Mousehole raid had worked. They’d eaten. Wasn’t that the point? Or should they just have laid down and died?
He looked at Malivor lapping up the cries and wanted to believe. In the need for the fight. In the righteousness of survival.
But Samoel’s face back in Mousehole—the young female—the disgust.
That hadn’t been right.
Snap arrived, landed next to Flick.
“He made you crew leader. Congrats.”
Flick nodded. So. It was official now.
Leader of gulls.
Final Thoughts
The scene's not finished. Needs another revision. For another day. I enjoy the 'polishing' most of all. Striving to make every line pull its weight. Let's see what draft 3 brings...