Get On With It

Resolutions and Hoops

2012-01-02T10:27:00.001Z

I shouldn't be here. My mum is staying, and she can't understand the lure of the computer and the typing of lovely words. I haven't done any writing at all since just before Christmas, which is unheard of. What if I've forgotten how to do it?

I have this horrible feeling that if I don't write every day my creative muscle will grow weak and flabby - I need to exercise it and get it toned up again (a bit like the rest of me).

My New Year's writing resolution is to increase my output in 2012 and to stop worrying about 'the market' so much as it freezes me up, but I've lots of catching up to do already.

Talking of exercise, we've been hula-hooping like mad. Or trying to.

It started as a laugh, but I'm getting frustrated now. Lovely daughter makes it look simple, and can practically read a book at the same time. My mum's got the hang of it and she's nearly 70, but me?

Let's just say Lovely Daughter's threatened to film me and put the results on You Tube, she finds my efforts so hilarious. It's like I'm fighting the Invisible Man - badly - while rotating my hips like granny on the dance-floor, as the hoop lies listlessly round my feet.

Tips anyone?

And if you think there's a story in it do let me know. I haven't got time to be creative - I need to put the kettle on.

Festive Greetings

2011-12-23T19:41:00.001Z

Thanks for your support and for following my blog this year - even though I haven't posted that often over the last few months. Will do better next year!

I hope Christmas is filled with your favourite things, and wish you all a happy and healthy 2012.

Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

2011-12-02T17:59:00.001Z

I was chuffed to little mint balls - as we used to say Up North - to see that my novel has finally appeared on my German publisher's website. It's real. It's got pages. My name is on the cover. Okay, so it's not out until next September, but it exists and that'll have to do for now.

I called it My Future Husband, but the German interpretation is quite different and roughly translates as 'Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained' (I think!)

There's no hint of the time-travel contained within its pages, but I'm not complaining. Oooh no. I'm just really happy to see it.

Tears and Laughter

2011-11-16T10:02:00.001Z

Tears and Laughter and Happy Ever After is the project I mysteriously referred to a while ago - a short story collection now available on Kindle at a very reasonable price. Hurray! Not that you HAVE to buy it, but you'd be mad not to. Oh and I'm in it, by the way.

The paperback version will be out in time for Christmas - which is rather handy and I hope, if you do fancy a peek, that you find something to your liking.

All the contributors are members of the short story writing group I joined three years ago, and without it I'm certain I wouldn't have gone on to sell so many stories (*cough, seventy-five, cough*) and I'm very proud to be in such good company.

And now for the blurby bit ...

"Tears and Laughter and Happy Ever After" is a vibrant and varied collection of tales from writers who between them have had hundreds of short stories published in women’s magazines in the UK and around the world. Contributors have also won or been placed in dozens of competitions, published novels and written non-fiction for many UK magazines.

As the title suggests, the twenty-six stories encompass the heights of happiness, the depths of sadness, and every emotion in between. Within the pages are a housewife with a surprising secret, a beekeeper with a problem and an undertaker with something unusual on his mind. You’ll encounter angels, ghosts, aliens and other intriguing characters. And, in the end, may just find the path to happy ever after.

“This anthology has something for everyone. It’s a delight.
I only wish I was in it!”
Della Galton

“Like diving into a big box of Quality Street”
Kate Long

All I want for Christmas

2011-11-10T15:11:00.006Z

Beth Prince has always loved fairytales and now, aged twenty-four, she feels like she’s finally on the verge of her own happily ever after. She lives by the seaside, works in the Picturebox – a charming but rundown independent cinema – and has a boyfriend who’s so debonair and charming she can’t believe her luck! There’s just one problem – none of her boyfriends have ever told her they love her and it doesn’t look like Aiden’s going to say it any time soon. Desperate to hear ‘I love you’ for the first time Beth takes matters into her own hands – and instantly wishes she hadn’t. Just when it seems like her luck can’t get any worse, bad news arrives in the devilishly handsome shape of Matt Jones. Matt is the regional director of a multiplex cinema and he’s determined to get his hands on the Picturebox by Christmas. Can Beth keep her job, her man and her home or is her romantic-comedy life about to turn into a disaster movie?

The lovely Cally Taylor's new novel, Home for Christmas, is out today and although it's normally my policy to put off thinking about Christmas until the very last moment, I'm going to make an exception and read it as soon as possible.

All the main character, Beth, wants for Christmas is to hear the words "I love you", which got me thinking about the things I wanted for Christmas when I was growing up.

To be honest, it was mostly a puppy - but we weren't allowed one because my mum (quite rightly with hindsight) felt she'd be the one who ended up looking after it, and she already had four children to contend with. (They were hers, I hasten to add - not four random children she'd taken in especially to avoid having to buy a dog.)

Books always featured highly on my wish lists, and I definitely got plenty of those. We didn't have a TV growing up so reading was our entertainment. That and pestering our parents for a puppy.

But my best-ever present was a camera when I was fouteen. I'd put one on my list, not holding out much hope, and was over the moon to find one in my stocking. (Pretty uncomfortable, I can tell you. HO HO!)

It was an old-fangled one with a cube-flash on top. PLEASE tell me you remember them? Barely a step up from my gran's Box Brownie, but it led to a love of photography that's stayed with me.

I now have a fancy-pants, all-singing all-dancing digital SLR, but I still remember the thrill of that little plastic one - not to mention the look of glazed boredom on people's faces when I begged them to pose again, one last time ...

These days, all I want for Christmas is for everyone to be happy and a plentiful supply of food. Oh and an offer to publish my novel would be nice. Harrumph!

Sunshine and Tinsel

2011-10-05T21:43:00.000+01:00

An incongruous sight while out shopping during the recent heatwave. Cloudless blue sky, people flashing flesh in summer clothes and ... tinsel. Oh and a hanging teddy bear. I was quite disorientated, I can tell you. I still don't know what the bear was doing up there.

I keep thinking there's a story in that picture somewhere, or at least a caption, but I haven't come up with anything suitable yet. (Call yourself a writer? - Ed)

I've been shimmying around the country on trains for the past two days. Up to York to spend a day with family - typically the sky went surly and a breeze sprang up the second I stepped on the platform - and today to spend time with writing friends, to discuss an exciting new project (top secret at the moment! Don't you hate it when people put that on their blogs? I know I do.)

I love travelling by train, I find it genuinely relaxing. I got more writing done than I would have at home, which made me think I should take a long journey every single day. Then I realised I'd be broke by the end of the week and quickly came to my senses.

Does anyone remember when train travel used to be cheap, or am I imagining that?

Crossroads

2011-08-28T17:53:00.003+01:00

So, what's happening on the novel-front? I hear you cry. There was the German deal you were rattling on about over a year ago (God has it been that long?!) and then ... everything went quiet. What's happening?

Well ... not much is the answer. Apparently, my timing is off. No reflection on me or my writing, just that publishers have over-bought in the romantic-comedy (chick-lit) genre and aren't taking on anything new right now - or for the forseeable future.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you how that news has made me feel after my excitement last year, having allowed myself to believe it could actually happen. 'It' being an actual book on a actual shelf in an actual bookshop with an actual cover and everything. *pauses for a prolonged bout of teeth gnashing, hair-pulling and general weeping session.* In the UK that is. Thank GOD for my lovely German deal. It gives me hope.

So, what to do? Well, I could keep writing in this genre and wait for the market to pick up, then trying submitting again down the line. Try and find another agent. Did I mention I no longer have one? (Sob.)

I do understand. It's business after all, and if a client isn't making you money you have to let them go.

I've been advised to try writing for Young Adults - a growth market right now - but it's not for me. I read and enjoy YA books; there are some brilliant ones out there and Meg Rosoff is one of my favourite writers, but I don't think it's possible to write convincingly in a genre you don't feel completely comfortable with, or passionate about.

I do have a psychological thriller all mapped out though, so I could try that.

I'm dithering. I feel a bit jaded. A lot less sure of everything. Not about wanting to write - I'll always want to do that, and the short stories are going well so I do have that, but -

I still believe in my novels. I'm six chapters into novel 3. Another romantic comedy. I'm enjoying writing it, so maybe I'll plough on and finish it for my own satisfaction then pop it in a drawer with the others.

Remind me again why I do this ...

Hope I haven't come across as a self-pitying whinger. I know it's a brutal business and it's one I entered into with my eyes wide open. I just wanted to explain, in case any of you were wondering.

I kind of feel better for it.

Cake-free summer

2011-08-03T09:24:00.000+01:00

Hello August - what the heck happened to July? I must have blinked and missed it.

I know it's summer because it rained, hailed and thundered yesterday, and then got dark quite early.

Also my mum's staying which she does every year, and oddly I manage to squeeze in quite a bit of writing while she's here as she likes a lie-in in the mornings, so I get out my net-book and type away in bed before she gets up. Maybe if she moved in permanently I'd be sure of doing some writing EVERY single morning.

They say it takes 3 weeks to make or break a habit, but I'm still pretty bad at establishing a routine where writing's concerned - though I have managed to give up cake.

This is no mean feat, as I'm sure regular readers will know, and I have to confess it's all down to hypnotism. I don't mean I looked into someone's eyes while they were swinging a gold watch in front of me (do hypnotists still do that anywhere outside fiction anyway?) but rather I've been listening to a download recommended by a friend, of a reassuring chap called Trevor from thinkingslimmer.com who assures me every night before I go to sleep that I actually DON'T NEED cake at all. Unbelievable, I know.

Of course I despised him at first, wanted to punch him in fact, and even tried to argue with him, but slowly, surely his monotone words have dripped into my sub-conscious and I've found myself not even wanting to eat anything remotely sugary AT ALL. For a whole month now.

I'm highly suspicious and doubt it will last, but in the meantime my bottom has shrunk, I'm saving money (I used to eat a LOT of cake, especially those lovely ones in Costa - and I can type that now without drooling)and if I ever meet Trevor I might have to take him out for a coffee and say thank you.

Just a coffee. I won't even look at the cakes ...

Horses for Courses

2011-06-28T23:41:00.003+01:00

My lovely writing friend Helen Hunt is holding a short story workshop at the end of July, aimed at the women's magazine market. She's had plenty of success in this area and knows her onions, so if you're looking to break into the market ... don't sign up. There's enough competition out there already. I'm kidding. No really, I am. DO sign up - I know you'll have an enjoyable and informative experience.

I once did a creative writing course at a local college, when the children were little. My ex-husband didn't believe me and thought I was having an affair. With three children under five, I can't imagine how he thought I had the energy to cheat on him AND write a short story to show him when I got home. But I digress...

Several people on the course were, in my opinion, genuinely talented - one young chap in particular had us in stitches every week with his inventive, off-the-wall tales, and I was certain that one day I'd be either reading his bestselling novel, or seeing a screenplay he'd written. We all did.

I bumped into him in Boots the other day. He works there full time now, and gave up writing soon after the course ended and I couldn't help thinking what a shame. Writing obviously wasn't for him and yet ... I'd bet my life that if he'd persevered he'd be wildly successful by now, because he was a hell of a lot more gifted than most of us in the group - myself included.

It made me realise whoever said writing is 99% perspiration and 1% inspiration is absolutely true for those who stick with it, and the rest?

I guess they'll never know.

The Inspiration Genie

2011-06-13T15:38:00.003+01:00

There was a character in Case Histories on BBC1 last night who was a a novelist, and in one scene a nurse says to him, "There's something I've always wanted to ask. Where do you get your ideas?"

The look on his face said it all, and I gave a wry little laugh. It's one of those questions writers dread as it's so hard to answer sensibly.

It would be great if there was an ideas bank where you could go and withdraw inspiration when you're running low, but for me I find that the more I write the more ideas seem to pop up, and they're everywhere.

A while ago the lovely Teresa Ashby ran a 'first line' competition on her blog, which I entered. I didn't win, but the line stuck in my mind and I've just sold the resulting story I wrote to Woman's Weekly.

A few months back my daughter rang on her way to work in a panic, with the immortal words, "It's only half past six and I've killed a cat."

I think I managed an appropriate response, but I was secretly thinking what a brilliant story opener and subsequently sold that story too.

Sometimes a line on the news or in a TV drama, or in a newspaper or magazine, or an overheard snippet of conversation in a cafe, or something I see in passing will plant itself in my head, and I know there's a story lurking that I want to write.

I've even woken up lately with stories half-formed in my head, that haven't seemed completely ridiculous a couple of hours later.

Maybe it's like exercising a muscle that keeps growing stronger and it's got to a stage where I'm subconciously seeing stories everywhere.

I don't want to put ideas in Teresa's head, but my daughter did demand a cut of my earnings from the dead cat story, as she said I'd never have written it if she hadn't phoned me that morning. (The cat wasn't dead, by the way.)

Which, to be fair, is spot-on.

She did back down though, once I began droning about the unpaid labour that's gone into parenting her over the past twenty years.

Wherein lies another story. Probably.

Piles of patience required

2011-05-27T12:55:00.003+01:00

After I got my feedback back from Lovely Agent, regarding novel 2, I re-read my manuscript for the first time since submitting it; about 3 months. And oh boy - it read embarrassingly like a first draft.

Even though at the time I was convinced it was as good as it could be, it would have benefitted from being thrust under a cushion for a while and a complete rewrite, because things leapt out of the pages, even without the feedback.

A couple of gaping plot holes, a fairly unlikeable main character, and WAY too many repetitions of the word 'heap' for a start. As in 'heaps of fun' and 'piled into a heap' and 'a heap of toast'. What is it with me and the word 'heap'? I wasn't even aware I liked the word, and I certainly can't stand it now.

I think at the time I was too keen to get it sent out, worried the agent might think I wasn't up to the task of completing another novel if I messed around for too long - but with hindsight I should have waited a while.

Luckily the holes are easily plugged, and the word 'heap' has been banished forever, but once I've finished the rewrite I'm going to take the advice I've read so many times before, and print the whole thing out for a final read-through (our printer is dodgy so this option never really appealed before).

THEN I'll shove it under a cushion and let it rest for a bit.

After that, I'll send it back knowing it really IS the best it could possibly be; and hope Lovely Agent agrees.

Guest Post by Alison Pick

2011-05-19T07:00:00.004+01:00

I'm delighted to introduce author, Alison Pick, to my blog. Alison is the author of acclaimed new novel Far to Go, a beautifully written account of a Jewish family living in Czechoslovakia just before World War II, whose existence is threatened with the arrival of German forces.

I'll be posting a full review of the novel next week, but in the meantime Alison tells us about one of her favourite books ...

To ask a writer about her favourite book is like asking Old Mother Hubbard which of her many children she prefers. Which is to say, there is no single answer, or the answer changes from moment to moment, day to day. Still, though, it’s something I love to ask other people, with the understanding that tomorrow the answer will be different.

So. At the moment, the book I love the most, the one that is keeping me up at night, is called ‘Everything I Ate: A Year in the Life of my Mouth.’ It is a fairly straight-forward concept book in which the author, a photographer, took a picture of every single morsel he consumed over the course of an entire calendar. It seemed, on first glance, somewhat banal. As I started turning the pages, though, I realized it was in fact incredibly intimate. Food is deeply personal, we all know that, but to see these photographs laid out, mediated only by the barest amount of text, was like reading someone’s private diary.

I wanted to look away. I felt I should look away. But I just couldn’t.

For someone who spends their life immersed in Literature with a capital L, there was also a palpable relief in a book like this. It was a gift from my old publicist—another reason I love it—and I gather he felt the same. There is no investment. You don’t need to give yourself to this book, try the first chapter and see where it leads. Rather, it just takes you and won’t let you go.

Part of what makes this book fascinating is that the author’s eating habits are atrocious. From January to December there is nary a vegetable to be seen. A handful of green beans, the occasional salad at a restaurant or a friend’s home. Mostly, though, our hero eats cookies. And cupcakes. And grilled cheese, and burgers, and enough pizza to feed a small African nation. All of this is documented without the least trace of self-consciousness. On the contrary, I came away with a sense of the author’s true reverence for food. What we eat, he seems to imply, is who we are, and both are cause for celebration.

I don’t think it’s too much to say that this book will change the way you feel about food.

Warning: It will also make you hungry.

*I already am, Alison!

You can read more from Alison at She Reads Novels and she'll be stopping by The Book Club Forum tomorrow.

Thank you to Headline for my review copy

Murder in the aisles

2011-05-12T08:26:00.000+01:00

I've been in Tesco's a lot lately. Not shopping. That's waaaaaay too boring.

No instead, I've given up a child for adoption, had a couple of affairs, abseiled down a mountain, murdered a woman on a cruise ship, talked a man out of killing himself, joined a mother and toddler group and made a scarecrow.

Okay, not literally. I've been hunched over my netbook in the cafe there, writing stories, fuelled by tea and cake. It's become an addiction. (Not the cake - that was already an addiction.)

In spite of the noise I seem much more focused than at home, where a starling darting past the window can distract me into cutting the grass, or a hint of cobweb can lure me into hoovering the curtains. Or opening an email can lead to hours on the interweb, laughing manically at a moonwalking hamster on You Tube.

I think the staff are puzzled. They slip round corner where I sit out of sight and sneak looks at me while wiping down tables. I make sure I buy a cauliflower or a chicken pasty or something when I've finished, to show I'm actually a perfectly normal housewife. The family still has to eat.

Anyway, they should be careful or they might end up in my next story, battered around the head with a courgette in the veg aisle.

Of course if I was ever invited to do one of those 'Writing Room' features in a magazine, it would look a bit odd. None of the ones I've ever seen has featured a scowling waiter and a dishcloth, or a man in a vest with a trolley filled entirely with beer.

The novel still has to be edited and I'm working on that too. In between mowing the grass, sucking up cobwebs and laughing at moonwalking hamsters.

Royal silliness

2011-04-24T23:36:00.004+01:00

I've shamelessly pinched this idea from the lovely Sally Quilford - mainly as a distraction from the editing pit, and also as a nod to the upcoming royal nuptials.

"What's your royal wedding guest name? Start with either Lord or Lady. Your first name is one of your grandparents names. Your surname is the name of your first pet - double barrelled with the name of the street you grew up on."

Simples.

Mine would be Lady Ethel Bomber-Coniston. Which is plain ridiculous. Bomber was a budgie by the way. Not a fashionable pet these days.

I think you get the drift.

Losing words

2011-04-14T20:27:00.003+01:00

Well, the verdict is in on novel 2 and it's mostly very positive. BUT - there's editing to be done.

And there was me thinking it would be ready to publish by Monday ...

The main thing is, I need to lose around 100 pages to increase the pace - which is easier said than done. I've tried shoving them down the back of the radiator, setting them alight in the garden, fashioning them into origami swans, sliding them under the mattress and taking an axe to the buggers, but the last time I looked they were - well, surprisingly they were still there.

I suppose that means I'm going to have to do it the hard way. By actually writing - or should that be rewriting? Obviously it's not as simple as lopping a few chapters off the end - the dynamic of the story will change with every word that's cut, affecting all the words that follow.

Obviously.

Which means I'd better stop messing about and get to it - those pages aren't going to magically vanish. Which is kind of ironic when you consider my story is about a witch.

Wish me luck. I may be some time.

All change

2011-03-30T20:31:00.007+01:00

I've decided to update my blog and have included a short story page if you'd like a peek. I may post a new one now and again on a whim - depending which way the wind's blowing, and whether or not there's an i in the month.

Okay, okay I'm procrastinating - still waiting for feedback on novel 2 and wondering if novel 3 is the one I should be writing, or whether I should go back to the novel that was going to be novel 2 before the original novel 3 became novel 2.

Confused? I know I am.

Meanwhile I was lucky enough to meet up with a group of fellow writers on a lovely, sunny day in Peterborough last week, and it was amazing how many times over lunch we all blurted, "there's GOT to be a story in that!"

Once you're in the zone it's quite easy to imagine fictioning up the most mundane situation. When I popped to the Ladies to powder my nose at Marylebone station, and noticed a woman caught trying to leap the turnstile rather than pay thirty pee for a pee, part of my addled brain was thinking, hmmmm - there's GOT to be a story in that.

The thing is ... would anyone want to read it?

An award and 7 things

2011-03-17T20:43:00.003Z

Two lovely and talented lady-writers, Lydia and Teresa Ashby have gone a little bit mad and bestowed this handsome award upon me - which is nice.

The rules state I have to tell you 7 things about myself, but I've bored you all senseless in that department in previous posts, so instead I'll list 7 things that are on my desk that have nothing to do with writing.

1. A half-empty packet of digestive biscuits. Can't think who ate them, but it couldn't possibly have been me.

2. My lucky mascot, Quackers. My grandma knitted him years ago, and seeing him reminds me of her. (Not that she looked like that I hasten to add.)

3) A tube of effervescent (love that word) vitamin C tablets and a carton of cranberry juice, both my husband's. He's on a bit of a health kick. Unlike me.

4) A mangled, half-chewed biro I rescued from the dog, which she obviously mistook for a rat.

5) A silver sharpener I used earlier for my eyeliner pencil.

6) A copy of Grazia magazine. So I can plan my summer wardrobe dahlings.

7) A crumpled contact lens and a Penny Red stamp lying rather poignantly side by side. My husband's a collector of the latter and the first is the reason I can only see properly out of one eye at the moment.

Looking back at that list, I'm slightly ashamed and will be doing a spot of tidying forthwith.

Keeping Quiet

2011-02-18T18:24:00.007Z

Yesterday at work we were discussing the weekly coffee mornings at the library, and I was asked if I'd be interested in giving a talk about being a writer.

Inside my head this happened ...

On the surface I smiled pleasantly, though my first instinct was to scream NO! I once gave a 'best man's' speech at a friend's wedding years ago, and have never been so close to vomiting and fainting all at the same time, even though it went quite well in the end.

I hate that feeling. I'll shake, my voice will shake, I'll go red and the audience will know I'm nervous and feel nervous for me. However, IF I ever get published *cough, in this country, cough* I might be expected to give a talk here and there, so I figured it could be a good way for me to cut my teeth. Who would these people at the coffee morning be, I queried.

"Oh you know a few old dears, some mums, people wanting to support the library, that kind of thing. There's one old man who likes to come in for a cup of tea and a sleep."

I said I'd think about it. And then I said no. Because I'll only spend the next few weeks fretting about it and making myself feel ill otherwise.

Also, I feel like a fraud without an actual book I can hold up to prove I AM a writer. I can just picture the scepticism as Gladys demands to see my credentials, wanting tangible proof that I know what I'm wittering about.

Secondly, if it was people specifically turning up to hear someone talk about writing it might not be too bad, but it's not. Topics vary from week to week - from Medieval Chesham to finding a job online - but the audience remains the same. I'd only bore them rigid.

Thirdly ... well I suppose I'm a big ol' coward.

If I do ever get that publishing deal I expect it'll be a different story. I'll be begging them to let me give a talk about my 'journey'.

The problem will be shutting me up, but until then I'm keeping it zipped.

The Art of Relaxing

2011-02-07T16:56:00.003Z

Does anyone else suffer from ET (Extreme Tension) while writing? I'm going to assume the answer is YES, otherwise it might mean I'm freakish.

Mine tends to travel around my body. Sometimes it's in my neck, others my back and at the moment it's all in my tummy. I'm not aware of it as I'm writing, it's only afterwards when I realise I can barely move/breathe/nod my head when somebody offers me cake.

Once it's got a grip of a particular area it stays for a while before moving on, like a grubby student on a gap-year. No matter how many stretches and deep breathing exercises I do before or after - or in between - those pesky muscles tense up the second I begin writing.

It can even get quite painful, but it's such a sub-conscious (unconscious?) thing I can't control it. So what to do?

Well, put up with it I suppose and keep doing the stretches. On the other hand someone's suggested a rather vigorous form of yoga - see above - that's supposed to keep the muscles loose and relaxed no matter what. Thing is I'm a tiny bit worried about snapping my arms or spraining my waist - which would be even more painful, obviously.

Plus I don't have time to learn how to wrap my knees round my throat. I'm too busy writing, see?

What do you do to relax?

Finito

2011-01-26T19:38:00.003Z

I've finally finished the first draft of novel 2 and have emailed it to Lovely Agent.

Now the nail-biting, email-watching waiting begins again. If she doesn't like it I'll bloody shoot myself. Not really, but let's say I'm more realistic about the whole process this time round, and not quite as giddy with excitement as this time last year.

I'm going to miss my characters, though I'll no doubt be revisiting them in the edits. I've almost started to believe they were real.

I didn't realise there was an underlying theme to my story until I'd finished, which means I'm either a terrible writer or a wee bit simple, but nearly all my characters have dysfunctional parents which has affected their adult relationships.

It's nice to know there is a theme, and that it's not just a Very Silly Story - though it is that too of course.

Anyway, hello real world - I've missed you.

A bit.

This 'Ol House

2011-01-06T16:53:00.003Z

I've noticed recently that in all my novel attempts so far there's been a recurring theme. Actually it's not a theme, it's a thing.

Houses. BIG houses. Stately homes, mansions, manor houses, country piles, the bigger the better.

It's quite bizarre for someone who was raised in a three bedroomed semi with one bathroom. Mind you we often traipsed round stately homes at the weekends, and I still quite like visiting them now.

Delusions of grandeur maybe? Not really. I'd actually hate to live in a house with a wing - or more than four bedooms. Apart from the cleaning I'd soon be convinced there were ghosts loitering round every corner waiting to bash my head in, or that a dangerous prisoner had escaped from a nearby lunatic asylum and moved into the attic, waiting to bash my head in. Or that the house was evil and about to start sprouting flies from the toilet bowl. In fact no film plot would be left unturned.

I suppose that's what it is really. Big houses make for good plots, though I might buck the trend in my next novel and have all my characters squished into a one-bedroomed flat in Barnet.

Do you have recurring Things cropping up in your writing?

Pluses and minuses

2010-12-19T10:46:00.010Z

Minus - We're snowed in again, just as we were this time last year. It's knee-deep out there, and STILL Molly expects to be walked twice a day.

Plus - Our kitchen is ... drumroll ... finally finished. Only four months late. I hardly know what to do with all that space. Which is why I'm typing this instead of moving everything back in there.

Minus - We intended having a massive celebratory roast today (if I can remember how to cook)but only managed to buy a chicken before vehicles were abandoned to the snow yesterday - so that will be our dinner. Ah well, who needs veggies?

Plus - Am churning out a good amount for words for Novel 2 most days.

Minus - I'm still not going to meet my end-of-December deadline. Succumbed to a cold/cough/flu type virus a couple of weeks ago and, coupled with a last ditch attempt to find an available kitchen-fitter who wouldn't run screaming when he saw what a mess the last guy had left behind, I got sidetracked.

Plus - Finally had a story accepted by People's Friend. It became a personal challenge this year (I need to get out more) as they're quite fussy.

Minus - They can hang on to stories for years, so it may appear posthumously.

Plus - Finally wrestled the Christmas tree up, quite a bit later than usual.

Minus - Still haven't finished shopping. Or started, in some cases. What do you buy a 19-year old male who wants a million pounds and a Porsche?

Plus - I still have a lovely agent - it's been just over a year now - fighting my corner in the publishing world and trying to sell my novel.

Minus - It's been a huge learning curve. I now know that having an agent doesn't guarantee my novel will find a publisher.

Plus - There IS the German deal though. Better than nowt as my mum would say. And has said, several times.

And on that note ... have a wonderful Christmas if I don't see you before, and thank you for reading and commenting and being so supportive this year.

You're all marvellous.

Libraryitis

2010-12-03T13:37:00.006Z

We're all a bit jittery at work. Meetings abound and it's not good news.

Smaller branches of the library will probably close next year, and even if they do stay open - run by volunteers as proposed - the existing staff will be out of work, at a time when unemployment is already high and rising.

We've tried many strategies to tempt in new users (is that the right word? Sounds a bit addict-y) but the truth is libraries aren't *cool*. Add to that terrible faux-pas the fact that books are cheap and everyone has knowledge at their fingertips in the form of the Internet and you may well ask, "What's the point of libraries?"

In fact somebody did - huddled at the back of the village hall in his puffa jacket. Words like 'community' and 'public service' were bandied about in response, but he didn't look convinced.

In the interests of answering this question I asked around friends and family and discovered that out of everyone, only my Mum uses her local library up in Scarborough. One friend worries about 'germs' so would no more borrow a book than run her hands round the rim of a public loo.

Another belongs to a book-swapping scheme, so doesn't need the library for reading purposes, and pays a small monthly fee to Love Film, which means she gets sent DVDs through the post that she can return at her leisure - "without paying a fine," she added pointedly.

My own children (sob) claim libraries are "a bit smelly and for old people" although I do bring home books and films for them every week whether they like it or not, which they do read and watch. But they no longer venture inside of their own free will.

In fact a lot of people I spoke to said they have fond memories of libraries; that they used to go a lot when they were younger, but don't any more - they just never think about it.

Somebody said they're not "relevant" in the modern world.

One or two said they're good for using the computer and printing stuff out, but they don't bother looking at the books.

Doesn't bode well does it?

What am I going to do with all my cardigans when I no longer work in a library??

Splashy Web-Thing

2010-12-01T16:07:00.003Z

I'm happy to do my bit today in helping fellow blogger and writer Talli Roland's debut novel THE HATING GAME hit the Kindle bestseller list at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

If you don't have a Kindle you can download a free app at Amazon for Mac, iPhone, PC, Android and more.

About THE HATING GAME:

When man-eater Mattie Johns agrees to star on a dating game show to save her ailing recruitment business, she's confident she'll sail through to the end without letting down the perma-guard she's perfected from years of her love 'em and leave 'em dating strategy. After all, what can go wrong with dating a few losers and hanging out long enough to pick up a juicy £2000,000 prize? Plenty, Mattie discovers, when it's revealed that the contestants are four of her very unhappy exes. Can Mattie confront her past to get the prize money she so desperately needs, or will her exes finally wreak their long-awaited revenge? And what about the ambitious TV producer whose career depends on stopping her from making it to the end?

It's coming soon in paperback and you can keep up with the latest at
http://www.talliroland.com/

I'm looking forward to reading my copy, and if I'm ever lucky enough to be published (*cough* in the UK *cough*) no doubt I'll be splashing about on the web too.

Good luck Talli.

Statistically speaking

2010-11-25T19:19:00.008Z

I've just discovered Blogger Stats on the design page, and had to stop writing (no really I DID) to have a good rummage around.

Quite illuminating - if you've nothing better to do. It tells you which of your posts has been looked at the most during a day, week, month or of all time and rather surprisingly my most popular post isn't about writing or anything remotely profound - not that I've written anything remotely profound.

It's this one called Turkey Fatigue, which has been viewed 3628 times to date, and is being viewed by 48 people at this very minute.

The magical Blogger Stats informs me that all these visits have been referred by people searching for turkey cartoons. But why? To my knowledge turkey is only ever relevant at Christmas and Thanksgiving - not on the 3rd of June. It makes no sense.

Second most popular post - understandably - is Cally Taylor and her Writing Highlights with 682 page views. Quite a lot less than the turkey I think you'll agree. I have absolutely no idea what this means.

In third place, with a paltry 86 views is Celebrity Morph, in which I turn myself into a male actor by means of some internet jiggery-pokery. I'm not doing a link, because thankfully it doesn't work any more, plus it shows I was clearly bonkers at the time and I'm much better now thanks.

All rather disturbing and proof that, as my dear old gran used to say, there's nowt so queer as folk.

NaNO

2010-11-12T12:48:00.004Z

This month I decided I'd 'secretly' take part in NaNoWriMo as a way of motivating myself to get the first draft of novel 2 finished. Boy am I glad I didn't make a song and dance about it on the blog, as I've done naff all. Well, a few thousand words, but not the 20,000 or so that would be required by now.

It's weird, because external deadlines I'm brilliant with - I'll stay up all night writing if I have to and get the work finished on time, but when I set my own it hardly ever works. This is when RT (Resistant Teenager) takes over.

The second I woke up on November 1st she said, in sulky tones, "Sorry but I can't, like, do much writing today, like, 'cos I've got, like, other stuff to do and that. Innit."

One of them involved forcing me to bake a cake in the microwave (no, the kitchen still isn't finished). It wasn't a success. Ever tried eating a rubber chicken? My maths isn't good but I know I could have written a lot of words in that time - especially as I forgot to put an egg in the first batch and had to start again.

The next day she insisted I spend an inordinate amount of time turning up a pair of trousers for work, only to discover that one leg was shorter than the other when I'd finished. (Trouser leg that is.) Naturally she made me unpick the hem and start again. I wouldn't care, but they only cost a fiver from Tesco's in the first place - I could have just chucked them away. More writing time down the drain.

Over the past fortnight or so she's had me scouring charity shops for a particular kind of clock, teaching myself how to light the fire properly in our front room, filling in a couple of holes in the wall in the porch, staring at the leaves in the garden with a view to raking them up, and experimenting with my hair-style. When I could have been writing!

Right now she's forcing me to write this when I had every intention of opening up the work-in-progress and adding to the meagre word count, and in a minute I know she's going to insist I put the kettle on again and ~~scour the internet for hot men I can picture as the hero in my novel~~ polish the door knobs.

Ye Gods. I'll be glad when November's over and I can get back to writing normally.

Ooh I Say!

2010-11-04T15:45:00.006Z

I’ve a short story in this week’s Woman’s Weekly called Private Dancer which is, ahem, a little … saucier than my usual fare. I’m not talking full on raunch, because as I’ve mentioned on here before I’m absolutely no good at s-e-x scenes – plus I wouldn’t want the readers to choking on their coffee and going all unnecessary.

I’d challenged myself to rustle up a story that was, shall we say, hot-blooded but subtle, as I’d never tried it before, and I must have done something right as the editor said she liked it - a lot.

It was fun actually, and it felt good to write something outside my comfort zone. I won’t be taking it any further than that though – my blood pressure couldn’t cope.

My daughter steeled herself to read it, saying she hoped it wasn’t ‘pornographic’. I reassured her that I'd never had an impure thought in my life, but even so she could barely look me in the eye afterwards. “It’s good Mum, but it’s weird that you wrote it,” she said sidling past, and went to wash her hands.

I considered taking offence, then imagined how I would have felt if MY mum had written it.*

Eewwwww!!

*Don’t get your hopes up if you’re tempted to read it. I’m not talking Jackie Collins here, and this IS Woman’s Weekly remember.

Fact or Fiction?

2010-10-24T19:23:00.006+01:00

A friend of a friend happened to mention that she doesn't read books. Not fiction ones anyway. She said that she'd "rather be living life than reading about made-up ones," and anyway "it makes you dissatisfied with everything, especially all that romance stuff." Which rather begged the question, "How do you know if you don't read books?"

I kept schtum because I don't know her that well and didn't want to upset my friend by suggesting her friend is clearly a bit poorly in the coconut.

Okay that's a bit harsh, but I was miffed by the implication that because I've read a love story or forty(thousand) in the past, I'm as bitter as an olive that men in real life tend not to be brooding, chiselled, tousle-haired heros in tight-fitting trousers, waiting to sweep me off my feet and ravish me. Well, not the ones I've met anyway. (All right, so I'm a tiny bit bitter.)

Neither am I limp with disappointment that I don't have a wardrobe full of vintage clothes and can't ride a horse - or run my own PR company, or whatever else friend of friend imagines lies between the pages of the books I read. And they're mostly not romance anyway. (Not that there's anything wrong with romance novels, obviously.)

I think she's missing out. Reading isn't a substitute for real life, it enhances it. Yes it's an indulgence and it's escapism, but so's getting pissed and she does that A LOT (apparently) and it's much worse for your liver.

Fiction increases your knowledge too - I've learnt loads over the years about culture, history, disability, science and, of course, human nature. It's given me a lot of comfort at times - and definitely stopped me from getting under my mum's feet when I was a child. (We didn't have a telly and I never did like Monopoly.)

Oh, and it's taught me how to commit the perfect murder without getting caught. Not that I ever would, you understand.

Unless our kitchen isn't finished by Christmas ...

Keeping up Appearances

2010-10-08T09:23:00.005+01:00

In the interests of motivation, I treated myself to a fancy new notebook this week, to jot down notes for my latest - ahem - masterpiece. (Look, if I don't believe in it no one else will.)

Now that I've taken to hunching over tea in our local Costa's every week, slurping from a giant cup and staring into the middle distance, tapping my pen against my chin, I decided I needed something more swanky than the 99p recycled reporter's notebook I was using before. Plus the reporter wanted it back. Ho ho!

Trouble is the new one is far too posh to write in, and I don't want to spill tea on it, so I have to slip an old, tatty one inside for the actual writing.

It's all about appearances dahling. But the words are flowing, which is the main thing. Whether or not they make sense is a different matter.

In case you're wondering, the story of our kitchen still hasn't got its happy ending. In fact it's becoming a misery memoir.

Business as usual

2010-09-21T09:52:00.004+01:00

Now, I can't keep saying "no news on the UK-book-deal-front" every time I post.

Well I could, but it would get a bit boring - not to mention embarrassing - so lets just say it's a No until you hear otherwise. And you will hear because I'll be shouting so loudly.

Instead I'll mention that I've just been to Ghent in Belgium with Lovely Husband for a weekend break, which was nice. Sunshine, music, canals and fireworks (and that wasn't a euphemism, I literally mean fireworks) and lots of yummy (fattening) food.

Very relaxing it was and plenty of writing inspiration too, from the woman crying into her mobile phone on the train on the way over, to the pretty American girl who couldn't understand why the elderly couple she was sitting opposite to on the way back were so rude to her, to the group of guys who talked about nothing but beer the whole journey. I guess you had to be there ...

I'm not an experienced traveller as anyone who's stuck with my ramblings over the last couple of years will know (don't like flying or being on water, would prefer to travel via time machine etc) but I couldn't help noticing how much more civilised the attitude to drinking is in Europe.

Considering there were around 7000 people gathered round a canal on Saturday evening - on it, in boats, in some cases - and the festival was around an hour late kicking off, the atmosphere was remarkably relaxed and friendly ...

... and so was I until I came back and realised just how much work still needs doing on the kitchen, but that's a whole different tale. Although I used the chaotic kitchen saga as inspiration for a story for my writing group last week so I suppose something postive has come out of it.

Grrrrr.

How Time Flies

2010-09-01T20:28:00.003+01:00

Illustration by Kathy Hare

Is it really September? Tut. I turn my back for five minutes and another month flies by. I must be having masses of fun.

Still no UK book deal. Still no new kitchen either. It's getting there slowly, and am sure will be sparkly and lovely when it's finished. In the meantime I'm getting rather used to cooking spuds in a pan of bubbling water on a camping gas-ring in the living room, with the dog looking on in a rather confused fashion.

I've not given up on the UK book deal dream. I've just shelved it temporarily, otherwise I'd never get anything else done. I suppose my natural state is 'unpublished novelist' so it's relatively easy to slip back into that shiny, well-worn groove. The new novel is growing slowly and I've sold some more short stories, so it's all good.

I drove my Mum back up to Scarborough yesterday and discovered for the first time how brilliant talking books are for long journeys. Not on the way there obviously - I've got a talking Mum for that - but coming back the miles whizzed by without me noticing. In fact I was looking forward to getting stuck in traffic for once, but there wasn't any.

Obviously I was still aware I was driving, but part of my brain was so absorbed by Julie Myerson's The Lost Child that I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd ended up up in Wales.

I swore I'd never read that book after all the controversy about it when it came out, despite having read and enjoyed all her novels, but it was so painfully good that I'm glad I did in the end.

And anyway it wasn't reading it was listening, so it doesn't count.

Right September - bring it on.

Distracted

2010-08-09T12:43:00.005+01:00

Well the news is ... no more news. Well nothing good anyway. Lovely Agent is away for a fortnight now and explained before she went that a lot of editors are on holiday during August.

My novel is still out with publishers, but I've been warned it could all take a lot longer than expected due to the current 'difficult climate.' Uh-oh. There have already been some passes, the reasons mostly being of the 'budgets/timing/we-loved-it-but-have-no-available-slots' variety. Oh dear.

All rather disheartening. Lovely Agent did say it took the agency 18 months and 30 rejections to get one of their authors published, and she's doing very nicely indeed now and that I mustn't give up hope, but still ...

All this waiting and hoping and dreaming has rather drained my enthusiasm for further writing, apart from a couple of short stories, so this morning I dragged my carcass to a local coffee shop with a notepad and pen, and managed to scribble a few pages of my new novel away from the distractions of the computer. The tea was surprisingly decent too. (I rarely drink coffee, even in coffee shops.)

Another distraction - not entirely welcome - is having our old kitchen ripped out. Floors, ceiling, wiring the lot. Obviously we're having a new one fitted, we're not having it ripped out for fun or anything. Trouble is, we seem to have uncovered a catalogue of disasters, from an unsupported wall that could crash down at any moment, to an ominous leak under the floor meaning it's got to be dug up and investigated by the water board. AARRGGHH!! I've already put my mum off coming down twice because of the chaos, but it'll be time for her Christmas visit at this rate.

A much nicer distraction is L-Plate author, Mel's, new blog High Heels and Book Deals, which is worth a look if you haven't already been over there. Lots of writerly interviews, features and book reviews to wallow in, and I even won a copy of Lucy Diamond's new novel Sweet Temptation over there.

Which cheered me up no end.

Update

2010-07-15T20:50:00.003+01:00

Well...the good news is that I've been offered a two-book deal in Germany.

Apparently my novel went to auction over there and Goldmann's won. That doesn't sound quite right, but I don't know how else to put it!

I'm really thrilled, not least because I'll be sharing a publisher with Sophie Kinsella, Cally Taylor and Stephen King, among others. My husband's particularly thrilled because he lived over there for a while and speaks fluent German. So at least he'll be able to read it.

The not-so-good news is that there's nothing on the UK front - yet. It's still out with publishers though and I'm probably being FAR too impatient. I had no idea that waiting could be so tiring. All that email checking and the effort involved in trying NOT to email-check. It's messing with my chakras.

I urgently need to take up yoga.

Wii not so fit

2010-06-28T19:32:00.006+01:00

It's funny how some bits of technology we get along with and some we don't.

For instance I love my PC, netbook and get along ok with my mobile phone, but the e-reader I bought recently I ended up selling because I didn't like it.

The same thing's happened with my Wii console and Wii Fit thingy. I was drawn to the shiny, white set-up, lured by the promise of toned thighs and sculpted thingummies from the comfort of my living room, until I tried it and was told - rather rudely - that my fitness age was 85. Just because I couldn't get the hang of balancing on one leg during the initial assessment.

To be fair, once I'd stopped sulking I did give it a go, but to be honest it made me feel silly. I'd rather be out walking the dog than bobbing up and down on a board in front of a screen wondering if the postman's going to walk past the window and catch me at it. Again. It's now gone to someone - hopefully - more appreciative.

My mum adores her mobile phone, and is far more adept than me at texting, but wouldn't know one end of a computer from the other, while my mother-in-law is in love with her swanky new laptop, emailing long lost rellies in Australia day and night, but her ancient mobile sits unused and unloved at the bottom of her handbag.

My daughter loves her iPod, but has a lukewarm relationship with the computer and is very old-fashioned about networking sites like Facebook, claiming she'd rather talk to friends in person. In person? I have no idea what she means.

Lovely husband is even more prehistoric. He absolutely refuses to trade in his video collection for DVDs and regularly BUYS cassettes off e-bay, insisting they're more hard-wearing than CDs. Bless him. He wouldn't know what to do with an mp3 player.

I'm currently resisting the pull of the i-Pad. I don't need it, I can't afford it, I wouldn't even know what to do with it and would probably sell it within a fortnight.

But it's just so ... shiny. Maybe I was a jackdaw in a previous life?

(Im) patience

2010-06-19T14:09:00.003+01:00

So Lovely Agent has finally submitted my novel to publishers. Excited? Moi? If you looked the word up in the dictionary you'd see my face grinning out at you in a rather alarming fashion. Being patient is the hard bit as she won't hear anything back for roughly 3 weeks. I may have to start biting my nails for the first time ever.

Or I could get on with the next novel. Hard to focus though, somehow.

*************

A timely distraction came in the form of this Honesty award from the lovely Amanda at Writing Allsorts and the equally lovely Kat at Wright Story which requires me to tell you ten things about myself that you don't already know - and probably don't want to know, so here goes ...

1) I love Big Brother and don't care if you all despise me for it.
2) I DO care if you all despise me for it, so I won't mention the BB thing.
3) I like cooking but am actually not very good at it and often burn things.
4) My doctor informed me this week that my cholesterol is too high. Damn.
5) I can eat a whole cheesecake in one sitting. Which is probably why my cholesterol is too high. Damn.
6) Somebody once told me in a restaurant that I look like Julie Walters. I do not.
7) I once bluffed my way into a job by pretending I knew how to use their computer system. I'd never used a computer in my life.
8) I STILL haven't learnt how to play the guitar properly.
9) I can ride a unicycle while balancing a toaster on my head.
10) I've never seen The Wizard of Oz and have no desire to.

(One of the above is a fib.)

I think everyone has had this award now, but if you'd like to help yourself go ahead. I won't mind.

Just a minute

2010-06-08T20:46:00.004+01:00

New management at the library has decreed that we start having staff meetings once a month at 8.30am, to stop us looking gormless at the counter. I missed the last one. I forgot about it. I did write it on my calendar then forgot to look at my calendar, which is nothing unusual.

I was so thrilled by the small miracle of not only remembering, but turning up in time to make myself a cup of tea that when we all sat down and our lovely manager said, "Would someone mind taking the minutes?" I accidentally put my hand up. Several pages of A4 were instantly flung down the table.

Panic flared for a couple reasons. a) I've never taken minutes at a meeting before. Hell, I don't think I ever BEEN to a meeting before. b) With all the typing I do I've practically forgotten how to use a pen. What if I couldn't keep up?

"It's just making notes really," said the manager kindly, sensing my bewilderment, so I gamely gave it a go.

I had to resist the temptation to fiction it up ... The mood in the room was tense. Rachel flicked Kathy a dirty look, but nobody noticed except me and stick to Study Centre training will be available for all staff members.

Not exactly Hemingway but I quite enjoyed it once I got into my stride, though I did get carried away and wrote The End at ... well, the end. It even gave me the urge to start writing long-hand again.

It'll probably wear off quite soon.

Give us a kiss

2010-05-18T14:14:00.011+01:00

Another area I had to address during revisions was "passion." As in, insert some (pardon my French) during a particular scene. Not something I find easy, especially when I imagine people I know having to read it.

I did write a bedroom scene earlier in the book, but the emphasis there was very much on humour. Now it was time to up the ante (why does everything sound like a euphemism?)

I'm not talking full on rumpy-pumpy with heaving, thrusting, panting and glimpses of hairy buttock. God no. My imagination's not THAT good.

It was essentially an important kissing scene, which needed a bit more oomph.

Less, "Ta-ra love, don't forget to put the bin bags out" and more .... oh, it's no good I can't even do it on here. Okay, let's say kissing with intent. You know what I mean.

Naturally I thought about doing some research - picking a snake-hipped, broad-shouldered, taut-muscled, man-totty neighbour to practise on. Except we don't have any.

I did try smouldering at the postman (quite hunky) while I signed for a parcel the other morning, but he looked quite scared and asked if I was contagious. (If my husband's reading this - you know I'm kidding, love.)

Anyway in the end I put on some smoochy music, thought about Sawyer from Lost
and had to be thrown in the garden and doused with cold water an hour later.

Job done.

*****

Talking of fancies, here's a little joke that tickled mine this morning.

"What did Mary Poppins say after dinner?
SUPER cauliflower cheese, the lobster was atrocious." Ho HO!

Please yourself ...

My name is ...

2010-05-11T08:16:00.006+01:00

One of the things I had to do while editing was make one of my male characters more appealing. Trouble was I'd been writing about him for so long I couldn't get my initial image of him out of my head.

It occurred to me it was his name that was the problem. Names are so evocative, tending to conjure a certain type of person, and the name I'd chosen isn't one normally seen in chick-lit.

Okay, he wasn't called Pogo or Woopsie (apologies to any Woopsies reading) but I had invented a type of character to go with the name. In case any of you are ever daft enough the read the book - IF it ever gets published - let's say I called him Maurice.

Leading men are rarely called Maurice in romantic comedies. If they are you know they're going to be losers in love, gay or somebody's granddad. I might as well have written in ginormous letters "BY THE WAY, SHE'S NOT GOING TO END UP WITH HIM!"

I was reminded of a couple of films I've seen - can't remember their names, I think one starred Sandra Bullock - where the leading lady started out happily married or engaged to a rather non-descript actor I didn't recognise (I watch a LOT of films) and I knew immediately he would wind up dead or dumped in a very short space of time, and I was right - she copped off with Antonio Banderas (or whoever) in the end.

A small detail, but one that gave away quite a lot and I think my character's name would have had the same effect.

Just changing him from Maurice to Hunter-Gatherer (I jest but you get my drift) shifted my perception straight away and I was able to 'write' him more appealingly - I hope. No more Brylcreem and ham suppers with mummy for my man - no sireee.

Not that he was having ham suppers with mummy - I'm not THAT obvious.

Tsk.

As an aside, it's quite hard getting away from the usual names for leading men - Matt, Nathan, Jack, Zac etc.

Maybe we should start a campaign to bring Cyril, Bertrand, Norman and Keith back into fashion.

Writing Frenzy

2010-04-23T17:48:00.010+01:00

It's been a mad couple of weeks.

I had a mention in The Bookseller which got me in a right old tizz, and put me off my food for an hour I was so excited.

But back in the real world, Lovely Agent wanted me to rewrite some scenes from my novel - make them funnier. At first I thought 'how the bleepin' heck am I meant to do that?' but inevitably the writer's brain cranked into gear and began inventing.

I thought I learnt a lot with the last lot of edits, but by jove I've learnt more.

Looking back at some of my later chapters, I realised how much 'explaining' was going on. Characters telling each other why something had or hadn't happened - yet I thought I'd got a grip on show don't tell.

A better way for me to get my head round it is to think don't explain it, do it! and I believe this has really helped bring the novel alive.

I was advised to 'be brave' and remember that 'a great book is lots of mini-dramas leading to a huge drama' (particularly pertinent for commercial fiction) and hopefully that's what I've now got.

That and gnarled fingers from typing.

They do know their onions these agent/editor types. Now we wait and see ...

****
In my absence the lovely LilyS, Theresa Ashby, Francine and Suzanne Jones have all awarded me the Beautiful Blogger Award, for which I thank you most kindly and pass on to anyone who hasn't already got it.

You're all bee-yoo-tiful in my eyes.

Library lady

2010-04-08T20:21:00.009+01:00

At work today I was told that I looked like a proper librarian. And she didn't mean in the saucy sense, like the leggy lovely on the left.

"Look at you!" she chortled (we're friends so it's just about okay.) "Bun, check. Glasses, check. Cardigan, check. Snaggletooth - oh, okay you don't have one of those. If I didn't already know you worked in a library, I'd guess straight away."

How very rude.

I've run out of contact lenses, which accounted for the specs. My daughter says they make me look like the love-child of Austin Powers and Ronnie Corbett. If that were even remotely possible. The bun I like to think was more Penelope-Cruz-at-the-Oscars than Mrs. Pepperpot, and the cardigan was definitely quite stylish. Well, it wasn't baggy at the elbows or hand-knitted or anything.

Maybe we subconsciously dress to suit our environment, and I couldn't help myself. I reached in the wardrobe for a slinky top and my hand just fell on the cardi.

Oh alright, so I don't own any slinky tops.

I do hope the contact lenses turn up tomorrow.

Writing rules

2010-03-19T16:35:00.010Z

An early criticism of my novel (yes there was one - more than one, but we won't go there) was that there wasn't enough character description - the reader felt like she couldn't 'see' my main character clearly, and that I should include more physical description to bring her to life.

Harrumph, I thought. Sophie Kinsella, author of the popular Shopaholic series, purposely didn't write a description of her central character, Becky Bloomwood.

In a recent interview she said she deliberately never described what Becky looked like, partly because she wanted everyone to relate to her and partly because when she's writing, she's not looking at her, she's looking through her eyes at the world, and didn't think in real-life anyone would ever look look in a mirror and say, "Wow, my shoulder-length, blonde-streaked, shiny hair looks fab today!" though she might say "Wow, my hair looks fab today!"

(As an aside, it's been a long time since I looked in a mirror and said, "Wow, my hair looks fab today!" I'm well overdue for a trim. My daughter tells me it's turned to 'wisp' again. That never happens in novels.)

In another book - the chilling but deeply impressive The Mother's Tale by Camilla Noli - the main character doesn't even have a name, never mind a description. And yet ...

I didn't realise until I read that interview with Sophie Kinsella that Becky Bloomwood didn't have a description, because I'd pictured her so clearly in my mind - I had to go back and check, and it wasn't until I was reading the author notes at the end of The Mother's Tale that the lack of a name even registered. Which taught me something.

I'm thick.

No, it wasn't that.

To break the rules, you have to be experienced enough to carry it off so the reader doesn't notice. My reader noticed.

Sob.

And no, since you ask. I haven't heard from Lovely Agent yet. I'm sticking with the old adage 'no news is good news' until I hear otherwise.

And the winners are ...

2010-03-15T08:24:00.002Z

Thanks to Elise for a great interview and for all your comments and questions.

The winners of the draw are Fia, Womagwriter, Abbi and Joy

If you'd like to email your address to me, Elise will send you a copy of The Wrong Sort of Wife/Your Roots are Showing.

Well done!

Guest post - Elise Chidley

2010-03-11T05:30:00.003Z

Today I’m delighted to welcome author, Elise Chidley to my blog. Elise has written two wonderfully warm and witty novels, The Wrong Sort of Wife and Married with Baggage, and I absolutely loved them both. Intelligent and romantic, as well as funny, they’re peopled with characters you can’t help warming to.

Elise is giving away 2 free copies of The Wrong Sort of Wife and 2 copies of the American version, Your Roots are Showing. If you’d like to leave a comment below I’ll pick the winners at random on Sunday!

So, without further ado …

Elise, when did your writing career begin?

I’ve been writing for a living since my first job as features writer with a national women’s magazine in South Africa, but I started writing fiction after my third child was born. At that stage, I was telecommuting as a staff writer for a publisher of health care magazines, writing three feature stories a week. The pressure of these deadlines, coupled with looking after three small children, was just not sustainable. So I became an unsalaried worker, banging away at my keyboard with no guarantee of ever seeing a return on my time and effort. It was scary and liberating!

What inspired The Wrong Sort of Wife, and did you have a clear idea of the market you were aiming for?

I was inspired by the house we were living in, in Kent, at the time. I ended up using it as the model for the very awkward house Lizzie moves into when she separates from James. As I looked out across the weed-ridden garden, I felt overwhelmed, and then—because I’m always writing stories in my head—I started imagining the challenges of moving into that house as a single woman with kids. The story fleshed itself out around that image. I knew I was aiming for the market that used to be called ‘chick lit’, but I wanted a bit of cross-over with the kind of women who enjoy writers like Joanna Trollope.

Are you anything like Lizzie, the central character?

The story isn’t autobiographical, but I think I share many characteristics with Lizzie. I hope I’m a bit more technologically savvy, and not quite as much of a softie as she is. Like me, she’s a writer—but that was only because I had to give her a profession she could pursue from home.

Can you describe your path to publication?

At a stage when my manuscript wasn’t quite ready (but I thought it was) I started sending it out to agents. I had several encouraging responses, and even some requests for ‘partials’. One agent in particular, out of Bath, sent back some really useful criticisms and suggestions. I edited and rewrote, and eventually landed two agents on the same day! The process of finding a publisher was much faster. My agent sold the manuscript to the first editor who looked at it, in a two-book pre-emptive bid.

The Wrong Sort of Wife is set in Gloucestershire in England and your second novel, Married with Baggage, in America – how crucial is setting in your novels?

So far, I have found myself choosing settings that I know very well, that I can picture visually as I write. (I’ve lived in Gloucestershire and in Connecticut.) I think that’s why I’m writing contemporary women’s fiction and not historical or fantasy. I like to see the layout of the house, the street, the town in my mind’s eye. Sometimes setting becomes part of the plot, as in Married With Baggage, where the American context is another factor that causes the (English) main character to feel very much a fish out of water in her new role as stay-at-home mum.

What’s your normal writing routine?

Routine? What’s that? Every day is different for me, but mostly I run around first thing in the morning getting the kids out of the door, then deal with the worst of the mess in the house, then sit down in front of the computer. I do a lot of thinking and plotting while occupied with other tasks, like laundry. As a matter of fact, the best place for plotting, for me, is when I’m having a long soak in the tub.

Do you plan a detailed outline before you start a novel?

With my first novel, I had no outline. With the second, I had one that I ignored. With the third (which I’m just beginning; I was diverted by a sudden urgent need to write a young adult novel—still unfinished!), I’m going to map out the characters and conflicts before I start, but I don’t think I’ll try to hammer out every last detail of the action.

What are you working on next?

I’m just starting a third romantic comedy that I’m really excited about. I won’t talk about the premise because I’m scared of jinxing the whole project with too much discussion. But I will say that it’s going to be set in Gloucestershire again.

Do you still write short stories? I read on your website that you’ve won awards in the past.

Short stories are tough to write, and they’re tough to sell. I haven’t attempted one in years.

What’s the best thing about being a published author?

The best thing is hearing from readers who loved your book. Seeing it on the shelf in a bookstore is also a massive thrill.

Which writers inspire you?

As a teen, I consumed Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer rather indiscriminately. I loved their wit, more than anything. I also love I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith—oh, and Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons. I devour anything by Marian Keyes and Catherine Alliott, and I loved Slummy Mummy by Fiona Neill.

Any advice for aspiring authors?

Don’t give up. Hard slog and tenacity count for a lot in this profession. And remember that rewriting is key. Also, never forget that ‘write’ is a verb. Don’t dream it, do it.

If you've got any questions for Elise, ask them in the comments box and she’ll pop by to answer them.

Teknology

2010-03-03T19:51:00.002Z

Technology's a marvellous thing for a writer - endless info at your fingertips, access to lovely blogs and writing forums and groups - it's enhanced my career (if you can call it that) no end, as well as presenting me with online friends and endless ways to procrastinate. But in terms of telling a story, especially one with a hint of mystery, it can be a hindrance.

There were so many times when I was writing the novel that I thought ... hang on. All she has to do is Google him and she'll know everything there is to know. Because that's what people do these days. Or ... wait a minute, why doesn't she just whip out her mobile and phone him? Because EVERYONE has a mobile phone. It wouldn't make much of a story though. Girl meets boy, isn't too sure about him, checks him out on t'Internet and they live happily ever after.

It wasn't realistic to make my main character a techno-phobe, as she runs her own business. And that was another thing - I suddenly thought, shouldn't she have her own website? And wouldn't Whatsisface be on Facebook? (He's not really called Whatsisface by the way. That would be silly.) And wouldn't she have sat-nav in her car if she travels around a fair bit??

What it meant was I had to be extra inventive and come up with ways round these things - and I don't mean changing the setting to the early seventies, although it did cross my mind at one stage.

It made me think how much easier, but less interesting, life would have been for Miss. Marple and Sherlock Holmes if they could have Asked Jeeves whodunnit instead.

Maybe I'll write an historical novel next time.

An historical? A historical? Now I'm confused. Again.

AND ... relax

2010-02-18T14:33:00.009Z

Well, that was ... intense.

I've finally emerged from the dark editing cave I've been inhabiting for the past month, peopled with characters from my novel demanding I make them better - more likeable, more believable with better hair. They even wanted their storylines strengthening with more bits added on, and new chapters for them to run about in, the cheeky devils. Anyway I listened carefully, thought hard, realised they had a point and got on with it.

Things I learnt from my time in the cave ...

A lot more about editing, even at this stage.

That when I'm up against it I'm not even tempted to procrastinate.

I CAN write thousands of words a day.

That having a wonderful friend - and husband - who can read your words and scoop up those pesky typos and inconsistencies (not that there were MANY, I hasten to add) and be supportive is a wonderful bonus.

Getting up earlier means there's time to squirt bleach down the loos and aim pots at the dishwasher occasionally.

Strangely, even though I haven't done much cooking - certainly over the past week - I've put weight on. Odd that. Mind you I haven't walked Mollydog as much either, so that can't have helped. I've also been dreaming in text and dialogue, which is a truly bizarre experience.

Anyway, the edits are done and dusted and the manuscript back with Lovely Agent and all I can do is wait, fingers crossed, and hope she doesn't hate it.

In the meantime I shall integrate myself back into society and re-introduce myself to the family. I might read some blogs and watch a bit of telly and stop leaping up at odd moments shouting things like "candles in glass globes!" and "his chain! It should be GOLD!"

I may even bake a giant cake for you all. Any preferences?

The invisible story

2010-01-20T18:32:00.003Z

I was thrilled to receive my copy of the Swedish magazine containing one of my stories this week.

I flipped through it a couple of times, admiring a recipe for what looked like cream buns on the way, but ... nothing. I expected to recognise my name, at least.

After a bout of prolonged confusion I emailed the editor and it turned out they'd sent me the wrong magazine. Allers, instead of Allas. They're going to send me the right one, which is nice, and I'm looking forward to translating their translation on Google and reading what they've made of it!

Also, the Lovely Agent has been in touch and thankfully 'loved' the rest of my book.

Bearing in mind she'd only read 3 chapters when I signed the contract, this came as a massive relief to say the least. There's editing to be done. It's 80% there, but needs work, so there's still a small mountain to climb.

I'm ready though - with walking boots and rucksack and a thermos of tea, and enough cake to keep me going 'til I make it to the top and ... oh, enough of the mountaineering analogy. You know what I mean.

I may be some time.

Still Snowing!

2010-01-06T20:11:00.004Z

We thought it had gone for good, and then it came back - deeper and whiter than ever. We're snowed in yet again and STILL haven't learnt our lesson and stocked up on essentials.

My daughter and I put on our furriest underwear this afternoon, saddled up Molly and battled our way to the village shop, which is a good two miles away.

Despite advertising itself as The Heart of the Community, it was shut. Shut! You'd have thought they'd have been rubbing their hands at the thought of some local trade for once. The last time I was forced to shop there (when the car was off the road for a couple of days) the bread they gave me came from an enormous chest freezer out the back - I swear there was a dead body inside - the tins of dog food looked pre-war and I was told to "just take" the bag of self-raising flour as it was so far past its sell-by date they'd "only have to chuck it away."

Anyway, unable to accept we'd walked all that way for nothing we lurked outside for a few moments after detecting a light on inside and a small dog wandering around near the counter, and brazenly knocked on the door.

The owner - a grumpy woman who peers over her glasses as if she'd rather not see people clearly - appeared and reluctantly allowed me to scuttle in and make a few purchases - namely a paper, some pre-war dog-food and a loaf of bread from the freezer. It was probably there the last time.

So now we're huddled round the radiators, eating soup and praying the power doesn't go down as it has in some places.

It's a chilly start to the year, but at least I've no excuse for not getting on with Novel two - I can't even get into work.

On the other hand if the power does go off at least it'll stop me checking my emails every three and a half minutes for news from Lovely Agent - the suspense is killing me.

Snowy days

2009-12-20T19:48:00.005Z

We're well and truly snowed in at the moment (third day running, I think I've forgotten how to drive) so no excuse for not writing. This does count doesn't it?

It's the sort of weather I remember having to walk three miles to school in during Northern winters, when I were a lass, the snowdrifts nearly up to me neck. (Well I'm only little and I was even littler then.) It doesn't happen often round here and I've happily gallivanted through frozen fields with Molly and negotiated knee-deep snow to get to the nearest village shop, but the novelty's wearing off.

It's all got a bit Victorian, what with the power going on and off and running out of basics like bread and semi-skimmed. If only you could milk a dog and power a computer with candles.

It's added a festive feel to things though - putting up the tree with soft flakes falling past the window made me feel rather whimsical, but I'm hoping it's gone by tomorrow. I've still got Christmas shopping to do, and at least three of us need to go to work. I haven't seen Teen Son 1 since last Thursday. He was staying with a friend and couldn't get home - still can't. He must need a change of pants by now.

If I don't get back on here in the meantime, I'd like to wish you all a very Happy Christmas, say thanks for reading and being so wonderfully supportive all year and wish you all the very best for 2010.

Back in the Real World

2009-12-11T18:10:00.003Z

I daren't keep dwelling on the Lovely Thing that has happened. Even though I've now met Lovely Agent, who is every bit as lovely as I'd imagined and has said lovely things and has even sent me a lovely Christmas card. I'm just too scared of jinxing it all.

My inner reality checker has finally put in an appearance - I'm surprised she left it this long. Agnes I call her (though she prefers "Madam"). Formidable woman with terrible taste in shoes. Uses lots of lacquer to stop her hair doing something unexpected. She's a terrible party-pooper. "There's a long way to go yet Missy, so don't go getting Ideas," she keeps saying, wagging a finger.

I don't like her, but she has a point. Although scooping up teenage-boy-pants and feeding them into the washing machine every day is good for keeping one grounded, I find.

In the meantime I'm trying to focus on novel 2 (when I'm not doing the washing and arguing with Agnes) and putting off the dreaded moment when I have to once again untangle the Christmas tree lights and wrestle them into submission.

Mince pie anyone?

Christmas comes early

2009-12-03T18:57:00.003Z

A few hours ago I signed on the dotted line, so I guess it must be true.

I have an agent.

A real one, with teeth and hair and fingers and everything.

I daren't say any more in case it turns out to be a freakish mistake, but inside I'm marching along to a brass band with my pants on my head, singing "When the Saints Go Marching In ..."

Heaven knows why. They're not even my best pants.

Just wanted to let you all know, and make it a bit more real.

Shady lady

2009-11-17T20:32:00.007Z

A customer sidled up to me in the library looking shifty and asked if I could help her look for a book.

Judging by her hushed tones, flushed cheeks and the nervous glances she kept flinging over her shoulder I assumed she was looking for information of an "intimate nature" - a book about piles perhaps, or something ingrowing. Unless she was on the run from the police and wanting a place to hide.

Or looking for our adult literacy collection. People are often embarrassed about admitting they don't, or can't, read very well.

Just in case, I adopted my most helpful expression (think therapist with a hint of favourite auntie - but stunningly attractive.) After a recent similar request I ended up in a long and hushed but illuminating discussion about autism with a lovely grandma looking for books on the subject after her grandson was diagnosed.

Imagine the sense of anti-climax when she asked in a whisper if we had Jordan/Katie Price's latest autobiography - "the one since the divorce." If not, what about the "style" book?

I try not to judge people on their reading tastes. Whatever roasts your chestnuts as they say. Oh, apart from those people who read pile after pile of "True Crime - The Bloodier and More Gory and Gut-Churning the Better." I do worry a little about those people.

It's interesting that the customer sounded ashamed though. I half expected her to ask for a plain paper bag to put it in, and whether we kept our copies under the counter.

As it happened, all Jordan/Katie Price's books were out on loan. Even the "novels."

She's ruddy popular, damn her.

Onwards

2009-11-03T20:56:00.009Z

Well, the novel is Out There in the big wide world and to stop myself obsessing about how it's getting on I've made myself start a new one. It feels weird, getting to know a new set of characters, but the idea leapt out at me on one of my dog walks and demanded to be written. I'm enjoying it so far, but keep getting distracted by things going wrong in the house. Mice behind the bath panel making a horrid smell - that sort of thing. I'm resigned to the fact that we'll never be critter-free living where we do, but I suppose it's a small price to pay for being in the country and having lovely walks and views all round.

Elsewhere the lovely Colette has awarded me a ... well a lovely award, quite frankly. Made my day it did and the rules state I must pass it on, which threw me into a frenzy of indecision. I've decided TomFoolery deserves it for (among other things) her envy-inducing photography. Enjoy!

Away with the fairies

2009-10-27T14:35:00.006Z

Over on Trashionista Anne Rice has declared that angels are set to be the new vampires, and the new trend in literature - good news for anyone currently writing about them.

It got me thinking whether there's anything that hasn't been big in fiction yet.

We've already had werewolves, vampires, ghosts, wizards, witches, zombies, mermaids, and all manner of mythical creatures. Oh, and humans. There can't be anywhere else to go, can there?

I rather like stories where common themes are explored from unusual or fantastical angles, providing they're made believable; the woman who's now a ghost trying to find love, the man who falls to earth and learns how to be human (Starman anyone?) The husband who comes back as a dog like the one in James Herbert's novel Fluke, and if they're funny even better.

Werewolves and zombies don't do it for me I'm afraid, but what about superpowers? I don't think they've been done before - in films yes, but not in women's novels. What about a woman who can make herself invisible, or warp reality, or change form or ... manipulate the weather (don't knock it. I'd love to be able to make it sunny every day!) Hmmm, food for thought ...

Anyway, if Angels are the new Vampires, I'd like to put in a shout for Fairies as the new Werewolves.

You read it here first, Anne.

Cally Taylor Guest Post: Writing Highlights

2009-10-22T07:10:00.001+01:00

In case you didn't know (;o)) Cally Taylor is the lovely (I've met her!) and talented author of Heaven Can Wait, published by Orion last week, and as part of her virtual blog tour has kindly stopped by to detail her amazing writing highlights of the past year. Over to you Cally ...

When Karen asked me to write a guest post about my writing highlights I didn’t know where to begin. I was temporarily flummoxed until a small voice in my head said, “Duh, the beginning would be a good place!” but let’s start with an introduction. My name is Cally Taylor, I’m the author of a supernatural romantic-comedy called “Heaven Can Wait” and the last year has been the most exciting one of my life.

It all started in September 2008 when I received a phone call from Madeleine Buston at the Darley Anderson Literary Agency. Maddie told me she’d been given my novel to read by Darley and she’d loved it so much she wanted to represent me and be my agent. When the conversation ended I put the phone down and promptly burst into tears. I’d only ever shown the first five chapters to a few other people (some of the Women’s Fiction writers in http://www.writewords.org.uk/) and had no idea if the completed novel was any good. Darley and Maddie were the only people, other than me, that had read my novel all the way through and the fact they wanted to represent me melted away months of worry, self-doubt and fear.

Signing the contract, which arrived a few days later, was such a surreal experience I actually took a photo of myself doing it! A couple of weeks after that Maddie invited me out for lunch and I met her at the Darley Anderson Agency. I’d always wondered what a literary agents offices were like and walking into Estelle House was like entering a forbidden world. I kept expecting a policeman to grab me by the arm and go “Oi! Published authors only. Out!” It was amazing though – I’d never seen so many books and piles of manuscripts in one place. They even used books to prop up their computer monitors. It was book heaven!

I was still floating around in a little bubble of joy that I’d got an agent when Maddie phoned me in October to tell me that four UK publishers had shown an interest in my novel. I was gobsmacked. I knew it was hard to get one editor interested, never mind four, and couldn’t believe we were in a position where we got to choose. Although I’d have been happy to have my book published by any one of the four I did have a favourite and was absolutely delighted when Maddie confirmed, a couple of days later, that Orion (publishers of Ian Rankin, Maeve Binchey and Kate Harrison) had offered me a two book deal.

Visiting Orion’s offices was another surreal experience. The building was huge and I was so nervous as I perched on a chair in reception I’m surprised there wasn’t an earthquake alert. My editor was lovely and quickly put me at ease once we were in her office – only we kept getting interrupted - by people popping their heads in to tell me how much they’d loved my book! Knowing that other people in Orion’s offices had been sitting at their desks giggling at the ‘funny’ bits (I still can’t believe people find my novel funny) was bizarre but wonderful.

I was still getting my breath back from that experience when Maddie rang me again – my book was going to be translated into Portuguese and published by Bertrand Brasil in Brazil. A foreign version of my novel! I just couldn’t believe it. I’d always dreamed about putting a published version of my book on the shelf above my desk but now I’d get to add another version too.

November was as exciting as October had been. Not only was my book listed on Amazon.co.uk but Maddie had more news! I was on the train from London Victoria to Brighton when she rang me to tell me that SIX publishers in Germany had been bidding to publish my book and not only had Goldmann (German publishers of Alexandra Potter, Helen Fielding and Sophie Kinsella) won the auction but it was for a two book deal. Normally I’m a phone mumbler if I’m on the train but I was so excited my voice increased to a pitch only dolphins can hear and it was all I could do not to turn to the man sitting next to me and go “I’m going to be published in Germany!”

Father Christmas brought me a special present in December – the news that the foreign rights to “Heaven Can Wait” had been sold to Eksmo in Russia. I can’t even begin to explain how much my head was spinning by this point. In four short months I’d landed an agent, a two-book deal in the UK, a two-book deal in Germany and foreign editions of “Heaven Can Wait” in Brazil and Russia. At the risk of sounding like an X-Factor contestant I really did feel like I was living in a dream and kept expecting something terrible to happen to make it all crash down around my head.

January 2009 was a quiet month and I thought, that’s cool, all the exciting news is over now, time to crack on with writing the second novel, but February had other ideas. Not only did Maddie sell the rights to “Heaven Can Wait” to Konyvmolykepzo in Hungary but I attended Orion’s author party in the Victoria and Albert museum too. I can honestly say I’ve never been to such a glamorous event in my whole life. The venue was stunning, the champagne was free, I met Sophie Kinsella’s agent and even ended up standing next to Michael Palin at one point (although I was much too chicken-like to actually talk to him!).

In March 2009 Orion took me to Liberty’s for afternoon tea. I was still marvelling at the fact I was...well...having afternoon tea in Liberty’s... when my paperback editor fished into her bag and showed me a print out of the cover for “Heaven Can Wait.” Like most writers I’d held an image in my head of what my perfect book cover would look like and I couldn’t believe how well the artwork I held in my hand matched that. It was like my publisher and the design team had some kind of spooky psychic ability. I couldn’t stop looking at it! March was also the month when I gave my first ever interview – to http://www.trashionista.com/. I’d been reading their website for YEARS, ogling the covers of other authors’ books, pouring over their interviews and dreaming of the day that they’d feature my novel. I couldn’t believe my own eyes when my own interview went up and my photo stared back at me.

April was another quiet month but May brought more excitement. Not only did Maddie sell the foreign rights of “Heaven Can Wait” to Ediciones Versatil in Spain but I received the advanced review copies (ARC) of my novel from Orion. They had a temporary cover but they looked like real books, had my words inside and the spine said I was “bringing sparkle to women’s fiction”. Me! My family, who’d been asking for ages if they could read my novel, clamoured to get their hands on my copies and I dutifully sent them out. Then I felt sick. “Heaven Can Wait” had been read by my agent and my publishers – both of whom had said lovely things about it – but it hadn’t been read by anyone not in the industry. My family are the sort of people who, if you ask “Does my bum look big in this?” will say “Yes. Huge” and I knew they wouldn’t sugar-coat their opinions. I shouldn’t have worried. Everyone – even my dad, sister and brother who never read fiction – loved it and didn’t criticise a single thing.

In June 2009 I received the artwork for the cover of “Heaven Can Wait”. I was expecting a limp computer print-out with all the colours bleeding into one another (my printer’s very good at that) but no, what I received was a very sturdy piece of white card with the design – including the gorgeous, gold squirly title on the front – professionally printed on it. When I finally stopped stroking it I put a copy in a clipframe and hung it above my desk.

The Bookseller magazine printed a copy of my cover and a blurb of “Heaven Can Wait” in July 2009 and in August Maddie informed me that my novel was going to be published in Taiwan and China!

In September 2009, with publication day just around the corner, I got busy with trying to publicise my novel. I was interviewed by a journalist from Woman’s Own magazine on the phone, answered some emailed interview questions from First Edition magazine and started to organise a Virtual Blog Tour.

October brought reviews – and some really lovely ones! Candis magazine put my novel on the same page as Ant and Dec’s biography and said “You’ll find yourself laughing one minute and crying the next” (of my novel, not Ant and Dec’s. I can’t remember what their review said!). Chicklitreviews.com also published a wonderful review that made me grin for an entire day. October also brought me a box full of copies of “Heaven Can Wait” – a moment so special it made me cry.

When you read this post, on Thursday 22nd October my book will have been in the shops for seven days time and there’s a very good chance I’ll still be suffering a hangover from celebrating the most amazing day, and year, of my life!

Cally Taylor – author of supernatural romantic-comedy “Heaven Can Wait” (Orion paperback)

http://www.callytaylor.co.uk/
http://twitter.com/callytaylor

Look what I've got!

2009-10-16T18:40:00.004+01:00

She's all over blogland today, and I couldn't resist showing off my own brand new copy of Heaven Can Wait, written by fellow Novel Racer and Saffer and all round talented writer, Cally Taylor. I almost daren't get into it because I know I won't be able to put it down and there are chores to be done. Oh, who am I kidding? Bread and jam for tea anyone?

There'll be a guest post from Cally on this blog on Thursday, 22nd October so look out for that, and in the meantime I'll try not to gnash my teeth and tear my hair out with envy. So not a good look.

Halloween and the Virtue of Patience

2009-10-12T16:48:00.007+01:00

Mince pies have been in the supermarkets for weeks, which must mean it's... nearly Halloween. Not my favourite celebration of the year - all those hooded creatures turning up at the front door wearing masks and demanding money (and I don't mean the bailiffs.)

Discussing Halloween at work, I mentioned that when I were a lass, living 'Oop North, we didn't celebrate it at all, but the day before Bonfire Night was fairly similar. The 4th of November was called Mischievous Night - similar to trick or treating, only ... well without the treating really. No dressing up or anything, just people knocking on doors and running away, throwing eggs and flour around, smearing syrup on door handles (we once fashioned a cake from the mess left outside) making rather obvious ghosty noises outside the window, frightening old people, that sort of thing. You'd (quite rightly) be given an Asbo for it today.

The thing is, NO-ONE knew what I was talking about. Is it a Northern Thing? Has anyone else heard of Mischievous Night? Did I dream it all? And if so, what a peculiar child I must have been.

Anyhoo. The editing's more or less done. My early chapters have been shown to some lovely and trusted writer friends who have offered constructive and helpful advice, and the manuscript's currently sitting there looking at me accusingly, saying "Well? Aren't you going to send me out into the world then? I'm all grown up now, you know."

Well yes, except that every day I think of something else I need to add or take away or improve on or explain better, or change, and I've realised again the importance of not submitting your work too early.

Patience, patience. Soon, my beauty, soon ...

Pågående Europeiska !!

2009-09-23T18:35:00.009+01:00

I HOPE that blog title means "Going European" in Swedish, and not something that would make my mother choke on a scone.

Yes I've sold a short story to a Swedish magazine, which means it'll be translated and everything. Bizarre, but lovely. Can't wait to see a copy. Won't be able to read it, obviously, but still.

Also the novel editing's going well and it's surprising how much closer I feel to the story, spending each day with it. Like honeymooners we are, me and the novel. Hopefully we won't get sick of each other in another few days and call the whole thing off.

Ahem. Think I need a cup of tea.

**Also got a story in this week's Take a Break. Which is nice!**

Fish and chip days

2009-09-15T19:44:00.008+01:00

We only went and picked the best blummin' week of the year for our break in the Cotswolds. How the heck did that happen?

There was proper, bright yellow sunshine and a vast, cloudless blue sky - EVERY DAY. I've got a sunburnt chest, and I'm proud of it.

"Look," I keep boasting to anyone who'll listen. "Look how tanned I'll be when the lobster-redness wears off." I can't remember the last time I was burnt to a crisp by a British sun - or any other sun for that matter.

I now know that the two essentials for happiness are a lodge by a lake and the sun. Oh and time with the family; although a couple more days and the novelty of that might have worn off.

I've eaten too many portions of fish and chips, played silly games in the evenings, watched water-skiers showing off on the lake, stopped Molly from chasing ducks, written half a story, edited some more of the novel and not done any cooking at all.

And now we're home.

The weather's glum, but I've still got a bit of a glow.

Mostly in the chest area.

Summer (ish) holiday

2009-09-06T18:27:00.007+01:00

I'm off to the Cotswolds tomorrow for a week. We haven't had a family holiday for 3 years, for some unfathomable reason.

Oh okay, so I couldn't be bothered with the hassle of booking anything when there was the dog to consider, and my mother and work and school and ... you get the message. It was just easier not to bother, especially as I'm not keen on travelling anyway.

Still, I'm quite excited now, and have bought a suitcase 'specially. I hope the sun shines a bit.

I'll be taking the netbook in case story inspiration strikes, but as far as I know there's no Internet.

Gulp ...

See you soon.

The Good and the ... yawn

2009-08-31T18:17:00.003+01:00

I'm lucky to have sold four more stories recently - one to TaB weekly magazine and three for the Fiction Feast - and currently have a story in the latest Woman's Weekly Fiction Special, bringing my total sales to 20. Which is nice. Hopefully that means I'm doing something right on the short story front at least.

However, mentioning this to that colleague at the library, when she asked me how the writing was going, led straight to one of those conversations. "That's lovely," she said, all twinkly. "But those stories are written very much to a format, aren't they? Surely once you know the format it's just a case of changing a few details - names, places and so on?"

??????????????

"It's really not," I said, tiredly. "Guidelines yes, but not a format."

"So you're telling me that every one of your stories is completely different, and I wouldn't guess that they were all by you?"

"Yes they are, and no I actually don't think you would."

"Really?" Look of disbelief.

"Why don't you read a couple and see?"

Frowns. "Well, no it's just ... I mean - well you understand what I'm saying?"

Oh yes. Loud and clear.

I'm getting immune to it though. Gradually ...

The Wanderer Returns

2009-08-26T18:43:00.004+01:00

You might remember the tale of how I deleted my first ever novel, after receiving a handful of rejections - conveniently ignoring the fact that I also had two requests for the full ms at the time, as well as lots of positive feedback. I was too ~~stupid~~ inexperienced at the time to know that was a Good Thing and literally wrote the story off.

Well, while my Mum was staying recently she said one afternoon, "I've still got that manuscript you gave me to read. Such a shame it didn't come to anything."

WHAT?? For some reason I thought she'd thrown it away, an assumption she was quite rightly offended about. "I'd never do that," she said touchingly.

Anyway, I asked her (nicely) to send it to me and it turned up today almost as good as new.

A couple of things struck me reading bits of it. Firstly, the optimum amount of time between finishing your novel and editing it should be roughly 5 years. It really was like reading something written by someone else.

Secondly, it wasn't that bad. Nowhere near as awful as I'd imagined it would be. I could kind of see why there'd been some interest, looking back. There's a cheery simplicity to the writing, that keeps it flowing. I hadn't overthought the story - I didn't even edit it, I was that naive.

I knew what it was going to be about and I wrote it in about three months. It dealt with things that were close to my heart at the time - email dating (don't ask) volunteer work and photography - so I didn't have to try too hard with the research. Well they do say your first novel is the closest to being autobiographical, though I'm sure plenty of authors would dispute that. This one for instance. I hope!

We'll gloss over the fact that I committed the cardinal sin of designing (yes designing, on the computer) a cover page for my novel, with plenty of pink, and a whimsical clip-art female sitting under a tree, which I submitted along with the manuscript. Beyond embarrassing.

But still ... I wish, wish, WISH I could recapture whatever it was I was doing right then, because it occurred to me as I was flipping through it that I can either do it again, because I did it once, OR - I had one book in me, that was it and the moment has well and truly passed.

I do hope it's not the latter.

Nice idea

2009-08-17T16:07:00.005+01:00

I've had my mum to stay for a week, which is why I've been 'off-blog.' We had a lovely time - in spite of the drizzle - and managed to squeeze loads in.

While she was here it was her birthday and I almost gave her this lovely journal I came across in a local gift shop.

Each page has a heading ...

and things like, "who were your best friends when you were at school?" "What was I like as a baby?" "What was my first word?" and so on.

I say almost. Because on second thoughts I realised my mum would be horrified with a present like this.

She's from a generation of Northern women who aren't comfortable being touchy-feely and open about their emotions. If there'd been questions like "do you remember throwing your slipper at us when you were cross?" or "why did we always have corned beef for dinner on Wednesdays?" she might have co-operated - laughed even. "Describe the wallpaper over the fireplace in the house where we grew up," would have had her rolling her eyes and reaching for her pen, but "describe how you felt the first time you saw me," would have had her dry-heaving into her handbag. I know my mum.

Also, her and my dad divorced a long time ago so THOSE questions might have made her upset or cross. All in all, a pretty rubbish present.

Instead I've decided to keep it and write in it myself. I don't mind emoting, and I can't resist a blank page. I know my daughter would love to read it one day too.

I also thought it might be fun to copy out the headings and answer them as the characters in my novel for more insight, because yes - it's time.

Time to get the manuscript out of the drawer (well, up on the screen) and start to think about editing it.

Gulp.

I'm tempted to stick with the journal for now.

Doesn't Time Fly?

2009-07-30T23:34:00.004+01:00

Two weeks since I last posted? How did that happen? In fact where's July gone? Turn your back for two minutes etc. etc.

I'd like to be able to say I've spent the past fortnight being fascinating - entertaining hordes of people at garden parties and throwing neighbourly barbecues. Or being productive - building a conservatory, say, or reinstating the ancient art of tatting (actually, I wouldn't mind a go.) Hell, I'd like to be able to tell you I've been sunning myself on a yacht in the Mediterranean, but t'would all be a big, fat lie.

Firstly, the sun has officially buggered off - in our part of the world anyway. At any given time I can be found trudging up and down the garden with wet washing slung over my shoulder, and when I'm not dragging the washing off the line I'm drying the dog, because walking through the fields in the pouring rain makes her soggy. (Me too, actually. Not a great look. My hair swells up in the damp.)

It can't be right. It's supposed to be summer.

A highlight has been a swine flu scare. No.1 son quietly took himself to the doctor's a couple of days ago, but his temperature wasn't high enough to qualify. I think he was secretly disappointed.

Other than that I've written some stories, sold a couple, fretted over the novel, worked at the library and cleaned the house in preparation for a visit from my mother in a couple of weeks. Which is ridiculous, because everything will be dirty again by then.

Ah well, it may not be fascinating, but it could be worse. We could actually have swine flu.

Not Nice

2009-07-17T15:56:00.006+01:00

Jane Smith over at How Publishing Really Works at has declared today Anti-Plagiarism Day. There are some interesting posts on the subject out in blogland and I thought I'd contribute in a small way.

I noticed this month that once again my book review in the local paper has been attributed to someone else. A man this time. Greg Burns. (It was Polly something last time.) I'm sure he's a very nice man. He might even be a very good writer - better than me. But he didn't write that 300 word book review. I did. I don't get paid, but still. I like doing them, and before the paper was taken over recently there was even a little photo of me to accompany the review and a bit about me and my ~~services to humanity~~ job in the library. Now, I don't even get a mention.

It sucks actually, so I can sort of imagine how people must feel to have whole swathes of text that they've sweated over passed off as someone else's work. Not nice.

Anyway, I've fired off a creative email informing the paper that I won't be contributing anymore.

So there.

Done and dusted - for now

2009-07-08T10:20:00.005+01:00

Well the first draft of the "rather silly" novel is finished. That is, I've typed The End. What happens now is anyone's guess. Accidental deletion knowing me.

No, the plan is to leave it to settle for a while (half an hour at least) before starting the real work of making it better. Hopefully I won't read it back and think, oh dear. Maybe I'd better leave it longer than half an hour for some proper perspective.

I shall rest my eyes for a bit and try and forget all about the characters, who have become like imaginary friends, and then crack on with some short stories. I've also had an idea for another novel so I may start that too - otherwise I won't know what to do with my hands.

Elsewhere: A random study somewhere has revealed that library staff are the least bitchy people to work with. They obviously haven't worked in our branch ...

(for obvious reasons I'd better add just kidding.)

The End?

2009-06-28T19:15:00.001+01:00

I promise I won't do any more of these. Until the next time ...

Look into my eyes ...

2009-06-23T15:50:00.011+01:00

This is silly but quite clever. Then again I'm rather simple about these things - you'll undoubtedly work it out much faster than I did. Sorry it's a bit blurry, but that's the best way to view David Copperfield in my opinion.

**Warning - Don't look into his eyes for too long, or you'll fall in love with him.

Admission of gross stupidity

2009-06-17T09:11:00.006+01:00

How many times have I been told to back-up work on the PC? Only a squillion and two. The words are instilled in me, as they should be in anyone who uses a computer every day. Do I take heed? Well most of the time I do, actually. After all I'd hate to lose 13000 precious words wouldn't I? Precious to me. To anyone else it might seem a blessing.

So why oh why oh why in the name of Maltesers, did I not do that very simple thing on my last few writing sessions??? I know why. I'm a fool. I copy my work onto a memory stick, which I'm forever jabbing into my Netbook then transferring to the computer at home or even at the library sometimes, and I started getting lackadaisical about saving to the hard drive. Naturally the unthinkable happened.

Yesterday I saved my work to the USB pen as usual, stuck it in the PC later on, tried to open the document (with the whole novel on it - 77000 words worth) and...nothing. Worse than nothing. A nasty little message saying "this file is corrupt and unreadable." I knew how it felt. Except my face was pretty easy to read.

Bashing myself over the head with a dustbin lid was the least of it. Frantically opening the document I last saved to the PC I don't know how long ago, I realised I'd lost 13000 words. I tried to distance myself from the fact (oh okay, I cried) and spent the rest of the evening fiddling about trying to recover/repair the USB file (ahem, this has happened before) to no avail. I even bought and downloaded some online software that promised the earth and didn't deliver.

Then...

Up at 6.30 this morning, wearily determined to either have another go at repairing the file, or simply start writing all those words again (no chance of meeting my deadline now I thought - and who would believe me when it sounds like the worst sort of excuse? - I blinked at the screen.

What was that? A recovered temporary file in Notepad??

I opened it tentatively, holding my breath, and almost cried again. It was nearly all there. 1000 words and some bits of editing I did yesterday morning had gone; hadn't saved for some reason - must be when the corruption or whatever it was happened - but the rest was intact. In a strange font with no formatting, but what the hell. A victory dance was performed. It wasn't very elegant but the dog didn't mind.

Oh my days. Relieved? I've had a bar of Fruit n' Nut for breakfast to celebrate.

Will I be backing up in future? I already have, in about five different places and now I need a lie-down.

Reality Byte

2009-06-03T14:19:00.004+01:00

After seeing Lane's fabulous mini-movie Surgery (if you haven't already do go and check it out, it's brilliant) I was inspired - or should I say distracted - to try it for myself.

If you're tempted to give it a go - don't. It's addictive.

A day at the zoo

2009-05-28T15:46:00.010+01:00

I've sold a story to Woman's Weekly for the first time, so I'm Very Pleased Indeed.

It fair took my mind off traipsing round Cotswold Wildlife Park in the pouring rain and a howling wind (don't know what went wrong there - the weather forecast was quite good). The fellow above made me smile though. Looks rather like a cartoon guinea-pig.

I never did find out what he really is, and I'm not sure I want to.

And there were lots of things in threes ...

What's that all about??

8 things

2009-05-20T11:02:00.006+01:00

The lovely Laura Cassidy recently tagged me to reveal "8 things" so to take my mind off the fact that my daughter, having passed her driving test, is now trawling the highways in her first ever motor-vehicle, being cut up by shouty men in white vans, and that I still have a way to go before meeting my self-imposed June 26th deadline, I'm more than happy to oblige. Even though I should be writing. My novel.

*Warning - some of the answers may not be true (don't sue me)

8 Things I look forward to

Making a cake and eating it (all)
Settling down to read a book
Settling down to write a book
Saddling up my seahorse (Riley) and riding the waves on a hot summer's day
The audience response when I play my trombone with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (they often cry)
Playing in the sandpit with my meerkat, Thomas
Seeing my husband at the end of every day
Reading your blogs

8 Things I did yesterday

Combed my hair
Thought about claming my mortgage on expenses
Went to a Pampered Chef party and bought a bamboo spoon
Spoke to a policeman
Cleaned up dog sick
Wished upon a star
Wrote 1000 words
Removed a dead bird from the conservatory

8 Things I wish I could do

Sing
Dance
Fly
Make a cheesecake that didn't taste 'yuk'
Be 21 again and know what I know now
Get a novel published
Carry a moonbeam home in a jar
Build a time machine

8 Shows I watch

The Apprentice
America's Next Top Model
Lost
The Inbetweeners
Peep Show
Desperate Housewives
Mad Men
The Wright Stuff

And that's all folks!

I won't tag you in case you have tag fatigue, but do feel free to poach.

Milestones

2009-05-12T10:57:00.004+01:00

If you'd care to swivel your eyes towards m'word counter you'll see that I'm now over halfway through the novel. These are the most words wot I have written since I managed a whole one a few years ago (when I was young and foolish) and I'm Very Chuffed.

Also I wrote the word Penis yesterday, without blushing. In the novel, not on the pavement or anything. It was in context, but quite humourous as I still can't write Serious Sex without imagining my mother's expression.

Which is totally unfair as she's probably more open-minded than I am.

Twelfth time lucky

2009-05-09T17:36:00.003+01:00

Author Sophie King was signing copies of her new book The Wedding Party at an independent bookshop near where I work today, so I thought I'd pop along.

What gives me hope with my writing is that, despite being a successful journalist and prolific short story writer under her real name, Jane Bidder, Sophie wrote 11 (yes eleven) novels before finally getting published. One of them was rejected because her agent had taken on another novel that was too similar. How annoying must that be?

But she Never Gave Up. And neither will I - despite my porridge elbow giving me ~~gyp (jip? gip?)~~ grief. Although it's better than it was, so I can't complain!

Flying fingers

2009-05-02T20:22:00.005+01:00

Excuse the lack of intelligent blog postings (not that they ever were) but I'm using all the words in my brain for my novel right now. Long words, short words made-up words and even clever words like Circean - which refers to beauty of a dangerous kind. I know that because I've just looked it up. I haven't really used it (I'm not that clever) but I think I will now, I like it.

To meet my deadline I have to write 833 words a day, which sounds easily achievable until you factor in everything else I have to do. Miss a day and suddenly I've got, er, 1666 words to do the next day - miss that and...you get the picture. 4200 words a week it works out at (don't sue me if I'm wrong, Maths was always a weakness) which sounds downright scary, but even so. I'm determined to do it. I'm enjoying doing it.

And if I don't do it everyone will know I'm an eejit, and I really can't have that.

It would make me feel like absquatulating.

Hot off the Press

2009-04-23T00:28:00.004+01:00

Okay I probably need help, but I couldn't resist this -

The print's rather small so you might have to click on the image (don't bother it's not worth it) and it's here if you've not got anything better to do.

Now I really must get on with it.

Unbelievable

2009-04-15T19:18:00.004+01:00

Stories in the news today that you simply couldn't make up ...

"Fir tree grew inside man's lung"

"Nine years for Tesco poo sprayer"

"Man shows off third ear implanted in his arm"

"Man bites snake on tail to escape its deadly grip"

"Man caught having sex with girlfriend while driving at 100mph"

"Bristol Crown Court closed after being overwhelmed by smell of garlic" (Probably put there by a man ...)

Okay there probably were some weird stories about women but none leapt out at me, honest!

Stranger than all that is how much writing I've done lately. I can't compete with Annieye's extravagant Easter output, but I've not done too badly at all. In fact I've rashly set myself a mid-June deadline for finishing the first draft.

There, I've gorn and said it.

Guilty as charged

2009-04-09T15:40:00.011+01:00

The other evening I was on the computer (no wonder my elbow's still hurting) when a mini-kerfuffle broke out by the door as the Teens were instructed by Lovely Husband to vamoose. "Stop pestering your mother and let her get on with her writing," he said firmly.

He's very supportive and takes what I do seriously, which is wonderful, but dear reader I was actually on E-bay at the time. Sourcing a new toilet-seat to replace the one that's broken, while simultaneously tracking down a top I'd seen in a magazine. I was planning to follow this up with a raid on the BBC Good Food website in search of a no-bake cheesecake recipe. Not that I couldn't be bothered to bake one, I just fancied one there and then.

Thing is I felt so guilty as everyone shuffled off talking in exaggerated stage whispers, that I shiftily opened a document at random and discovered a short story I'd abandoned a while back. I read it through and it wasn't bad, but I'd clearly lost it half-way through. I'd actually typed "Blah, blah, so WHAT??" in brackets at the bottom.

Spurred on by my family's faith in me I racked my addled brain and shiftily finished it off and after double-checking it wasn't complete cobblers I sent it to a magazine this morning.

And there was I thinking that guilt was completely unproductive.

Maybe if I stand next to the washing-up and squeeze out a tear or two it'll have a similar effect on the Teens.

Porridge elbow

2009-04-04T20:32:00.004+01:00

I seem to have developed what's fondly known in our family as "porridge elbow" - a rare form of repetitive strain injury. The term came about when my mum developed a painful elbow that needed treatment, but couldn't understand why. She doesn't use a keyboard, she doesn't play tennis and she's not on her hands and knees scrubbing floors all day long. Then it dawned on her. The reason her elbow hurt like hell was because she'd been stirring her porridge too vigorously every morning for years, to stop it sticking to the pan. Strange but true.

My injury is more obvious. Over-usage of the mouse. My left elbow is fine, but I'm forever scrolling up and down with my right hand on the critter; cutting and pasting and left and right clicking all over the place. When I move the fingers on my right hand there's a corresponding ache in my elbow that's not crippling, but niggling none the less. Like a toothache. But in my elbow.

I'm trying to navigate using the arrows on the keyboard instead, but it's tricky. I've tried using a cushion under my elbow, which made matters worse and using the mouse with my left hand but chaos ensued. I could stop using the keyboard altogether for a while and go back to the old-fashioned method of pen and paper, but the world might stop turning and I wouldn't want that to happen.

My mum solved her problem by putting her porridge in the microwave to speed things along. If only I could do the same with my novel.

And now for some library humour:

We got some new books in today. Do you want to know what they're called? (I bet you can't wait.)

The French Chef by Sue Flay
French Overpopulation by Francis Crowded
The Scent of a Man by Jim Nasium
Wind in the Willows by Russell Ingleaves
Look Younger by Fay Slift

Look, I didn't make them up okay?

It was an accident Officer!

2009-03-27T18:44:00.004Z

I've read several author interviews recently where the writer claims to have fallen into writing by accident, conjuring images of them lurching around looking dazed having produced a masterpiece without noticing. Can this really happen?

Maeve Binchy apparently used to write letters home from a kibbutz in Israel to reassure her parents that she was still alive, and they sent them off to a newspaper because they were so good, sparking a successful career.

Jane Harris started writing a short story about an ex-boyfriend who happened to be a transvestite, to amuse herself while living in Portugal in the early Nineties, as there was no TV, books or money. Sparking a successful career.

Susan E Philips and her best friend decided one day - just for fun - to write a book together. After some months they apparently worked out a system. Sparking a successful career.

Catherine Spencer fell into writing as she approached the menopause, ready for a change of career, and after eavesdropping on a conversation about writing for Harlequin decided it was too good a challenge to pass up. Sparking .... you get the drift.

I don't completely believe these cases are accidental though. I suspect writing's not something you fall into unless you already have the urge.

Am I wrong?

Just tell the story woman

2009-03-23T16:14:00.010Z

Things are moving along on the writing front (she says defensively.) I've sold a couple more stories, and I've started writing a new novel that I'm really excited about. It's a measure of how excited I am that I've written the equivalent amount of words as Novel 1, in about a third of the time. (I'm not very good with Maths so that might not make sense. I've written it quickly, let's put it that way.)

I feel guilty about abandoning Novel 1, though I'm hoping to go back to it at some point. It had got to the stage where some major things needed changing and I couldn't quite muster the strength. Plus I'd had this other idea you see, which wouldn't lie down and shut it's face.

The thing is, I keep remembering a quote I read on Gonna be a Writer's website - "you shouldn't practise writing you should practise finishing the writing projects that you start" - or words to that effect, and they keep tugging at my conscience. If I give up and start something new every time the going gets tough, I'll never get anything finished.

'Just tell the story, woman,' is a sentence I say to myself quite a lot. When I'm bogged down, or I've reached a saggy bit, or I've whittled away at the same paragraph over and over again until it's a completely different shape, to avoid Moving On.

But when the story won't budge and the whittling's out of hand, isn't it better to start something that feels like it might be the right shape already, with a bit of careful honing?

Okay, that's enough with the woodworking analogies.

Maybe I should have been a carpenter?

It's a Crime

2009-03-15T18:54:00.005Z

One our library's best customers is a lady who's getting on a bit, likes a ciggie (judging by the smell of the books when she returns them) and reads a lot of crime novels. When I say a lot, I mean she takes out around ten or twelve on a Saturday and brings them back on a Thursday. Naturally, this means she's read just about every crime novel we've ever had in the history of crime novels, but she gets Very Angry when she can't find anything she hasn't already read.

'Utterly ridiculous,' she tutted and huffed yesterday, twirling the spinners round in an agitated fashion while I was trying to shelve. 'I've read all these, duck,' she said to me, when I accidentally caught her eye. 'I miss your table.' She looked longingly at the space that used to house a display of New Arrivals until it was deemed to be In The Way. Maybe she thought new crime novels materialised overnight, by supernatural means.

'Maybe you should try some of our other branches?' I suggested.

'I 'ave duck,' she said calmly. 'Read 'em all.'

'Would you fancy trying something different?'

'Like what?' She looked at me, outraged. 'I know what I like,' she said affronted. 'But it's very hard to find in this lot.' She gestured at the library in general and that, dear reader, is where I cut my losses and fled. I've had the conversation before, and it didn't end well then.

The fact is, she's read so many crime novels that the authors simply can't keep up with her.

I mention it on the off-chance that one of you might be writing a crime novel. Could you please finish it, publish it and get it to me by next Thursday please?

I'm scared she might be planning some crime of her own involving me, some handcuffs and possibly a couple of cigarette ends.

Red nose and cheeks

2009-03-11T16:27:00.011Z

Saw this on lovely Debs blog and thought it was worth looking silly for a good cause. If you fancy a go you can download yourself a red nose here.

I'm blushing because I've received a couple of tasty awards. One is from that fine wordsmith Dumdad all the way from Paris, and I've been assured I can keep it all to my greedy self...

... and the other is from the the very writerly JJ in bloomin' Bangkok, so it's gone all International. This one I've to pass on to three worthy bloggers, so I hereby nominate Amanda, Anna Scott Graham and Lorna F.

I'm really chuffed. Plus, spring has nearly sprung. I've hung washing out today.

Drawing the Line

2009-03-07T17:08:00.007Z

One of my favourite authors, Julie Myerson, has sparked a debate after writing a book about her son's use of cannabis and how it led to the heart-wrenching decision to throw him out of their home.

Now this is a tricky one, because her son did not give his permission for the book to be published and tried to have it blocked. In fact he's furious, and has branded his mother 'slightly insane,' saying, "This book is simply an extension of her maternal journalism. My mother has been writing about me for the past 16 years."

The extract I've read is beautifully written (as are all her novels) and in a way I'm curious to read it because (apart from the drugs, thank goodness) I can relate to it all too well, and her son's reaction could be said to be that of a typical teenager, and in a few years time he might be mature enough to read it and understand. BUT. Would I have written and published it? No. Maybe as a memoir or form of therapy, knowing it would never be published, but I tend to steer clear of including family traumas in my writing. It's hard enough living with them, for heaven's sake! I need my escapism, but of course that's a personal choice.

It may even be a good thing if it's opened a wider debate about the potential mental health problems that long-term cannabis abuse can cause, and how it can destroy a family, but just like sex scenes, I couldn't write it myself - with or without permission.

Is there anything you wouldn't write about, or is it just me?

Book scramble

2009-02-28T17:24:00.004Z

No, this isn't a photo of customers at the library hunting down the latest Jeffrey Archer novel.

It's a photo of ~~scavengers~~ bargain-hunters at a Bookbarn warehouse in Bristol. The lease had expired and apparently it was cheaper to give the stock away than to try and sell it elsewhere.

I'm not sure what to make of it really. Maybe they could have offloaded them to charity shops at least? I guess if I was the author of one of those books I wouldn't be too chuffed, but I did like some of the quotes in the article I read about it.

"...they have been coming from far and wide. I had one chap call me up from Milton Keynes yesterday ..."

" ... I've got quite a mixed bag, something about hair cutting, housework, and another called 'The Life of Long Legged Women' ..."

" ... people have been backing cars and vans and even a Porsche into the warehouse so they can stock up..."

"... one couple even came in a campervan and I think they slept overnight and then crammed as many books as they could into their van and drove off ..."

" ... the contents of the aircraft hangar-sized warehouse are a librarian's worst nightmare, with the books piled willy-nilly and not separated according to subject or genre ..." Well I have to agree with that one.

I suppose it was better than burning the place down, and if it brings a whole new audience to "The Life of Long Legged Women" then who am I to complain?

AND ... relax

2009-02-25T18:16:00.006Z

Teen Daughter had her driving test today.

She was understandably nervous, not least because it's been cancelled twice already, due to bad weather, and she has to keep psyching herself up. Then her instructor decided to give up teaching at the eleventh hour, and passed her over to someone she'd never met before, with a car she's never driven.

It brought back horrible memories of my first test. I say first because it took me, ahem, four go's to pass. I was quite confident the first time, not really knowing what to expect, and thought I'd done well but I failed. They're not allowed to tell you why, at least they weren't back then, so after that nerves got the better of me. On my second test I was so determined to pass my mind went completely blank and I failed coming out of the test centre, which was unfortunately situated on a hill. On my third test I couldn't stop shaking and accidentally accelerated out of a junction, instead of braking, and narrowly missed getting hit by a lorry. The examiner looked a bit faint.

The fourth time I was eight months pregnant with the twins, and could barely squeeze behind the wheel. The examiner, a steely-eyed woman with a look of the traffic warden about her, looked at me and hissed, "Don't think you'll get preferential treatment just because you're pregnant." Charming, I thought, convinced I'd already failed. I must have relaxed at that point. I even remember thinking what a lovely day it was. Blue sky, etc.

Naturally I passed, and I was thinking about this today while my baby girl was being put through her paces.

It's been a similar tale with the writing (there had to be a link somewhere!) First Ever Novel was written quickly and confidently and sent out straight away. Nicely rejected, but rejected all the same. I became nervous. Started trying too hard, and thinking all the time about getting published, instead of just writing.

So maybe it's time to relax and enjoy the journey again, and perhaps the rest will take care of itself.

At least I'm not likely to be hit by a lorry. Unless I'm writing by the side of the road. And a learner driver comes careering round the bend ...

Sadly, she didn't pass. I baked her a chocolate cake just in case and I think she's feeling better about it now. I reckon she'll do it next time.

Little things

2009-02-17T15:28:00.004Z

There seems to be bad news wherever you turn these days. It's enough to make a girl cower under the duvet whimpering, but in my little corner of the world I've decided to make the most of the little things this week. Not the big stuff, like family, good health and being in possession of all my own hair and teeth. I'm very grateful for those already. No, the little things like,

...having a story in Best today, accompanied by a gorgeously fluffy picture that makes me smile...

...it's half-term, so I don't have to trek Teen Son to college and back every day. A journey that varies between 15 minutes and an hour depending on traffic...

...the weather's behaving itself for a change. I haven't fallen over and cracked my head for about three whole days...

...Mad Men and Damages are back on TV.

...I seem to have plugged the gaping plothole that appeared in my novel last week. With more plot, I hasten to add, not an old sock, some newspaper and a smattering of Polyfilla. I did that once when a shelf fell off the wall. It didn't work...

...I've sold another short story to Take a Break.

...I've invented a pudding that has the feel-good factor without the calories that cause my bottom cheeks to swell up. Not a good look ... so last season...

And - er - that's it really.

Like I said, it's the little things.

I Need a Hero

2009-02-09T16:50:00.008Z

Flicking through my stats today, while waiting for short story inspiration to strike (more productive than than raiding the bread bin) I noticed that the keywords bringing people to my blog last week (only to be sorely disappointed) were "sexiest thing on two legs Armitage." I don't know why, as I can't remember ever writing about him.

This man can clearly do no wrong at the moment. He's coming top in all sorts of "ideal hero" polls at the moment, even toppling the magnificent Colin Firth who didn't even make the list this year. The world has truly gone topsy-turvy. However, I'm not immune to the charms of the Armitage m'self. Or more specifically the character he played in The Vicar of Dibley, and he does tend to pop into my head when I'm writing the male lead in The Novel.

Romantic heroes in women's fiction do tend to follow a pattern, physically at least. Thick, dark hair, chocolate brown eyes, lightly tanned skin, lazy smiles and muscular arms. I thought about writing one with thinning hair, a lazy eye, sticky-out ears and a limp, but it wouldn't work - even if he was phenomenally good in bed and kind to old ladies and animals. This is fiction. Our heroes have to be generically good-looking, alpha males, even if they're penniless and flawed in the personality department. It's the law.

The second most Google-ed words on my stats list were "sheepskin slippers".

Sex-crazed grannies anyone?

In a Girly World

2009-02-04T10:43:00.011Z

I'm not a typcially girly girl, but a friend sent me these pictures and I couldn't resist passing them on. I particularly like the hammer shaped like a shoe, for some reason...

That reminds me, I haven't been bowling for ages ...

Very trying

2009-02-01T18:19:00.005Z

Teen Son zoned in on me earlier, as he's wont to do every now and then. Usually when he wants some something. "What happened to that novel you were writing when we moved here, Mum?" He even remembered the title. "'Making Other Plans'" wasn't it?"

Oh Christ. "Erm," I dithered, wondering if I could get away with saying, "well actually, darling, it's with my agent and will be coming out at the end of the year," and somehow get it written and secure a publishing deal before March.

"It sort of bit the dust," I admitted.

"I thought you were doing it again."

"Um, the moment had passed," I confessed. "But I'm doing another one now!" I added, pathetically eager, and he nodded sympathetically.

"Is that the one about being famous?"

"Er, no. I, um, sort of ran out of steam on that one."

His brow furrowed manfully. "Oh. What's this one about then?"

"Oh, it's sort of hard to explain," I wibbled, and he nodded with great understanding.

"At least you keep trying," he said kindly, before wandering off to annoy his brother.

It's horrid admitting failure to your children when they still look up to you and somehow assume you can do anything. They must think I'm a right hopeless case. I can't even make money grow on trees for heaven's sake.

"You couldn't lend me a couple of quid could you?" he said hopefully, five minutes later.

Like he said, it's the trying that counts ...
****************************

Oh, and a big thank you to the lovely Alis Hawkins for this rather smashing award!

If anyone would like to pinch it, feel free - you're all cool you know :o)

Resolutions

2009-01-26T19:40:00.004Z

It's m' birthday tomorrow. (Or today. Or yesterday. Or the 27th, depending on when you're reading this.) Twenty-three. I know, I can't believe it either! I usually make a resolution on the day. Much more sensible than making one at the beginning of the year, when I'm still high on mince pies. And not a big Out Loud resolution either, in case I get flak for failing to achieve it, (although maybe I should) but a little one, generally along the lines of "I WILL get the novel finished and Out There this year." Last year's was to get a short story published in a national magazine, which I did (YAY!) but I've reverted to the old one again this year. It seems to be heading in the right direction as opposed to in the bin, which is promising.

However, a brilliantly funny post on Spiralskies blog tapped in to a conversation I had with Teen Daughter today, and made me realise I might have to add another resolution.

"Why do you wear so much brown?' she said, scanning my cords beadily.

"It's the new black?" I offered hopefully. "It matches my eyes?"

"You look like a giant poo," she said.

Right.

Nearly as bad as her comment after my yearly scuffle with the hairdresser, a few months back. "You look like one of the Beatles," she said, stroking my head thoughtfully. I don't know which one. I didn't like to ask.

It's clearly time for a style overhaul.

When I've finished the novel...

Back at the coal face

2009-01-20T19:19:00.001Z

(Sadly, not me.)

Feeling much better now, thanks for your lovely comments, and working overtime at the library again. Sigh. As much as I'd love to turn it down with a languid flap of the hand, I can't. Not with the economy throwing its toys out of the pram every five seconds.

Still, at least I wasn't being asked to assemble a crack team of resistance fighters to rescue a British agent from behind enemy lines using my feminine wiles, before assassinating the head of Nazi counter-intelligence, like Sophie Marceau in the brilliant Female Agents, which I watched at the weekend. Essentially I'm just returning and issuing books. But still.

I've noticed that the library is nowhere near as busy as it was a few years ago. We've been asked to suggest ways to tempt people in, but as I'm sure I've said before I think you're either the sort of person who uses the library or you're not. I'm not convinced wizardry of any kind will entice people in. I did put forward a case for home-made cake and lashings of tea, but that was for me. While I thought about it.

I still haven't come up with an answer.

Hard to Swallow

2009-01-13T15:13:00.005Z

I am trying to get on with the novel, but I've just been diagnosed with a throat infection and it's flippin' painful. As a result I'm a bit flushed and mad today.

To that end, I couldn't resist having a go at making this romance-novel cover at http://www.glassgiant.com/romance/ Yes, I know it should feature a lady with a tiny waist in the arms of a lantern-jawed doctor but, surprisingly, I don't have any photos like that on the computer. I had to improvise with the dog. Poor Molly.

Shocking waste of time, or a bit of harmless fun? I'll let you decide.

Hopefully the antibiotics will kick in soon.

The Gulp Factor

2009-01-11T19:29:00.005Z

There's a great post on emerging writer's blog about an international literary contest, where brave writers anonymously submit the first page of their novel to be read aloud in front of a panel of agents, who all shout "STOP!" at the point where they'd cease reading. A sort of Britain's Got Talent for writers. Definitely not for the faint-hearted, but it was interesting to read some of the reasons given for not wanting to read on...

Opened with rhetorical question(s).

The first line is about setting, not about story.

The first line’s hook did not work, because it was not tied to the plot or the conflict of the opening scene.

Took too long for anything to happen (a critique, incidentally, leveled several times at a submission after only the first paragraph had been read); the story taking time to warm up.

Not enough happens on page 1.

The opening sounded like an ad for the book or a recap of the pitch, rather than getting the reader into the story.

The opening contained the phrases, “My name is…” and/or “My age is…”

The opening contained the phrase, “This can’t be happening.”

The opening contained the phrase or implication, “And then I woke up.”

The opening had a character do something that characters only do in books, not real life. Specifically singled out: a character who shakes her head to clear an image, “he shook his head to clear the cobwebs.”

The character spots him/herself in a mirror, in order to provide an excuse for a physical description.

The first paragraph was straight narration, rather than action.

Too much physical description in the opening paragraph, rather than action or conflict.

Opening spent too much time on environment, and not enough on character.

There are LOADS more reasons on the author author site and only 8 on why an agent WOULD read on. Blimey.

I'm guilty of one of the above, but I'm not going to say which (shakes head to clear cobwebs. No it wasn't that one.) I like to think I've done it in a lightly amusing fashion, rather than a cliched one though I'm probably wrong.

Either way it's definitely worth whipping out that first page again and trying to make it really stand out. Thing is, can I keep it up for the rest of the novel?

Winter Wonderland

2009-01-05T14:52:00.004Z

Woke up to lots of snowy lovelieness this morning. Not enough for anyone to skive off college/work, but still. Above is one of the fields where I walk Molly-dog, and here she is in the woods having a marvellous time. She loves snow.

...well, we both do really. You can't beat it for transforming an otherwise ordinary landscape. Rain just doesn't do it for me, I'm afraid.

I came back, dusted Molly off, stamped my feet on the mat, made myself some hot chocolate and thought, right...back to normal, time to get on with some writing. The house is nice and quiet.

It's not even untidy if you close your eyes and feel your way round the walls, and the wash-pile isn't too high. Unless you're five-foot two. Which I am. And there's plenty of food in the house - at least there was the last time I looked. Even the floors look clean, providing the lights stay off and the sun doesn't come out unexpectedly...oh dear. I knew this would happen.

I have sent out two short stories out and started writing another though.

Does that count??

Bear Necessities

2009-01-02T19:38:00.011Z

Finally got home after delivering my mum back Up North, and all that driving has made my eyes spin like Nookie Bear's. Does anyone remember that crazed animal?? (You don't have to answer.) He was operated by a rather suave gentleman with a borderline handle-bar moustache, by the name of Roger de Courcy. I went to see them live, once, at The Futurist theatre in Scarborough. I was clearly a troubled child.

'Pon my return, I discovered via my Story a Fortnight blog that I apparently have not one, but TWO stories in the February edition of Fiction Feast (out now at all good newsagents). I'm very thrilled indeed, but it's typical that I'm the last to know. Even my friend said, 'Oh yeah, I've got a copy here, I thought you knew,' when I rang her. She might as well have added 'blah, blah, blah, so what, I'm not even going to read them.' I think she's getting sick of my girlish excitement. I wonder when the novelty of it all will wear off? I squealed like a tiny piglet when I found out, even though I knew they were going to be published sometime. It's hardly dignified behaviour for a woman my age. Twenty-two for those of you who've forgotten.

The glory days of morning-in-bed-writing are over though. Back to normal next week. Shame as, bizzarely, I managed to do more writing during what is, traditionally, the busiest time of the year than I normally do. And that was despite our boiler breaking down on Monday, just as the temperature outside plunged to -5000. I kept on typing with frozen fingers and managed to churn out 800 words every day for a week, as promised (to myself.) My mum took to creeping along the landing for her shower every morning so as not to disturb me, making much more noise than normal, bless her. "Did you do it?" she demanded every day, when I finally surfaced glazed of eye and wild of hair. I think she liked being caught up in the madness.

Now, I'm afraid that I won't be able to write at all without a duvet wrapped round me, a flask of tea to drink, a tin of Quality Street to hand, Christmas decorations everywhere, turkey piled high in the fridge, crackers being pulled in the background, Emmerdale on the telly, a family game of rummy every night, and my mother in an armchair playing Tetris on her mobile phone. (She's bloody obsessed with that game.)

Must pull myself together...

Season's Greetings

2008-12-23T08:15:00.001Z

It usually happens around this time. I go into panic-mode. There're still presents to get, there's food to buy, flies to kill (why are we inundated with flies at the moment??) friends to visit in order to drop off presents that are yet to be bought, and a mother to collect from Up North, who'll be staying until the New Year.

There's no time for reading, writing or blogging.

Having said that, Mother lies in until ten each morning (she stays up late) so I'm hoping to wake up early and sneak a couple of hours on Netbook while she's here. Mind you, best laid plans and all that...

In the meantime, have a wonderful Christmas lovely readers xxxx

Sold!

2008-12-19T21:13:00.005Z

Came back from Christmas shopping earlier (thought I'd better make a start) to find a letter from Best magazine, accepting a short story I submitted ages ago.

Bloomin' marvellous! They'd changed the title, so it took me a while to suss out which story it was, but when I did I was extra glad as it's a humorous one that I didn't think stood much of a chance. I rather hope they haven't changed it too much.

Anyway, it will appear on the 17th February if you happen to be slinking past a newsagent's. Not that I expect you to write it in your diaries or anything...

On the downside, I've been told by an expert that I have a tendency to 'meander' in my novel's early chapters. I think I need to start applying the principles of short story writing there, because I don't meander when I'm writing a short story. There's no time. Every word has to move the thing forward. I KNOW this, but with 80,000 words or so at my disposal I seem to fall into the trap of digressing like Ronnie Corbett (that dates me) and it's got to stop. I rather like the word 'meander' though - it sounds quite gentle. I'm sure it's a polite word for 'ramble' but sounds much nicer - as does perambulate.

I think I'm digressing again. Time for a nice cup of tea.

Three things...

2008-12-12T13:43:00.011Z

First thing...

This is me, playing with my new toy. Now, last year I know I rhapsodised long and hard about Laptop and our 'getting to know each other' sessions in the bedroom - which just goes to show how fickle I am. In a shot, I've traded him in for a Netbook. Laptop was just too big and unwieldy for me to cart about - I like a gadget I can pop in my handbag (don't even go there...) Plus the battery kept running out every five minutes. Hark at me, slating the poor chap behind his back. Sadly, like a boyfriend whose habits endear you in the beginning, he soon started to annoy me.

I got a decent price for him and he's gone to a good, manly home. (He's blue, which is why I refer to him as He. Either that, or I've gone bonkers.) ANY-way. My new love is Acer, the shiny, white Netbook. Small but perfectly formed she fits in my bag, looks gorgeous and is sturdy enough to bash someone round the head with, should the need arise. Which it probably won't.

And yes, that is proper grown-up novelesque writing on her teeny-tiny girly screen.

Second thing...

I finally found a festive mood as our new Christmas tree arrived. I put it up with This Morning burbling in the background (it's traditional for me, okay??) and slung some new eco-friendly, red berry LED lights, which I bought a while back, round its many branches, before attaching all the baubles and trinkets garnered over the years - thankfully not chucked out for the bin-men - but the problem is I don't like the new lights, after all that. They don't look properly festive to me, and I'm worried that the red glow emanating from the window will send out entirely the wrong message....

And the third thing...

I've received another super-duper award, this time from those lovely ladies Lily and Leigh and JJ - I feel very spoiled at the moment but as a condition of acceptance I have to reveal five addictions. (Only 5??)

They are, in no particular order, cake, America's Next Top Model, writing, chocolate and my lovely slippers. (No, I'm not ninety I just can't bear having cold feet).

Did I mention cake??

Bugger off all Ye Faithful

2008-12-08T14:27:00.009Z

I thought I'd put the Christmas tree up today, as I had the house to myself for an hour, then remembered I chucked it away last year in a fit of resentment. It was an artificial one (I'm allergic to real ones) so there was nothing remotely wrong with it. I simply couldn't be bothered to stuff it back into its box (which mysteriously shrinks every year) and cart it all the way up to the Cupboard of Crap in our bedroom. I know, I know I'm awful and wasteful. I like to think it was rescued en route to the dump, and is now resplendent and twinkling in someone else's living room. Sorry little tree.

Anyway, unable to face buying a new one in person I ordered something online (it looked like a Christmas tree, so fingers crossed) and thought I'd work on my latest chapter instead. Trouble was, Christmas thoughts kept barging in on Writing ones like unwanted guests. No sooner had I got to grips with a tricky paragraph than in they came; taking their coats off, flicking the kettle on and making pertinent comments like,

"Weren't you supposed to track down that perfume your Mum used to wear in 1970?" and "Don't forget to order a Torchwood calendar for your nephew," and "remember you have to post your niece's present off, and you haven't bought it yet." Even more chilling were the words, "there're only seventeen days left until Christmas, you know."

Seventeen days?? Jeez-Louise. The only writing I should be doing is, "To Your Lot - Happy Christmas, from Our Lot xxx" except I haven't bought my cards yet.

Must be upbeat though. My daughter said to me yesterday, "For god's sake Mum, stop putting a big, fat dampener on Christmas. I'm trying to look forward to it."

I wouldn't mind, but she's nearly twenty.

***************************

Also, received this lovely award from the feisty BFS at Boomer Baby Bliss for which I'm most 'umbly grateful. Only thing is, I think it's spelt wrong ;o) Might have to build a virtual shelf for them all now (she bragged unattractively).

Choo Choo!

2008-12-04T18:30:00.005Z

I've always loved travelling by train, but don't do it very often these days. Yesterday I travelled up to York to meet my mum and sister (they live in Scarborough) for some chat and some shopping, although rather more chatting than shopping got done, which suited me fine. Lordy, it was cold though.

Getting to King's Cross - the first leg of the journey - at rush hour was an eye-opener. I've never done it before. Once everyone was stuffed into the carriage it became a home from home. These people were clearly professional passengers. The minute we set off laptops were fired up, newspapers flapped open, books raised, folders dragged out, noses picked and breakfasts eaten (the last two counted as one activity in some cases).

I half expected a television in the corner to start blaring out GMTV and someone to pop their head round the door and shout "Right then! Anyone fancy a cuppa?" Which I would have, as it happened. What I didn't hear for the entire time I was on that train, was anyone utter a single, solitary, humanoid word. At one point, I felt like jumping up and shouting "Nik nak paddy whack, give the dog a bone!" (what does that MEAN by the way?) but worried they might have a system for dealing with tricky passengers, and I hadn't factored in being flung from a moving train.

The National Express to York, however, was a different story. Nobody could shut-up. Not talking to each other, mind you, but into their mobile phones. The man sat opposite wanted his secretary to download a crucial PDF file for a meeting he was running late for, but didn't want her showing anyone until he got there. I didn't want to know that, but had no choice. Call me ruthless, but I switched my phone off the second I boarded. Apart from a couple of texts about arriving safely, I didn't want to make contact or be contacted. So there.

What I did do while I was being transported forth and back was work on a synopsis for t'novel, to keep me on track, and read a whole book - The Missing Person's Guide to Love by Susanna Jones. Very good it was too. That's what I really love about train journeys- you're absolved of all responsibility for a good few hours.

It would be criminal NOT to make the most of it.