NaNO

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!

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 ...

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.