In a Girly World

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

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 ...
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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

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

(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

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

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

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

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

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!

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...

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

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.



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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!

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.