It was an accident Officer!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 ...
****************************

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.