Help! I think I need to be Katie Price!

And not in a big-bazoomer-y type of way, not in an orange-hued, stick-thin celebrity B-lister type of way either, in fact not even in an "I married one of the fittest, most tolerant, funniest blokes in the universe but it still didn't make me happy" kinda way either.  No, I think I need to be Katie Price because of what happened to me in the shower this morning.
Incoming elaboration...
As regular readers already know, the bathroom is where I get  my best ideas.  And  today, even through the fug of the current mucus-based-bug - which let me tell you turns any wet room into an unprecedented danger zone -  I had SUCH a double, no.. triple - oh soddit - make that a gazillion-whammy of a creative inspiration that I actually left the room shaking and pruned to the eyeballs, I'd stood under the shower for so long trying to work it all out.
I KNOW it's a great idea.  I KNOW it'll be an absolute blast to write.  I KNOW it'll hit home on so many levels and touch a whole generation and I KNOW the subject so well that it'll be almost painful (in a good way) to write- but.  And this is not a massive but.... BUT I already have tandem WIP teen books I'm writing, I have a list of about 15 other 'tentative titles' of ideas that I know I'll to get round to penning "One Day" and I vacillate from one to the other according to my general mood, the weather and my state of un/dress.
(This, in case any Agent-type person is reading - is because I NEED AN AGENT to discipline me in where/what/which I'm supposed to be doing first for optimum effect.. ok, manic screech over...)
And you know what?  This, is what I imagine Katie Price has the ability... nay, the luxury to do.  She can have a great idea whilst in her equivalent of MY creative shower (she's certainly not welcome in my shower - let me make that perfectly clear - not whilst there are red-blooded men and impressionable teenagers about the house) and, knowing that she doesn't have to actually sit at a keyboard - much less LEARN how to use one to begin with - and start to draft the bones, research until three in the morning whilst ensuring surrounding areas are kept free of smeared chocolate, hob-nob crumbs, spilled tea and small creatures on the sniff for said scraps.  AND keep a bloody house running.  Oh, and a turn up regularly at a part-time job.  And feed a family - which includes cats.  Does she? Well, does she?
I'm guessing not.  Although I'm quite happy to be corrected on this point.  I'd welcome it to be frank.  It'd be nice to have a creative chin-wag with a 'writer' of her calibre. 
In my mind, she has these ideas (in whatever room of her house in whichever state of undress she chooses) and promptly farms them out to some other poor (more professional, who can spell, knows where a comma's supposed to go and which law of imperative verbs is the most important) writer who will grab her 'ideas', mould, shape and form them into some kind of semblance of order which won't make *blood pour from a reader's eyeballs and proceed to type them up into a story for her.
To which she will then put her name.
And sell a million in a morning because she's who she is.
At least Martine McCutcheon had the grace to write her 'book' herself.  I'm guessing.  Judging from the excerpt I read and the hundredweight of tissues I had to use to soak up *the blood.

(Closet) Fashionista? ! Moi?

In the dim recesses of my mind, I remember making very lame attempts at 'Designing' stuff in my mis-spent youth.  Dresses (Wedding, mostly) army-style culottes (?!)  and ethereal floaty things a la Queen Guinevere. And I've always had a thing about 'folds', or is it called 'drape'?
And  I did  a "Fashion Through Time" project at school where I discovered a love of the Thirties and Forties with their waspie-waists  and full-on petticoats. Now where did all that go I wonder?
How come at school I only ever managed to knock up a larger-than-life yellow and white checked duck (much to the consternation of my mother who couldn't see the point, much less be able to afford the princely sum of £12.50 for the material - funny how these things stick in the mind, isn't it?) oh, a cushion cover and a swing bag - which I think was  made using a loom we built ourselves too.  What happened to my designs?  What happened to the creations I drew and painted and secretly dreamed I would one day watch glide down a catwalk at the Paris Fashion Show?

No idea.

But it all came back to me last night as I was channel hopping.  And spotted the adorable Leonora Critchlow (she's the ghost, Nina, in "Being Human" and we have secretly adopted her because she's so lovely) with a mouthful of pins and chatting to a very believably disenchanted supermodel who's also her best friend.  Throw into the equation a brilliant Cruella de Ville performance from Dervla Kirwan (no sign of her nicey-niceness anywhere and Glenn Close should watch her back)  a few other cliched-but-perfectly drawn characters, and the whole thing, called "MATERIAL GIRL"* is an absolute MUST-SEE.  And as last night was the 3rd episode, I've just caught up with the first two and I have never been less disappointed in my entire life.  It's great.  it's pure excapism on a real-deal front and it's British, people - British!!!  It's 'Glee-meets-The Rag Trade' and there's even a perfectly-cast Polish/Czech chain-smoking-seamstress which probably infringes most health & safety regulations - but it works!

And I'm not a "shoe" person, but there are shoes, ladies - SHOES!  Up front - very beautiful - and in your face.  I seem to recall that during the Dallas heyday, our Joannie was reported to have even worn slippers during some scenes because it was all about the shoulder pads and make-up and not the footwear.
Please give it a go *first episode here. It's a lovely, believable other world.  It'll warm your cockles.

Wishes Never Made...

My lovely interweb writer friend, Deborah Durbin (no relation to the black and white Deanna of 1950's Sunday afternoon musical fame) would probably back me up on this - come to think of it, so would Noel Edmonds with his Visualisation techniques and his Golden Orbs - but we'll stick with Deborah because that's a much less cringey image!.
It occurred to me in the shower this morning - the best place for any kind of creative thinking bar none - that in my life I already have things I never wished (aloud) for but which I certainly could not nor would not be able to function happily or properly without.  These being :

1.  The most beautiful, happy, level-headed, content-in-her-own-skin with no hang-ups whatsoever daughter who continually (even though I shamefully embarrass her on occasion) tells me she loves me and wants to be just like me when she grows up (okay then, so slightly worrying on the mental stability front, but we can't have everything) and with whom I have the best relationship I've ever had with anyone my entire life. *sob*.

2. The most incredible husband in the world who, for some reason seems to love me for my faults and not despite them and who never fails to lift my spirits with either a reasoned argument in spirit-lifting favour or else a supremely amusing face-pull/dance/moonie at precisely the right moment.  He remains my breath of fresh air, keeps me grounded and loves me whatever my mood and state of dress.
(Disclaimer:  Actually I DID wish for him and that'll be the subject of another post - with grateful thanks to Deborah for her amazing book "There's a Little Witch in Every Woman" and to my friend at the time, Tracey for giving it to me).

3. The absolute best (paid) work in the world for my mentality. If, during 'Career' lessons at school, it had been suggested I should remain working at a school, only I wouldn't be actually teaching, I'd be cutting, sticking, mounting and stapling work onto massive three metre display boards - after firstly having designed a whole mural associated with said work, I think I'd have peed myself laughing.  A ridiculous job like that?  Me?  Are you mad!  And yet I am the Middle School equivalent of Rolf Harris working to an academic timetable ("can you tell what it is yet?").

4. Of course Bill Gates has to have played some small part in the next non-wish scenario but where would I/we be without the amazing technologies surrounding our pc's and the things we can do with them?  No more am I sitting huddled over a manual/electric/golfball/daisywheel  typewriter (remember those?) with stupid sheets of carbon and silly little strips of tippex, wondering how I can *seriously* cut and paste a whole section of story without making the manuscript look like a Christmas decoration or a doiley.  Thank the God of technology for the wonders we are able to use today - and thank goodness s/he was listening through my frustrations of finding an easier way to do it.

5. Never in my wildest (and believe me, I've had some) imaginings, could I have dreamed that One Day I could finish reading a book and then send the author a message telling them how much I enjoyed it and have the author then reply back saying 'thanks'. My god, the conversations I could have had with Enid Blyton, Jilly Cooper and Marian Keyes had this form of tehnology been available to me decades ago!

6. And a list wouldn't be complete without a mention of the Perm, would it?  Who'd have thought that all I had to do to get the hair of my dreams would be to give birth.  Not a mention of that one in the Pregnancy Manual.  I think I'd have noticed.  And I have to thank L'Oreal for keeping it 'real' and not making me appear as the silvery-haired crazy lady who sticks kids pictures on walls for a living whilst dreaming of becoming a proper author-type person one day!

Once Upon a Time...

Well, would YOU want to read on?

[this is the opening paragraph of a book I will be writing one day]
1.
The last time I saw Price Johnson he’d had his hand up the back of my t-shirt in a valiant attempt at trying to unfasten my shiny new Wonderbra. I think if I’d had a bit more to drink and a bit less savvy about me at the tender age of eighteen I might have told him it was a front-loader and let the romance commence. However, as it happened, after about twenty minutes of getting just about nowhere and finally more overcome with exhaustion than passion, he’d excused himself saying he was thirsty and wandered off into the sweaty, heaving throng that was Julian Crane’s New Years Eve party. I didn’t see him again. Not that it bothered me unduly. I hadn’t gone to the party with him anyway. I’d gone with Colin Butterfield. Only Colin’d had his head down the Crane’s toilet for most of the evening and I knew if I was going to get any kind of snog out of him, that it wasn’t going to be a particularly tasty experience – ‘proper’ boyfriend or not.

Normal Service Will Be Resumed...

There’s a common conception amongst writers that there’s really no such thing as ‘writer’s block’. And it’s true. There isn’t. Look at this for proof. I’m writing. I’m just not writing what I oughta be. That’s the difference. Today I’ve written a mini-shopping list, a letter excusing the Girl from PE and a couple of comments on a couple of sites (not even Facebook, miraculously).
I’ve written stuff in my head in the bathroom – where ideas scream nearly as vociferously as the shower blast competing with the extractor fan at 6.45 in the morning – and I’ve written scenes in my head whilst at the very not-rocket-science paid job. Oh, I’ve also written two text messages and praised myself for remaining within the character limits for a one-pager whilst spelling everything correctly and using perfect punctuation and grammar to shame Stephen Fry. It’s sad, I know. But writing’s in my soul. And though it DOES matter that I can’t find the word inside me to continue with either book I'm currently writing, I know that even if they both remain at a standstill for the time being, this too will pass and the words will come. As these words have come. See?
See me blog.

Reasons to be GLEE-ful!

I have a feeling this is going to be BIG:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PfNwO9HNqh4

Like Fame was in the late 70's.

Only this is the re-formation of a High School 'Glee Club' and so it's not aspiring wannabes - it's schoolkids who want to inject a bit of life and fun into their hitherto dull-ish lives.  And the characters are so beautifully portrayed. Okay, so it's a bit cheesy in parts but it's adorable cheese.
Like Philly with cranberries.
The Girl and I watched the first 2 episodes back-to-back the other night and *heart* it already. It's proper FeelGood stuff and lifts the soul (and anything that lifts spirits for an hour a week HAS to be good, right?).
Watch it.  You won't be sorry you did.
Monday 9.00pm E4.

I am *here*

I don't actually remember The Day I decided I wanted to write.  And I don't mean  because I had to hand an essay in.  I mean because I really, really *wanted to*, I really, really *needed* to and I really actually couldn't stop.   It was at school, I have no doubt about that and it can't have been anything my parents said to encourage me because, well, they just didn't.  It was my Primary teacher, Mr East who inspired me initially - and elevated my love of books after he read The Hobbit to an enthralled class of nine year olds, myself included. And for years after,  I thought Frodo and Bilbo Baggins lived in the spinney at the bottom of a lane in our village.  Okay then, I still do.

When I went to Middle school, it was the very loud (clothes-wise -  he wore deep green velvet suits and very wide ties which were de rigeur in the 70's but  quite fey in hindsight) and very fresh-faced Mr Howard who taught Art (no surprise there) along with English who encouraged me endlessley.  On my last day at middle school  he wrote in my autograph book "remember to send me a signed copy of your first book" and I fairly floated all summer on the high that someone had that kind of faith in me.  I will track him down *when* my day arrives too, see - teachers - the good ones, we never forget you
I can skip a couple of decades before I arrive at where I am *now* because they could be called the Dark Years.  Writing happened, of course it did.  But it was never shown the light of day, or another human being's critical gaze.  Especially the parents.  Love letters, love poems, songs, Fawlty Towers scripts, four-act plays, letters to the BBC telling them Terry Wogan was rubbish and they should hire me instead (hmm - see me sobbing 20 years later  as he says farewell on his last radio show) and two very well-received Best Man (rhyming) Speeches. I wrote short short stories, edited company magazines, wrote feature length articles for trade press and even got given a whole Advertising and PR Department once - just because I had to write, no matter what it was about. (Actually, there's only so much literary license that can be found in a machine that shrink wraps cola bottles - but by God, I found it!).

And now, dear reader, I am writing books.  I have written three. I'm writing a fourth.   I never thought I'd ever be able to say that.  I have written three books.  The fact that they aren't on shelves in bookstores (yet) does not make me any less a writer than our Enid or our J.K. I go to bed with a book in my hand and another in my head.  I wake up having written the next chapter or found the next idea.  When I'm at the (paid) work I am writing the next scene in my mind and can't wait to get back to commit it to screen.
And I surround myself with incredible people who all feel the same way and who all want the same thing and who all love the written word as much as I do.  And the encouragement and support and advice and honest-to-god feedback I get from these wonderful writerly people is my lifeblood.  I would not be where I am today (*here*) without them, that's for sure.  And I certainly couldn't go on without knowing that they're around. Some are fledglings, some are newly-agented, some are about to be published for the first time and some are real life Bestselling authors already.  I feel honoured and privileged to know them and to be a part of their wonderful lives and thank them for letting me be a part of theirs.
You know who you are!
And if my dreams never materialise for whatever reason, I just wanted to announce - today - that I'm somewhere right now I never dreamed I would be.
It's good.
I'm *Here*

BOOK SPEAK (what they're *really* saying)

Due to a severe case of unexpected enuii which has rendered me devoid of entertaining blog-postness, I'd like to thank my "fab, fab, fabby" friend Luisa Plaja (she's written some bloody brilliant books, btw - check them out and buy them for every teenage girl you know - you won't regret it) for this list of 'Book Blurb-speak' (which probably came from someplace else via her, but she gets my thanks cos that's where I got it).

The book is:

"Enchanting" - there's a dog in it
"Heartwarming" - a dog and a child
"Heartrending" - they die
"Thoughtful" - tedious
 "Thought-provoking" - tedious and hectoring
"Haunting" - set in the past
"Prize-winning" - set in India
"Perceptive" - set in NW3
"Epic" - editor cowed by writer's reputation
"From the pen of a master" - same old same old
"In the tradition of" - shamelessley derivative
"Provocative" - irritating
"Spare and taut" - under-researched
"Richly detailed" - over-researched
"Gripping" - no characters
"Fast-paced" - no story
"Shocking" - awful
"Lyrical" - keep a dictionary handy
"Lyrical and poetic" - keep a bucket handy
"Expertly crafted" - we have no idea what it's about
"Coming-of-age story" - child lives, dog dies
"Hilarious" - some short sentences, lots of exclamation marks
"His/her masterpiece" - eye-watering advance

Anyone know any others?

A case of rather too much Testosterone?

I'm always surprising myself.  Not only do I *heart* really soft, pink, fluffy, chicklitty  films like: "While You Were Sleeping", "Dirty Dancing", "Fried Green Tomatoes", "Beaches" and "Love, Actually"-

the musical "Camelot" with Richard Harris and Vanessa Redgrave still makes me ache with longing when I watch it - but I also *heart* some very Blokey films.  Like ALL the "Die Hard"'s (including 4.0 which I wasn't expecting to because Brucie was virtually bald and I spent a lot of the time pointing out camera angles which cut off the top of his head to make it look as though he might have hair - it just wasn't *in shot* - bless), "Lock, Stock and 2 Smokin'", "Pulp Fiction", the "Kill Bill"s (in-cred-ible) "Fight Club" and the "Matrix"s.  But I've never really enjoyed any kind of War Movie.  Perhaps it harkened back to years of Sunday afternoons spent having to endure "I was Monty's Double" or "The Dambusters" or "633 Squadron" or even the perennially festive favourite "The Great Escape" with my Dad.  So I wasn't really expecting to enjoy "Inglorious Basterds".

  I think I just nodded when the Hubby suggested it - to keep him cheery.  I wasn't particularly bothered one way or the other.  And anyway, why did nobody think to spellcheck "Bastards" before the film was released?  Shame on them.  So imagine my delight (and Hubby's it has to be said) when I was virtually punching the cushion with camaraderie, hiding behind it at the scalping scenes, leaping to my feet in victory when the Nazi's got peppered with gunshot and squeaking excitedly when the Tarantino Trademark's started to shine?  He's amazing, isn't he?  I don't think there's a film by him I don't absolutely want to squeeze to little bits with delight.  It's an epic.  I could watch it over and over and never tire of it.  There were only 2 things that marred my enjoyment and that was 1. Bradd Pitt's excruitiatingly bad Southern drawl/very bad impersonation of  Coronation Street's Reg Holdsworth with a gun (if you click on the pic to embiggen you can JUST about see what I mean from the overbite ) and 2. John Travolta didn't sing or dance in any of the scenes.  In fact JT wasn't in it.  I just expected him to be.

Fab.  Fabby Fab.  Watch it.  Buy popcorn to eat in front of it.  It's 2 1/2 hours long but so fantastic it feels like 20 minutes.

Ugly baby alert!

 "Dear Deborah,

 Sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you. I've had another read through your script, and it's skillfully written with a convincing voice for Madeline, but I just don't warm to her. I think this is a very subjective thing, and you may well find (or have already found) an agent or editor who takes to her immediately - she certainly comes to life on the page, after all.

I wish you the best of luck with her.

 Yours etc"

Now I know it's just me, but that sounds like somebody saying "Your baby looks like sh*t but I'm sure she has a great personality".  And I have to take it on the chin.  I carried this baby for several months, made sure I avoided all the usual suspects (raw eggs, tobacco, soft cheeeses, sleep - at times) and hoped for nothing but good things for her and now she'll be forever languishing in a bottom drawer somewhere without any daylight ever touching her lovely skin again.

I'm also not (yet) riddled with so much grief and angst and sheer upsettedness of this e-mail to realise that I am also very grateful to this lovely agent for letting me get this far in the whole Publishing circus thing.  I've never been asked for a Full in my life and it has certainly encouraged me to work towards even more requests in the future.

So my baby's not likeable, eh?

Do I say so bloody what - that's just the way she is (she is a bit of a madam but I think she was borne of PMS - if that's not too much of a dichotomy) or do I temper her down a bit and see if anyone wants to give her another shot?

Ah, I think she needs a rest right now.  She's been through a lot.

But she still has one more left to impress. 

Keep you posted.

Snow Day Anyone?

It's getting beyond a joke, isn't it?  Along with the ' leaves on the track' and the 'wrong type of rain' (seriously) British Rail will do anything to get round a reason for a  train delay. And now they'll be turning to the old 'it's been snowing' chestnut - again.  For the second time in as many weeks.  I ask you.
And whilst this doesn't in any way affect me per se - I drive to work ... like a silly scaredy nellie currently, maybe you've heard - so this weather is definitely going to put a lot more wind up me than is necessary right now.  If anyone cares to pop along our road at 8.15 am tomorrow morning be prepared to witness the latest audition of OAP's on ice.  In cars.
And there was a definite frisson making the rounds at work this afternoon as I left.  Little squeaks of "Oooh, might not see you tomorrow if it snows tonight" and excited whisperings in the corridor about how we might all be stranded in our homes when we wake up in the morning.
Which thrill is all well and good before the event, but come the morning, after the initial euphoria of waking up to five inches (ooeer missus) we half-expected and then getting the phone calls and texts from excited colleagues heralding another "snow day - school shut - woo-hoo - enjoy!"  there's the dull realisation that actually it's going to be bloody freezing, we're about to run out of loo rolls and Sainsbury's is a treacherous slalem away as the tobboggan flies.
And if, like me, you don't particularly like snow except to look at (and after a while you need sunglasses and a couple of Panadol even for that) through a window with a fire keeping your calves warm - yes, we even have  the livestock in the living room on a snow day - then  the actual event is a trying one at the very least.  The woo-hoo, we can't get to work kinda wears off on me after about twenty minutes.
Woo-hoo - ok, tea, biscuits, Jeremy Kyle, now what?
Write.
That's what.
With sunglasses on.
And that, folks, is no(w) joke!

A Good Start (Not)

I'm glad one of my new years resolutions was not to cut down on the use of swear words - I just  typed 'sewar words'  in my sleep-deprived state and ordinarily I *heart* typos like this.  I'll probably like it better tomorrow.  Bear with me. 
For the first word  that left my mouth this morning was a mighty "SHI-IT!" as I realised I'd overlsept the alarm by a good (make that bad) 80 minutes and today was the return to school after the Christmas break.
I'd been up the previous hour you see.  And the fifty minutes prior to this and an hour earlier... oh and another hour prior to this one and the one before that too. And a couple more times during the previous three hours... In fact now I look back I probably slept for about... oh, 80 minutes...from alarm to Shi-it!.
Why?
Simples.
Bed at 10.00.  read til 10.40.  Lovely.
Hubby starts snoring at 11.05.
Still at it at 11.30.
11.40 Hubby retires to another room after exhusting different sleeping positions.
I lie awake worrying at midnight if he might be cold downstairs with the cats on the sofa so try to remember where I stored the blankets last year.
12.20 find blanket.  Go downstairs and cover snoring, blissfully unaware husband with it.  Making sure I don't stuff any part of it into his black hole of a roaring mouth. By accident I mean.
1.15 sound of ticking and rumbling of pipes alerts me to heating coming on - which it's not programmed to do.
Lie awake for 15 minutes thinking (ok, hoping)  it might stop.
1.30 locate remote heating controls.  It tells me heating is off.  Hot radiators tell me different.
Twiddle every goddamn knob on the control box and nothing happens.
Contemplate going into every room and turning off radiators.  Worry might wake hubby and Girl. And it's Girls' first day back at school tomorrow (correction, today) too.
Best not.
2.00 ticking slows and radiators cool slightly.  Decide should go to bed and try to ignore.  It's probably doing it for a reason.
2.30 Still trying to work out reasons.  Might it have snowed and therefore so cold it's switched itself on to prevent pipes from freezing up?  Do pipes still get frozen in the 21st century?  Start to imagine that if it's snowed heavily (too tired to get out of bed and look so wishful thinking relied on) then schools will be shut.
3.10  pipes start ticking and thumping again.  Might start crying.
3.50 contemplate turning off heating completely but then worry that house will be cold when alarms start going off and anyway it's programmed to come on at 6.00 what's the bleedin' point now?
4.15 Worry that haven't slept enough to wake up refreshed and alert for start of new school term.  Wonder how bad will be feeling at 6.30 (alarm).
5.00 Wonder if I should just get up now.  If I fall asleep I might not wake up and that would be worse than not having slept at all.
Wouldn't it?
6.30 Alarm goes off.  Forgotten which button is 'snooze', forgotten how irritatingly annoying Sarah kennedy is first thing in the morning and accidentally hit wrong knob.
7.30 ticking of radiators cooling down rouses me.
7.35  Where the Flip is hubby?
7.40 Wasn't I supposed to be getting up earlier for something to...... SHI-IT!!