Lately I've been...

Reading:

The Untied Kingdom by Kate Johnson

I was lucky enough to receive a pre-publication copy of Kate's new book, The Untied Kingdom from publishers Choc Lit, and was delighted to find I CAN read off-genre.  In fact I'd find it difficult to put this book into a current genre. it's a book that has EVERYTHING: romance, quirky humour, surrealism, army warfare and actual proper edge-of-seat intrigue.  And the hero?  Blimey, he's a one-off.  I don't generally fall for paper heroes, but for the powerfully delicious Major Harker I made an exception.  Phew.  If you like your books with a bit of edge and a lot of spark, then this is the one for you.

Small Blue Thing by Sue Ransom

As we speak, Sue actually has a guest post on the Strictly Writing site where she talks about how Small Blue Thing came about.  It's a fascinating story and one which made me gasp, sent shivers up my spine and made me green with envy.  It's certainly made me look at my Blackberry a whole lot differently! It was such a lovely book to read, and the fact that it's teen supernatural romance set around the Thames and St. Paul's Cathedral made it feel so much more accessible.  Much nicer than all these werewolves and strange place names in American suburbs.

The Silver Locket by Margaret James

As I said, I've been delighted to find I can read off-genre and this historical romance set during the First World War made me very happy.  In fact I'm eagerly awaiting Margaret's sequel to The Silver Locket, the Golden Chain and can't wait to find out what's happened to the lovely characters I met in this book.  Simply told, easily read and a story that lingers in the mind for ages afterwards - just how a good story should.

 

Currently, I'm reading  The Glass Painter's Daughter by Rachel Hore which is an absolute joy to fall onto every night and I know I'm going to get one of those Clare Chamber's moments when I'm going to HAVE to get hold of Rachels' last two books. Some beautiful characters and such lovely evocative prose, it's doing me good and it's even making me seriously consider learning music as another language.

Watching:

 Twenty-Twelve - a fictional-documentary (a "mocu-mentary") about the 'Team' set up to ease us into the  Phenomenon which will be the 2012 Olympics. Led by the ever-present, eternally endearing Hugh Bonneville - who looks FAB on his eco-friendly folding bike and luminous headgear at the start of every episode, and supported by comic genius's at every turn.  Last week Team Twenty Twelve spent the entire episode lost on a bus in the middle of London trying to find the Olympic Stadium (where a very impatient Sebastian Coe awaited their eventual non-arrival).  Very funny.

Mrs Brown's Boys -  I'm usually suspicious of any new 'sitcom', simply because they invariably end up being shite.  And I was even more suspicious of the eponymous Mrs Brown because she's a man in drag.  And a gobby, blaspheming Irish man in drag at that.  But I am hooked.  Okay, so the swearing could be cut down a little, but Mrs Brown is SUCH a character that it'd probably dilute her.  This week's episode was such a joy (Grandad faked his own funeral so he got to hear people say nice things about him - who hasn't ever wanted to do this?) and the icing on the cake was a fabulous song-and-dance number at the end.  The fact it's filmed before a studio audience and you get to see the out-takes happen live is such a delight.

Monroe - in our house, anything with James Nesbitt in it is an instant hit.  He doesn't seem to do anything bad.  I even enjoyed his horrible Roman Emperor in the Jesus dramatisation a couple of years ago.  And although I find his neurosurgeon character in this new medical 'drama' slightly tongue-in-cheek and a bit fatuous, it is a likeable romp in an operating theatre.  And you can't say that about a lot of things on telly these days.  I do wish Sarah Parrish would be allowed to smile a bit though, her character's so frosty I'm surprised she's in cardiac and not the morgue. 

The Big C - I don't like a lot of American TV but this one caught my eye when it started a couple of months ago and it's still keeping me entertained so it MUST be good. I've loved Laura Linney ever since she failed to get it on with the very hot, very fit olive-skinned guy in 'Love, Actually' because of her needy brother and in this one, she's equally doomed.  This time she's dying of a melanoma.  Oliver Platt, who plays her long-suffering estranged husband is a treat and her eco-warrior brother is a joy to behold.  The characters are fresh, original and so shockingly honest that I already feel sad that they're not going to be around for a second series (presuming she dies, of course). (Actually, in typical American-melodrama there could of course be a last-minute miracle cure if the viewing figures demand...?)

Writing-wise, I've been subbing this past fortnight and apart from the little sparks of optimism, there's been a lot of rejection.  I don't know why I continue to do this to myself. No doubt I'll spring back but I do feel actually, physically hurt this time round.

It's about time I gave myself a Damned Good Talking To

See that up there?  The blog-banner?  It clearly says "WRITING STUFF" doesn't it?  So why am I not doing what it says on the packet and just getting on with it?  I've given myself so many 'excuses/reasons' that I've actually NOW run out of them...

"I'm waiting for those Agents to get back to me" - what, so you're just going to sit about with your hands under your arse until one of them gives you the Nod are you?  And what if neither of them get back to you this side of June, what then?  Or what if they both get back to you and say 'NO' - are you just going to fling your arms up (from under the arse, obvs) and cave in or are you going to shift some butt RIGHT NOW and get on with your works-in-progress *snort* so that at least you actually HAVE something else to show them?

"It's too late.  I'm too old for all of this, I should have started taking it seriously aged 26 instead of getting drunk and partying at every opportunity" - You had your first story published at 18 and an invitation from a magazine to discuss future commissions at 20... you blew it, kid. But you also KNEW it back then too.  And actually what all that partying did was give you WAY more material to use for when you DID start taking it seriously.  Remember that time you hit a guy so hard at a night club you sent him flying down three flights of stairs and you got banned for three months?  THAT's what I'm talking about.  Now write it!

"There's no space for me out there in publishing land.  It's all been done before, by writers who have far more pizazz,  nouce and spunk than I'm ever likely to have"  Everyone has something different to say - maybe about the same thing but a different WAY of saying it, telling it.  You're right, you're no different or more special than any of the other published writers Out There, but there's no other Debs Riccio that I can see (or Google) so why shouldn't there be a space?  Isn't there space enough for everybody who has something to say?

"The stairs need hoovering, the family need feeding and there's beds to be made." Yeah, right.
 

"I don't believe in myself" That's more like it.  This is fine.  It's understandable.  It's scary, freaky and it's not exactly the simplest of ambitions to pursue and succeed in, is it? It means a lot of dedication, hard work and discipline.  Things that don't come easy to you - especially since God invented Facebook and Twitter and all other manner of distractions.  These are tests of your mettle. And the confidence thing is universal.  Show me an entertainer who doesn't doubt themselves at times and I'll show you a  bit of a Fibber.

"But the hoovering....." See above, girl.   Now just get on with it, you're starting to bore me now.

Captain's Blog: Stardate Eight Twelve Ten

So I’ve been a bit quiet around these parts lately.  I’ve been quiet around most parts actually, don’t take it personally, will you?

I’ve started posts and deleted them, I’ve commented on other Blogger’s posts and deleted them and, like Mr Sinatra, I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried etc... but not found much about anything very amusing, to be honest.

I’ve cancelled my Counselling sessions.  I should be off there now, but last week was my last.  I didn’t feel it was making any difference – it’s not much fun having to drive with shredded nerves, to sit and talk for 50 minutes, leaving in tears,  £20 poorer and having to face mad traffic on the way home again. Not relaxing.  Not at all. In fact stressy I’d say.

Oh, I’ve heard from an Agent - let’s call her Agent#2, shall we?  a couple of weeks ago.  Someone I’d forgotten I’d subbed anything to because it was back in the summer.  She said she liked the partial of the time travelly thing I sent her and wanted to read the rest.  She also told me she remembered the last book I sent her being a “close call”. (This throwaway comment will probably keep me going for the next 12 months… how about having a “close call” and not knowing about it?  To me it had been a simple Rejection, like all the others.)

Anyway, I sent her the rest of the manuscript and cheekily also snuck in the opening chapters of the current teenage thing I’ve nearly finished.  And she mailed back saying thanks and she loved the cheeky opening; she’d get back to me when she’d read the requested book.

And so begins the wait.

Then I heard back from Agent#1 who’d been interested at the beginning of the year; apologising profusely for not getting back to me about the 2^nd rewrite I’d done following her suggestions and comments, and offering more suggestions and comments, and asking if the ending could be changed for a third time.

I commented on her comments and made my own suggestions and she came back telling me they sounded great.

So I’m re-writing the re-written re-write.  Again.

And I thought I’d hate it.  Having to re-arrange plots, character personalities, sub-plots and settings – oh and the tricksy little matter of another different ending!  No mean feat, let me tell you.

But it’s actually put me firmly back in the writing seat.  It’s not plain sailing, but I’m enjoying writing again and I don’t feel like I’m spitting into the wind.

I wonder where this will lead?

It’s the farthest I’ve ever got to on the road to literary representation and I think it’s made of cobblestones; a bit dodgy underfoot and I’m not sure which direction it might make me veer onto.  I may crash and burn (enough already…) or this may be the open road that finally lets me breathe and relax with the joy of a beautiful ride and fantastic scenery.

Oh Analogies how I’ve missed you.

I’ll keep you posted.

If you like.

A Pretty Good Week

It can be a rare old thing, a Pretty Good Week - especially in these lean old Gordon Brown Times.  So I am thoroughly heartened if not a leeetle bit thrilled-to-pant-wetting proportions to announce that 'THIS IS A PRETTY DAMN GOOD WEEK' and it ain't over yet!
Shall I spill?
Okay then.
 I have a lovely friend called Fionnuala who I met on the writing website, WriteWords about 5 years ago.  And apart from being incredibly clever with words and very lovely with her time and an altogether Good Egg, she is also a resident writer at another writing site called Strictly Writing  which I've been following and commenting on for ages.  And this week she e-mailed me to ask me if I'd like to join the Team - of resident Writers!  WRITERS! D'you see what that makes me, people?  A Writer.  A. Writer. And because of this (and the other Pretty Good thing, which follows shortly) I have felt more a Proper Writer this week than I have in my entire life.
I could burst with pride at the nice folks on Strictly inviting me to become a part of their wonderful world.  Seriously - burst at the seams.  Yup, all of 'em.

And the Other Thing?
Well, this afternoon I was e-mailed by the very nice Agent person who is currently reading the full manuscript of "Double History" (have I mentioned this is coming to a bookshop near you soon?  I have?  Well, I'm even more convinced of it now) because he said they're still really enjoying reading the book and where am I based?  Where am I based? WHERE AM I BASED!
Of course I could have told him the truth and said I was jolly close to the rafters in the roof because of the Pretty Good Week I'm having and his mail was the Royal Icing ( none of that water and icing sugar nonsense for a situation like this) on my already damn near perfect cake - but I didn't. I stuck to the geographical description and said I was very glad that he was still liking my baby.  I mean my book.
So, all in all.  A pretty Good Week I'd say.
And I don't say that very often.
At the risk of sounding like a Muppet collecting a slightly previous globe or equivalent, I'd like to thank Keris Stainton, my bestest writerly friend who, over the course of the last 5 years has become more like my younger sister who slaps me occasionally and virtually when I feel like giving up.  And who helped me shape the opening chapters into the exciting frenzy the Agent has clearly already read and enjoyed.
Also, the Overseer of the Cosmic Order I put in about two weeks ago to which I was guided by another lovely writer friend, Deborah Durbin and also to the sender of the Notes from the Universe which keep my head above water and even manage sometimes to make me *squeep* with delight.
I've never been *Here* before and I like it.

This is what I feel like doing!

Just Like “Dating in the Dark”, only… not.

We caught the tail end of this new delight of viewing pleasure the other night. As if we need even more display of public humiliation and degradation invading our living rooms – wasn’t “Living Like Animals” enough mortification for any viewer?
I like the premise though –I think it says a helluva lot about the way we have these preconceived notions of what levels we aspire to in the search for our perfect mate.

We must all carry around in our heads this incredible idea of perfection and so not only must the personality be amazing, but the face must match the amazingness of the character. And nothing less is actually going to hit the mark. And then you appear on Dating in the Dark.
Those poor fools.

Which leads me nicely onto *this* poor fool (me).
When I submitted my enquiries, tentative synopsis and brightly polished first three chapters to my carefully selected hot hit list of nine agents (now ten actually, thanks Emily) I vowed that this (the third) time round, I would NOT be affected by the rejections that would inevitably come bouncing back. I wouldn’t. I’ve done it before, I was bruised – very nearly bled – but my hurt healed and scabbed over and hardened up my soft spots.

Eeew. But can you tell I *heart* analgoies? Ask anyone. Let’s see how many I can squeeze into this post, shall we?
Anyway, not only was I shocked, following a Friday night splurge of these agents, where I later realised I may very well end up at the bottom of the electronic slush pile over the weekend and my enquiries might never see light of day, to find responses, I was mightily encouraged* to see that three agents were displaying signs of liking what I wrote (sic).

One agent wrote:
“The novel sounds wonderful. By all means send me the first few chapters and a brief synopsis and I will read them and get back to you. Please mark for my attention and 'requested', and enclose a stamped, self addressed envelope it you'll want the pages back.”
Best wishes…”And her very own name! So the words WONDERFUL shine right out at me, followed by SEND ME THE CHAPTERS and MARK FOR MY ATTENTION followed by the lovely BEST WISHES and her FIRST NAME. First! Not Mrs Doodah or Mrs Zippity Doodah. Just Zippity. Like we meet every Tuesday and devour croissants and skinny lattes in Starbucks or something.
OMG!

I couldn’t have had a nicer response if I’d dreamt it, sprinkled fairy dust on it, left it in a warm place to rise for twenty minutes and then watched it turn all golden and glowy before my eager eyes.
I fairly floated on that response alone. And I scrabbled furiously, dizzily to get what she wanted into the post as soon as. I had to be held down from calling Starbucks and making a reservation for next Tuesday.
You see, for me that was the chat-up in the dark. Agent had liked my enquiry mail, my brief outline of the book, seen my writing credentials (all of two sentences) and had liked the whole idea I was “selling” her so much that she was eager to see more.
But then she opened up my Manilla A4 envelope (kissed at the seal by my personal Good Luck charm) and her lights turned on.
She saw something she wasn’t expecting.
Maybe my ears were too sticky-out.
Perhaps my eyes too close together?
Not enough wet-look gel on the ol’ mop.
To tall? Too short? Too wide (v. probably – after all, I’m the “solid” kid on the block, don’t ya know?) Too old (gulp)?
Because after the lights had come on and I was found to be lacking (in which department I’ll probably never know) Agent had packed her suitcase and headed off in the opposite direction and left the building.
The automated response for rejection said:

“Thank you very much for your enquiry regarding your work. We take on new clients very sparingly and in order to do so we have to feel that something is very special indeed. Having considered your enquiry we’re afraid we are not confident we could find you a publisher so we regret that we’re unable to take the matter further. We wish you the best of luck elsewhere.”
No Dear Me, no mention of the title, nothing in the body that explains what wasn’t ‘special’ about it, no encouraging comments on how it could be bettered, and certainly no Best Wishes. And not even from Zippity herself. From a machine.

It’s so hard to pretend this doesn’t have any effect.
I’m clearly wearing the right perfume but somewhere along the way either my fashion sense sucks or the words coming out of my head and landing on the paper are entirley in the wrong order.

Ah, analogies… you'll always be there for me, won't you?

OMG! Drink Me!

This feeling needs to be bottled so that in ‘leaner times’ I can pop back here, have a wee read and remember exactly how much my fingers are tingling, my heart is bubbling and my body is fizzing.
And I’m not even a character in a Chick Lit book although I am portraying some scarily familiar characteristics.
Why?
Because I’ve just got back from my paid job, opened my inbox and received replies from Two of my Top Nine Agents – one asking for a full (“what I’ve read already has made me laugh”), the other a partial (“sounds wonderful”).
In the words of my wonderful webwritingfriend, Keris, OMG! (don’t think that WTF! is warranted somehow though).
OMG!
OMG!
I’ve never had more than a cursory ‘not for us’ before and this, for me, is probably the BEST feeling I’ve had since I got the fuzzies for my gorgeous husband all those years ago.
I can’t go on (and on... like I do) because I have to print off the first three chapters and head over to the Post Office. I even have to mark it for the attention of a particular agent so it gets direct to HER!
OMG!
I want to remember how great this feels.
Even if I never feel the like of it again – even if it never comes to anything and they think the rest of the story is shite – this feeling is blimmin’ brilliant!

Um… did I say OMG!
!