Me - In Interview!

Strictly Writing, the other site I write for, is stuffed full of fabulous people.  Not least the other members of the Strictly Team, without whom the dark writing days would seem bleaker.  But by far the best people on the Strictly site are our gamut of lovely followers.

And after I'd announced my recent foray into self-publication, one loyal follower, Derek, invited me to guest post on his blog, here: 'Along The Write Lines' .

And so, *clears throat* I give you.... ME.  being interviewed (I know - mental, isn't it?!).

If I had the technical know-how, I'd print it off and frame it.  Oh hang on..... *prtscrn* *copy* *paste*...... 

Bucking Hell!

Ah puns, you make me giggle.  (*post title).

Some things never change.  Not only have I NOT done anything I vowed on my New Years' Resolutions List, but I have done things in the space of 30 days I didn't even know I was considering.  Even though they might have been on the back-burner of my mind.

So... let's get to the 'bucking' point, shall we?

Even though I knew full well at the age of 15 what the term 'vanity publishing' was, and even though I went straight on through my 20's and 30's and (eeep, almost all my 40's now) denouncing every 'self-publishing' advertisement that screamed at me from the pages of various writing magazines, I have gone and done it.

I'm just so contrary, me. But you can rely on me to buck a trend - even (actually especially) if the trend is self-imposed.

I'm the same with housework (that's a 'trend', right?)  It's there; it screams and expands and demands attention, so I do my level best to ignore it.  How dare it demand of me - don't I have better things to do with my life? Damn right!

So, Vanity Publishing.  It's always had a bad press (ha) and in a similar fashion to the very misunderstood microwave, I think it's now about time we started to embrace it. *ANALOGY ALERT*  In true Cooper-fashion, I have had enough of spending my precious time standing over a pan into which I've carefully and blended and chopped; added to, stirred, folded, creamed, and pureed to a pulp - watching expectantly as  little bubbles begin to surface, the aroma intensifying and embracing the kitchen (of my mind, keep up, keep up) only for the gas to turn off right at the crucial moment. It's upsetting.  It's demoralising.  It's soul-destroying, frankly. And as I've been standing at this metaphorical 'cooker' for the past 10 years, watching my lovely little dishes simmer and just reach boiling point before... well, you know... the gas... I've decided to soddit and just stick it in the microwave instead.  It pretty much does the same job in a hundredth of the time, does NOT melt the brain and if anything comes out tasting weird, then I've only got myself to blame.

I don't feel desperate. Even though I've published under a pseudonym (D A Cooper) which is more in case of any future representation problems.  I don't feel like I've let myself down; but I do feel oddly liberated. Like a mother Starling having just eased her little fledglings out of the stale nest they've been cooped up in for far too long, and I'm just excited to see how far they can fly now. 

Technology is a wonderful thing.  I usually embrace all things technical, after all, if it's been invented why the heck not use it?  And although I shall continue to buy proper, published, printed books in ink on paper, I shall also be downloading the occasional e-book once I have my shiny new tablet-thingy (oh I'm all up with the latest jargon, me) and relishing in how far we've come since Dickens' day.

Things are looking bucking good for the first month of the New Year - I now resolve they shall stay that way!

The Best Laid Plans

During this year's summer break I'm tricking my brain (*snort*) into believing that I have all manner of industrious things lined up for it... for example:

1.  I shall be going through my wardrobe and drawers with a fine-toothed comb and eking out any disturbing items of clothing I may have lurking within - items that are, for instance:
a) too tight
b) too loud
c) too young
d) too old
Let somebody else enjoy them, I say! Someone skinnier, bolder, younger and older!

2. I shall be spending every dry-weather day in the garden plucking anything unruly or weedy-looking from it's roots and turning our frontage and backage into something that doesn't cause our neighbours undue consternation.

3. The skirting boards will be cleaned.  (they are cleanable, right?  And they are that long stretch of wood that goes all the way around the house at the bottom of each wall, right?  Yeah, I thought so - just, y'know, checking).

4. The doorframes which I started painting last summer will be given a 2nd coat of gloss.  I'm guessing I've allowed the first coat enough time to 'settle'.  It's important to allow plenty of 'settleage' - I've heard it can be dangerous in certain circumstances.

5. I will visit a garden centre (and this means I will have to drive - which I still don't like to do - so even more bravery involved here) and purchase a couple of cheery and hardy-looking shrubs.  Maybe even a nice bushy bush... something that doesn't mind being drenched in shade and cat pee for half a day at a time.

6. I will download some tunes.  Can you tell I don't know what I'm talking about here? I have never downloaded a 'tune' in my life (are they still called tunes?  Am I showing my age by not calling then a 'track' or a 'line' or something?) and I shall - apparently - have them on a nifty little memory stick which I'll be able to take in the car (*gulp*) and play randomly in the background - on mute - when I'm on the computer. Oh, technology I embrace you!

7. I will re-train myself to paint.  I never learnt the finer art of watercolours at school before I flounced out of my A-level Art exam (for 'flounce', read: my Nan was in hospital dying and I couldn't concentrate) and I will teach myself how to use oils - something I've never done and which I never thought I'd be any good at if I tried.  Who knows?

8. I shall smile a lot.  In fact every day.  I shall paint on the biggest, happiest smile I can manage whether I'm happy or not and my brain (lol) will be forced to believe it needs to follow suit - otherwise all kinds of space-time continuum bad-stuff could very well happen.

9. I shall cook 1 different dish a week for 6 weeks.  Not only will this flex my scared-in-the-face-of-recipe adversity kitchen muscles, it will also surprise and delight both husband and daughter. Just so long as I don't muddle up spatula and paint palette and end up with omelette on my landscape.

10.  If I convince my brain that this is my definitive list for the summer holidays then there is EVERY CHANCE I shall write a whole book instead.  Cunning plan, eh?

Nervous tension? Create a book cover!

An excerpt from Nearly Finished Book No.5!

This is the section in 'Grounded' where the Main Character, Becca has gone home with her best friend, Liberty.  As Becca is electronically 'grounded' (i.e. no mobile, internet, iPod, etc) she's making very full use of Liberty's computer when she's at her house after school one night.  She's currently checking out Facebook and wondering if the boy she's in love with is secretly in love with the most unpopular girl in school as they were spotted together earlier and he touched her face.

‘No way,’ Liberty says decisively. ‘There’s no way those two are an item. No way. I’d bet my last Crunchie bar on it.’

My heart begins a definite rise at hearing this. If Liberty would bet something as sacred as her last Crunchie bar, then it must be true. There is no way on earth that Judd and Claire are together.

‘I think he was probably just swatting a wasp away from her face or something,’ she tries.

‘Swatting?’ I frown. ‘Er…would you really call that a swat?’ I wince. ‘Really? I mean it was the gentlest swat I’ve ever seen if it was a swat.’

Liberty ponders on and I continue the conundrum.‘I mean I’d like to be swatted on a daily basis if that’s the way to get a swat. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Maybe she had some crap on her face,’ Liberty conjures. ‘She was getting well into that baked potato at lunchtime. And baked potato has a habit of clinging to the skin for hours after it’s hit it. He was probably really disgusted for her. He might even be OCD?’

I continue to frown and wonder.

‘OCD? D’you think he could be?’

There’s a ‘ping’ on Liberty’s computer and our eyes fly to the screen. The hoard of Hartley Road Upper are well and truly logged on and are right now regurgitating their days and advertising their evening’s entertainment for the world to view.

‘Oh my god, look! Bethany Landers and Ben Harding are dating! Oh my god, they kept that quiet!’ Liberty realises what she’s just says and immediately (but obviously not quick enough to prevent the words she’s already said from escaping) clamps a hand over her mouth. ‘Oops… shit, sorry,’ she says, her eyes widening apologetically.

I nod resignedly. See? It happens. People have secret lives. Lives they don’t want anybody else to know about until one of them decides to broadcast it to about six hundred and twenty five other ‘friends’ when they’re good and ready.

‘Jeez, look Becs – she’s even given themselves a name - “Beth-amin”. Bethamin! How mental is that? How completely chavvy?’

I try and work out what Judd and I would be if we ever got together and united our names. Budd wouldn’t work – we’d just sound like a lager. How about Jucca? That sounds pretty cool – although a little bit like a cross between a spiky-leaved plant and a large hairy creature from Star Wars.

I’m undecided.

‘Bethamin!’ Liberty is still repeating. ‘Bethamin! Can you actually believe that? Who does she think she is Who does she think they are? Bethamin!’

‘They sound like a spot cream,’ I say sulkily.

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.

The Spin-Doctor will see me now

Unusually, totally out-of-character, I have decided to put a positive spin on things.  In particular, these things, and, as Dermot always says, in no particular order:

• the shite wet, freezing, bastard miserable weather outside today is, I’ve seen reported, apparently the tail-end of Hurricane Jedward which hit the UK from Ireland last night.  And even though I’ve never know of an upside, Jedward-wards, this means that when the husband gets home he will be building us a fire of castles-at-Christmas proportions and we will slurp soup from our laps (and, in a bowl, obvs) in front of a Downton Abbey catch-up and flick synchronized birds at the inclement goings-on outside the snugness of our front room. And answer the door to no-one but the lady who delivers the news of a Lottery win.

• my NanNo word count is remaining at a rather unimpressive ZERO, or maybe just 2, counting the title. Because I needed to unburden myself of additional pressures this month and it actually does feel like a great weight has been lifted.  Therefore I will NOT be obsessing over how many Buddies-of-mine are haring towards the 50,000 word mark, nor will I be reading their impressive excerpts of literary creation and thrashing myself with a metaphorical birch twig at my own pathetic attempts at writing, and more pleasingly, I will NOT have another book that is half-written half-loved and half-baked.

worth enlarging, if you know what I mean

• the menopause is just another way of telling me I’m as normal as the rest of the female population who’re also ‘enjoying’ (see what I did there?) this condition.  It doesn’t mean that I’m a dried up, unproductive old prune who'll give up the root-retouches and hack her hair into a short-back-and sides to ease air circulation and reduce full-on-tropical hot flushes. Nor does it mean that I will be spending any more time scrutinising my upper lip and chin areas for unwanted hairgrowth than I already do.  It does mean, of course, that I shall be turning the central heating down a lot more and encouraging other house-users to wear more clothes.  If I’m going to ‘enjoy’ this metamorphosis then I don’t see why others shouldn’t enjoy it too.
• ...piggy-backing this period (did you... yep, I know, I didn't mean to insult your intelligence)  of transition, it also means that I don't have to spend a small fortune buying silly little panty liners, awkwardly-shaped internal sanitary devices,  ringing dates on the calendar and constantly wondering if I'm pre-menstrual or not - I was clearly born irritable. I will learn to embrace it.  No, I will. What? You want to make something of it?

• the so-termed ‘writer’s block’ is merely another way of giving me more time to spend doing proper, houseworky, housewifely things.  Like cooking.  Dusting.  Cleaning.  Cooking.  Dusting.  Cleaning. Nope…. This is one ‘thing’ that I honestly can’t put a positive spin on….

• Ah well, I had a go.

Trepi-citement!

Pic from the vey vey funny "Savage Chicken" people

When I wrote my first book (listen to me - first book FFS! - which you can read the opening chapter of up there on one of those tab thingies, btw - called "LABRATS") I needed a word which didn't exist, which meant a  mixture of Amazed and Disappointed - which is how my main character (actually a very badly disguised Real Me) made her father (an equally poorly disguised if you ever had the delight to meet my Dad...) look. So, "Amazappointed" was born.
And I'm delighted that this word is still one which a couple of fellow writers remember from those halcyon days - before they were even published authors.  They know who they are and they rock; I love it when I've written something that stays in someone's mind.  It makes me feel like I've done something a bit special.
Which is what it's all about really.


So... the made-up word for today is Trepicitement... which, as you can probably work out is a healthy mix of trepidation and excitement.  Because today is the day that the book known as 'DOUBLE HISTORY' landed in the in-box of the Agent who's been showing a keen interest in it since March.  I've been editing and redrafting and cutting and pasting and learning how to kill "darlings" (a masochistic but impressive feat) and last night I finally, finally decided That Was It.  Enough now.  If I picked and poked any more, there'd be holes and dropped stitches and all manner of other analogies cropping up and making mincemeat of the whole thing.  I didn't want to lose the plot altogether, now did I?
And so I did what my Dad always told me to do.  I slept on it.  Not literally you understand, otherwise I'd have woken up with  "2GB" impressed across my cheek and that would never do.  There's no amount of L'Oreal that's going to fill a crevice that big, no matter how much I think I'm Worth It.

Anyway.  So it's there.  In her in-box.  And there's also a follow-up e-mail sent about 5 minutes later after I'd checked the 'sent items' in my own box and realised (pant-wettingly and much-sweatingly) that in the subject line I'd typed "DOIBLE HISTORY" and not "Double" - which is an actual word - not a made up one, and certainly not the title of my book, FFS!  (thanks to lovely author lady Keren David ("When I was Joe") who suggested I should own up to this madness in case I was spammed for illiteracy).

So, lucky for me, I got two responses.  One saying thanks she'd be in touch when she's read it - and no worries about the typo.

Oh, did I mention that this nice Agent person also sent me an e-mail last week telling me she'd "love to read anything you've written".  That's me!  That's *love*.  That's anything I've written!  WHOOOOOOOP!

And breathe.

Anyone for NaNoWriMo ?

It seems that news of this exercise of mammoth literary proportions gets earlier and earlier every year (maybe it's just me, maybe it's the 'circles' I mix in these days - thanks to the beautiful and talented Suz Korb for pointing this out to me on her equally beautiful blog, 'Bang out the Prose', btw) and I've just signed up for it.

The NaNoNoticeBoard

Again.
Which makes this the fifth (I think) year that I'll be doing it.  Which also makes me a complete and utter Eejit because it runs for the whole of November - so, not only do we have the indisputably stress-filled Open Evening at our school that month, which  means I run around like a headless chicken with Anne Other until all we're capable of  is staple-gunning anything that moves to the walls,  but I've also volunteered myself to long-list the Strictly Writing short story entries for that month too.  [Aside: 'hmmmm... no wonder that particular slot was available... didn't see that one coming, did I'?].

But I like a challenge.  No, I do.  I just don't like to invite challenge.

I also like a nice lie in and for life not to be too overly stressful.  Of course I like a nice cup of tea too.  But this will be fine.  It will all be fine.  And I've learnt from experience that I will do it and get through it.

One way or the other.

 p.s. if you click to embiggen on the pic above, you'll see that last year I DID get through it, and there's my "WINNER" certificate to prove I did.  All mounted and laminated and everything.  Oh, you can also see all the lovely cards and notes I have from people who mean the world to me, too.

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Writer

Okay, here’s a little teaser for you:
What have Chopin, James Blunt, Rameses II, Kenneth Williams, Sheila Hancock, Arthur Schopenhauer, Bruce Forsyth and Me got in common?
That’s right. We were all born on the same day. And, for me, this has been my ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card for as long as I can remember. With a hand to the brow I have escaped many a sideways remark with my claim to arty fame. We’re a very sensitive bunch, us Pisceans – although I’ve heard that anyone born between 19-22nd of any month could reasonably be termed a Cuspian because it’s such a close call, day-wise. Anyway, we are the creative Cuspians of the Zodiac.

I’m actually more than a little disappointed that Tony Hancock, Lord Byron and Sylvia Plath weren’t born on this day because at times I feel a total empathy with these people as well. And whenever Brucie’s on the TV, I always get a warm glow. But that could be more to do with the sofa; there’s probably a small empire of hitherto undiscovered life-form living in the depths of that and none of us would know.
Arthur Schopenhauer, as we all know, was the quintessential Philosopher of Pessimism and for that reason alone, I respectfully doff my creative Cuspian Cap and I bet even HE tried to be a bit of a laugh on the quiet.
You see, for all the hard skin we writers have to develop, and be seen to be sporting, we’re nothing but a bunch of totally tormented artists, deep down. And this is what I find the toughest thing to cope with in writing. To harden my fragile, approval-seeking skin to the rigours of this very subjective pursuit.

I’ve been wondering recently if Dickens had had access to the internet, whether he’d be trawling through Amazon listings and the Authonomy website hoping to see his rankings increase. And if Jane Austen had a Facebook page, if she’d be constantly fretting over how many ‘likes’ ‘fans/friends’ she was getting daily. And how tortured would Shakespeare have become if he hadn’t got any comments on the blog post he’d spent ages honing to his idea of perfection that morning?
 My internal meanderings even took me as far as finally understanding why and how and in what place Van Gogh must have been to have gouged off his own ear. Web-surfing will do that to ME at times. I guess it all boils down to the eternal struggle for artistic recognition, doesn’t it? Our readers. Our audience. The people that we hope we can entertain. The ones who will applaud our finer bits and perhaps ignore or heckle or reassure our bad. And if we don’t get the kind of support and recognition that we hope we deserve, that we strive to achieve, then at times it does make you feel like stuffing dampened blankets round the kitchen door frame and turning the gas up a bit.

My personal response to rejection disappointments is one of retreat. Much like the injured wild animal. I prefer to take my wounds away from societal scrutiny and go somewhere quiet and dark until I am repaired. Until I feel strong enough to try it all over again. Because this is an exhausting road we have lain before us - the road to literary success. And there are other, less scaredy-cats out there who seem to instinctively know how to bounce right back and keep on going for their particular kill. But then if all animals were all like that, Charles Darwin wouldn’t have had anything to research, would he?

Which is why Mother Nature invented Little (literary) Chefs.
I haven’t given up my journey; I’m just having a pit-stop and rethinking my route, that’s all.
And the All-Day Breakfast looks nice too.

8th July .... 1980

You all know my predilection for Time Travelly stuff, right?  Well, I thought I'd dip into what I was doing exactly 30 years ago and here's my diary entry for  8th July 1980.
Briefly,  this was the year I left school (in a mighty huff as I wasn't allowed to go to Art school as I'd hoped)  and so I started working in the most Arty place I could think of - as an Apprentice Hairdresser in a posh Hair/Beauty salon in town.  Clearly, I'm not enjoying it much...

"Hate it! Absolutely detest the place an' I'm not - repeat NOT joking.

Met Jackie at dinner - Ginny came in 'cos Fliss was havin' her hair done.  Alison (big one) told me I was fat and I should try wearing something else! Humph!

Got on the wrong bus comin' home!

Biddenham, Bromham & Oakley - 1 hour late home.  Went down Del's.  Saw George 4 a fleeting second.  Lay in tomorrow!"

Also, clearly, exclamations marks were the way to get my point across!  And I'm wracking my brain trying to remember if there was a 'small Alison' to offset the Big one.  Much lol-age!

Here's one I wrote earlier (much earlier)

Writers keep everything.  I've got poems and bits of stories from twenty years ago - I still have my school 'journal' (full of angsty, wailing, lovelorn nonsense about boys who didn't even know my name let alone that I existed.  This will be the LAST thing I save in a fire) that I sometimes randomly flip through when I need an excuse not to be doing housework.
And I just found the first thing I ever started to write for the National Novel Writing Month, back in 2004.  I only managed 12,000 words out of the 50,000 that makes you a 'Winner' but I still like it - and I thought I'd share a section of it with you (yep,  life's been dull lately, there's nothing interesting to post - what can I say?). 
Here, the main character, Alison, takes a shopping trip on her first night as a virgin lodger, after having left the sanctuary of her parent's house.
...

And that night being my very first in my very first new home, I’d had to stop by the All Hours down the end of the road.

The sound of the chains that had bound me at home, falling from me, were almost audible as I wandered about the aisles carefully and lasciviously deciding on which tempting foodstuffs I desired and which general household items were absolutely necessary – but not skimp on cheap alternatives to branded names. No more having to make do with kitchen rolls cut in two for loo rolls – oh no, now I would have the softer, stronger and very much longer ones that I always knew were my bottom-given right to have. No more of that oily, nasty tasteless margarine that mother insisted was better for our hearts than butter – oh no, only proper butter, the best butter… only the kind of (salted) butter that had been personally carefully churned by the cows themselves was good enough for me now.

And it was going to be spread on proper sliced bread. None of that bloody ‘long tin’ rubbish that mum bought weekly from the market and put in the freezer and took out to slice and defrost before we could toast it… oh my good lord no, no more of all that nonsense. And proper washing liquid. None of this washing by hand stupidity and using powder that stayed hanging around the collars and under the armpits of clothes because it hadn’t been machined away nicely – and fabric softener…. Oh joy… oh bliss and heavenly angels sent from the great launderette in the sky – I was loving all this. And the kinder to your hands washing up liquid with the fluffy nappied-baby on the side – only the best was going to be good enough for me from now on.

And some chocolate. No, a whole box. A small box but a whole box nonetheless… a kind of celebratory box just for me - just for the night. The ones that the man in black comes swinging through the undergrowth to deliver to you in the dead of night… against all odds and under supremely dangerous conditions.

Oh, and a bottle of wine. And some Twiglets.

I could have spent the entire evening in there and still wanted to stay longer.

The contents of the basket that looked back at me smiled up like gifts in a Hamper as I stood in the queue. The kind of stuff that was in here was the kind of stuff I only ever saw at Christmas in our house. Well, my parents’ house. It wasn’t ‘mine’ any longer. Ha! Now I was a fully-fledged single independent woman of the world. I had a good job. Well, a job. I had a boyfriend. Well… long term partner. Boyfriend was pushing it a bit. And now I had my own home. Well… a room in a house that I paid for. I felt strong and happy and excited and…

‘Nineteen forty five.’

Ok. She could have been reminding me of the year second world war ended… couldn’t she? Deep breath. Stay calm. There are people standing behind you. Waiting. They do this every day. This is not unusual. This is fine. This is what happens out there in the outside world. People shop. People buy things they want/need/like the look of. People pay.

You can do this.

I handed over a twenty pound note. Ordinarily that note would have seen me out the week. And here it was giving me a drink and a snack for the evening and breakfast for the next three or four mornings. Oh, and keeping my clothes clean for … I didn’t know how long because I’d never turned a washing machine on before. In my life. Unless mum had said ‘could you press that button there for me, lovey…’

Lovey. She’d called me lovey. Hadn’t she? Probably once. She called dad ‘lovey’ a lot. Oh god now I wanted my mother. After all I’d just subconsciously been calling her as I’d glided (flake-like) up and down aisles. Here we go then. This is where I start the regret-trip closely followed by the guilt-ride and then onto the big ‘Ah-now-it-all-makes-sense’ roller coaster. Shit. And triple flippin’ shit.

'The Madolescents'

Somewhere I read that someone (surfing the web is all well and good until you do so much you can't remember where you've been or why you were even there in the first place... still...) had Chrissie Glazebrook's début novel, 'The Madolescents' on their top five favourite books of all time.  I think it might have been a YA author but I can't be sure. I hope it wasn't you, Keris!  Anyway - doesn't matter.  Any recommendation is good, whether it makes you steer clear or makes you want to buy it to see if it REALLY was as bad as the someone, somewhere says it is.
THIS book, however, is probably the best, darkest, funniest, sardonic book of teenage angst and way of life that I've read. EVER.  Well, so far, obviously.
The storyline is just so perfectly normal and the characters ways of life and family backgrounds and groups of friends and social lives are just so brilliantly well-observed that it could only have been written by someone who's lived through it.  Been there.  Seen it.  Probably even done some of it herself.
Rowena M (she reckons for 'mad') Vincent, the greatest unsympathetic main character I've ever 'met' is a 16 year old Funeral Parlour assistant.  And that in itself is probably the best occupation I've read for a long time, imo.  What with all these Media types and Florists (soooo many Florists about right now... is it the weather?) to read about a girl who has a shite job (her words) living in a shite town with shite prospects and at times slightly worrying mental aberrations, is, perversely, a total breath of fresh air.
And  whereas I usually trip over written dialect, some of the Northern words ("canny", "maison well", smarmy "get" etc)  actually heightened the whole flavour of being in Rowena's world and endeared me even more to her maniac ways.
The Madolescents of the title are a bunch of (purportedly maladjusted) teenagers who meet once a week for group therapy - not that a lot of therapy is achieved. And although I wouldn't say that they're completely pivotal to the plot, they do give it more edge.  The main story focusses on Rowena's home life, with her mum having just met Bernard ('Filthy') Luker and the deeply unattractive emotions this evokes in her. And whilst it doesn't sound funny, there are so many belly-laughs in this book I couldn't pick out just one - you HAVE to read it and see for yourself.
In fact, I loved this book so much that I had to Google Chrissie Glazebrook and find out a bit more about her.  I wondered it she might Twitter and if she Facebook-d.   But the first thing I found was her Obituary in the Guardian online, which kind of brought me up.  Sharpish.  More than sharpish.  It turns out that this truly, amazingly talented and darkly hilarious writer died of bowel and associated cancer aged 62 in 2007.  And as The Madolescents was published in 2002, I couldn't quite believe that she'd been 57 when it came out.  Which makes her writing all the more remarkable. But what a waste of such incredible talent.  It actually gave me a figurative slap round the stupid face for ever worrying that being the wrong side of forty makes any kind of noticeable difference in the way you write.  That's the last time I say "bah, I'm too old for all that nonsense now" and I hereby give you permission to turn the figurative into the actual if you DO ever hear me bemoan this fact.
Chrissie Glazebrook, The Madolescents specifically -  officially in my top five.
WARNING: contains alcohol, swearing, drugs, sex, FF, mental illness, karaoke, transvestisism and suicide.  Oh, and LAUGHS-A-PLENTY!

Destination: Unexpected

It's finally dawned on me during the last (four) barren weeks of writing anything but these blog posts and making a few inane comments on FB and Twitter (I had to log out this morning after I *actually* did the shameful/unthinkable and asked everyone to tell me whether to put on a wash or not, due to the inclement weather - and this was one of my greatest fears about signing up for the Twit-fest in the first place - that 'conversation' would become so dull I would even bore myself to www.death) that one of the reasons I haven't been making any kind of contribution to my wordcount is NOT merely because of the crushed confidence thing (which was towed off with the last car) but because I'm spending far too long trawling through other blogs and writer's websites and concluding that any input I make into the world of writing will be meaningless in comparison.
That might be the longest sentence I've ever constructed - and I've spun a few out in my time, believe me.
There are writers out there - proper, fully-fledged writers (most of whom have the sense to take a Masters Degree in Creative Writing or equivalent and hone their skills to qualified perfection) who have a publishing history and future that I could only ever get a whiff of if it ever became fragrance of the week on the Debenhams perfumery stand.  And the fact I don't drive anywhere lately makes this even more unlikely.
There are writers out there who have such guts and belief in their art that they give up the day job and live on Lidl cans of baked beans for 12 months whilst honing their first book and then go out there and damned well secure their publishing deal.  Yes they do! *punches air*.  And there are those who are so convinced their writing is worthy that they send off the only pages they've thus far written and an Agent takes them on just like that *clicks fingers*.  Or they're 'discovered'.  Like the checkout girl who was talent spotted by some Model agency or other I'm sure I heard (didn't I?) or they just happen to have lunch with somebody who puts them in touch with an editor and the inevitable happens and I just sit here thinking.... oh.... oh.... oh....
Because I grew up believing that everyone gets the break.  Even Snow White got the break.  And that Sleeping Beauty.  And Susan Boyle. People seems to be getting breaks every day.  But that's not to say a lot of damned hard work doesn't go on behind the scenes - I know it does.  Yes, I do know that hard work is the backbone to every success story (apart from the amazing fairy-tale discovery-break-things I mean). And right now, after having totally convinced myself that anything I write will never be worth anything; that after 4 books and nearly 4 years of getting rejection after rejection, I am quite simply exhausted with it all. I'll probably write again when I feel stronger, because I love it too much.  But I am giving up trying to get published.  It's soul-destroying and demoralising and I don't think my weary old body/brain can take any more beatings right now. I'll stick to reading books.  I'm good at that. I don't have anything to prove when I've read a book.  I don't even need to tell anyone I've done it and how great I was at doing it.  Or that I'm even thinking about doing it again.  No pressure.
Actually, I didn't even realise I was going to end the post this way. I intended to say I'm going to steer clear of everyone else's success stories for a while (i.e. stop beating myself up constantly) and wrap myself up in a figurative blanket in the corner of a room somewhere whilst my hurt parts heal.
So,  if this is where my train of thought led me, I'm quite happy to get off and have a wander around to see what the place is like.

So - I have Agent-related News

Remember that e-mail from Agent 2 (ignore the James Bond connotations, bear with me) asking me where I was based? And my reply of ‘rather too near the ceiling to catch my breath’?
Well as it’d been a good four weeks since he learnt of my proximity to Luton, I decided that the “No News is Good News” maxim was stretching it a bit and he was probably so unstuffed about letting me down gently that he couldn’t be arsed or else he was still trying to hone a cleverly-worded rejection.
Fledgling writers have rather less optimism than your average person. That’s why we’re fledgling. Like struggling baby birds who want the wings but haven’t quite got the strength behind them to take on the flight we desperately crave.
Although I did allow myself just one other last glimmer of hope and that was the London Book Fair (thank you, Deborah Durbin for once again showing me the end of your particularly encouraging wand, illuminating this fact and time spent being swallowed up by this annual event). Bide my time, my friendly witch calmed me. Bide. I’m good at biding.
Then lo and behold an e-mailed arrived not a few days later. (She’s GOOD).
Which should have come with with an oxygen mask attachment for all the breath I could draw. And I still never open my eyes for a few seconds if I see an Agent's name. I used to be like this with the National Lottery draw – and since we don’t’ do it anymore, we’ve ‘won’ £52.00 on it in the last 12 months (yeah?) I’m still like it with Deal or No Deal. But I’m digressing.
And if Digressing could secure me a book deal I’d be on par with Barbara Cartland by now.
I double clicked. I couldn’t even read it. Just scanned the reply.
Which was not brief by any means. And my first reaction was ‘great – not only does he not like it anymore, he’s going to tell me precisely why he doesn’t like it which will render me and “it” useless in the face of re-subbing in the future because it’s ALL WRONG and CRAP and other words associated with the word ‘Reject’.
*wail*
*inward wail but audible from where I’m sitting*
But... Agent 2 was saying that he still likes the book, it has “a brilliant voice” (not in a Katherine Jenkins way) and a “great concept” and said he'd asked his colleague to have a read who’d made a list of comments, observations, suggestions - who also said  it was “enjoyable, light-hearted and fun”.
I like her.
Woo hoo!
Then I read the list and thought my head would explode starting with a slow bleed from the eyeballs. And after being scraped off the virtual ceiling by my amazing friend, Keris, who is always the first person I turn to at times like... well, every time actually - I re-read it a thousand times and on the thousandth and one time, the magnitude felt less extreme and it all felt a lot less scary.
So, even though the work on it could amount to days - weeks perhaps, of re-writing and re-planning and undoing and unpicking and re-stitching and maybe even a load-bearing wall knocking through with the help of a literary JCB, it IS do-able.
Without affecting the storyline and without compromising the integrity and humour of my lovely lovely characters who I breathed life into and without whom my own life would be so much less fun.
And we all know what come to the Bear who Bides, don’t we?
Oh, and did I forget to mention that I finished my time-travelly book this week too? I did? Well, I did. As you can see from the word-count-ometer thingy over there. So now I have another baby who just needs a nice tidy up and a bit of adorning here and there before she, too, is allowed to see the light of the slushpile. Ah… I knew there was a Ma Walton in me somewhere – I just didn’t plan on the labour pains being quite so protracted!

Magic Moments

Y'know the ones - where you've got the biggest, baddest plate of decadence right in front of you and you know that if you don't start taking teeny weeny dolly bites then it's all going to be ... gone.... poof!  Just like that and all you'll have left is a tempting trace of the sweet stickiness that lingers just long enough on the roof of your mouth to remind you of just how glorious it all truly was.
....aaaaaaahhhhhh..... magic (or even Melting... now they were nice when we made them at school, right?) moments.
Trouble is, the Moment I'm having at the ...well, moment... is proving to be a a bit of a tough old plate of decadence to get shot of.  And I know there's an even nicer, second plate of puddingy delight to savour following this, so why can't I just hurry up and goddamnwell polish it off!

I should seriously renew my membership to Analogies Anonymous.  It's getting ridiculous.  I must have one hidden in any place that could secrete one.  Sometimes I wake up with one in my head.  Sometimes I can't sleep for thinking about where the next one is coming from.  And often I can think of two or three at a time.  It's bordering on uncontrollable.  I need help.

Anyway...

So I'm having trouble ending 'the book'.  The time-travelly one.  (which I think would make a great tag-line 'Let's Go Round Again' - "it's time-travelly").  I've been on the *last chapter* for the past two days.  And now it's turned into two last chapters.  Which makes the last chapter No.40 which is a nice, clean, round number, and the best age in the world to be (seriously... esp. when your b/f is only 29 - but enough of my salubrious past).  SO I'm kinda delighted.

But I can't let go of it.  Okay, it's a difficult premise to end sensibly without insulting the intelligence of the reader.  And also I know that once I've typed those magic words THE END, I will slip into a kind of sad stupor and mourn the passing of the thrill of the ride.  Because that's what it's like, right?

Only this time, I'm actually looking forward - I'll repeat this shall I?  LOOKING FORWARD, everybody - to editing this, the first draft.  And edits are notoriously NOT exciting in the least - normally.  And I know precisely what makes the very idea of this edit exciting - as opposed to not so much.

Why?

Well, because, it does what it says in the tag-line.  It's time-travelly.  And time travel is, if nothing else, a very exciting concept to be a part of whichever way you look at it.  And even though, at the end of it,  it won't be the complete, finished book, at least it will have enough bare-nakedness on it's bones (the bones are the very idea and the process which enables it to become a proper initial construction) for it to be dressed nicely - and then accessorized.  And boy, have I got some accesories I'd like to dangle from this baby's bones!

Ah -  there goes another Analogy.  See? I can't help myself.

C'mon... c'mon... c'mon..... I know I can do it.

I know of at least ONE person who will be delighted when this is completed - a friend who never normally reads but is now badgering for "next chapter please..." every time she's got to the end of the last one.  So if I can convert a non-reader into a Badger then - well, my work here is very nearly done.

And like Eric Morecame would say - I know all the right letters it's just getting them in the right order.

Strictly Writing Award!

Well folks, the suspense is finally over and we at Strictly Writing are very proud to announce the first Strictly Writing Award!
The competition is open to anyone with a story to tell, funny, sad, serious or light-hearted - come one, come all!  And with a cash prize of £300 and no entry fee, it's just about the best thing the Easter Bunny could bring!
The limit is 2000 words and to be in with a chance of winning, go to the Strictly Writing site and read all the rules and stuff.
It's exciting!

A slight obsession

Taking the book I'm working on right now into consideration, I've come to the conclusion that I've always had a bit of an obsession with time travel. But, even though I love the idea I don't think it'd work well in practise (you only have to watch the Butterfly Effect to see that tampering with the space-time continuuum could result in lost limbs at some stage in your life and/or certain death on some scale) (is there any other scale?).

Maybe it's because you don't have trawl endless comparison sites before picking a suitable destination and then have to pay for it, buy for it, pack for it --- hell, plan for it, basically.  Because I hate plans.  Any kind. They're so restricting. Ideas are far better.  They are 'germs' - like those seeds that fly off a fluffy dandelion when you blow it...there's a purpose to that - it will land somewhere - but that's as far as that particular plan goes.  The result will still be the same.  It'll take root somewhere. Doesn't matter where, surely?
Or it could even be the simple regret that once something's done it can't be 'undone'. Events and actions I mean.  I know a wonky worktop can be re-aligned (I married a Carpenter after all - I know these things!).And I'm never sure if it started with Doctor Who in the late sixties (the tune alone scared me; had me cowering behind the sofa before I'd even caught sight of a knobbly old Dalek) or with 'The Time Machine' film (the original Rod Taylor one) and in particular the scene where he first sets off in the machine - a beautiful feat of mechanical engineering  - and the shop window display across the street changes seasons, years, decades, centuries with such a fascinating metamorphosis that it held me spellbound.  I might have to go with that.  If one scene from a film made such an impression on me then clearly it's more meaningful than some guy holed up in a blue Police Box hurtling through time and space. But only just.

So I thought about what my favourite Time Travelly movies were and came up with this - by no means exhaustive - list:

* The Time Machine (the original)
* Back to the Future (all of them)

* The Lake House
* Terminator (the first)
* The Time Traveler's Wife (although the book far outweighs the film)
* Groundhog Day
* The Butterfly Effect (the first)
* Stargate
* Jumpers
* The Kid (recently on telly)
* Somewhere in Time (bit cheesy but the sentiments are gorgeous)

Anyone else want to 'fess up to any small obsessions, genre-wise?

A Kiss Before Dying

We have an 'unofficial book club' at the place where I get paid to arrive at and remain for 4 hours a day.  There's me - obviously.  There's the Librarian - even more obviously.  There's the Lab Assistant and there's A Reception Lady.  But come to think of it - we don't read the 'same book' and report back with vastly differing or scarily similar reviews.  I guess we kind of do a bit of a dance with the books we read.  A dosey-doh, if you like.   We're more the share-if you-think-I'll-like-it kind of group.  We must come up with a better slogan.
Anyway.  The latest book I was offered (by our American Lab Assistant) was 'A Kiss Before Dying' by Ira Levin.  Written in 1953.
Ira Levin also wrote 'Rosemary's Baby' and 'The Stepford Wives' to name but a few.  I'd never heard of it but I thought I recognised the man's face on the cover and mentioned he reminded me of the 'Hart to Hart' guy, Robert Wagner.  Which, it turns out, the picture was actually of because it was made into the movie of the same name.
Not being a huge reader of  psychological thriller type books, I was sceptical.  But the minute I'd read the first sentence I was hooked. 
"His plans had been running so beautifully, go goddamned beautifully, and now she was going to smash them all."
Hooked.  And all subsequent sentences were the same.  Technically, essentially brilliant.  No more no less than what was required to write the most gripping book I've recently... no, make that EVER read. 
Not only was this book a simple delight to read - edge of seat, exciting stuff - it was an education.  I felt like I had a 'Master Storyteller' in my hands.  No word was superfluous.  No situation unnecessary.  No character over-writtten.  Just perfect.  It's on my list of re-reads already.
Read it - you'll be very happy you did.

Momentum

Here's the thing.
I think I've found a cure for writer's block. That dreaded constipatory feeling you get when the words just won't flow or even arrive. They're just stuck there - inside you and there's nothing that will budge them. In fact admitting to having WB just makes it worse, doesn't it? Like an addict finally 'fessing up to the cold hard truth. 'My name's Earl and I've got Writer's Block'. Now it's Out There. For the world to see. And whisper about behind their hands. Only they don't because a writer's life is such a solitary affair that nobody but s/he and his screen (and his online writer friends if he's lucky to have any) knows s/he has The Curse of course.
(Try saying that with a glass of Merlot inside you).
And even though I've had this Pretty Good Week and you might have noticed my word count edging towards the nice-not-naughty forty thou, I have to admit to having that niggling feeling of a slow blockage creeping through the intestines of my literary bowels (Eew...not one of my better analogies).
And I was wondering and worrying about this as I got up this morning.
So I decided to use the side of my brain that I don't normally understand how to tap into. i.e. the sensible, methodical, reasoning side. And I tried working out how it was that 'Double History' (coming to a bookshop/supermarket .... you know the rest) was written in four weeks. That was 73,000 words crashed out in four weeks, people. That's 73,000 words in 28 days which equates to about 2,600 words per day. Seven days a week. Which, okay, looks fairly do-able if you look at it like that. But it's not normal.
And the reason this was achieved, I believe, is because I kept the momentum up. It was the last four weeks of the school holidays. No work. All write. Makes me a bit of a fiend. Clearly. And this is what I need.
Along with the Agent and a bloody good deadline or two. That should sort me out.
Because if you're writing something and you have to keep breaking off to do dumb things like... oh, I don't know - go to a job which pays you to do something else, make up lunches for the family - hell, FEED the family for god's sake, spend an obscene amount of time in Sainsbury's, wash dishes, hoover, dust (actually ignore those last three... I do) then you just can't keep the momentum up.
But faced with a solid calendar of day upon day of nothing to do but write and there you have it. The perfect scenario. An ideal situation. No distractions. And a book that you totally believe in because it's with you constantly - not being sliced up with interference from the outside world.
I think I need a shed.
In Crete.
And a laptop, obviously.
And plenty of tea.
*pops over to do a bit of Cosmic Order editing*