The Write Eye

Dear Blog

2010-08-24T04:22:00.003+01:00

Firstly, I must apologise for my neglect. It's been four months since I paid you any attention. (A bit like the houseplants on my kitchen windowsill.) You are pale, naked and devoid of colour, but never mind, like a trusty friend I knew you were always there, waiting to help me back on my feet again.

Having teased the loose threads around the edges of Twitter for the past couple of weeks, it has sort of made me realise that instead of lurking in the relative comfort of my private, and mostly secret, laptop files, I should really be trying to coax back my writing confidence by getting some words out into the www. I am sorry for using you in this way. Perhaps in a couple of weeks you might get some really interesting posts to drape around your neck or hang off your earlobes.

So, I have finally subbed a short story to a women's magazine. It's called 'AC will if PE will' and it's new, written over the course of two night time sessions and buffed and polished during a third. I'll let you know when it gets rejected. Actually, writing the story put some warmth into my frozen writing bones and has given me ideas for another. It might never see the light of day (like the 300+ other short pieces of writing in my files) but hey ho - why not give it a chance, eh?

I've also sent out the Cuckoo to three, very nice-sounding agents, having waited a bit too long for one agent to get back to me. It is still cross-genre, though, so probably a bit out of the comfort zone for potential publishers. I keep reading the two lovely RNA reports, which reinforce my belief in the structure of the novel. If the RNA readers both liked it then there is at least a small chance someone else will. I want to be different. This means I probably won't get published because 'different' seems to be a bit dodgy.

Sunlight and the other two books in the trilogy have been shelved for the time being, whilst I concentrate on Novel No. 5.

So there you have it, dear blog. I'll be in touch again soon. Take care.

Love from Annie
x

The Closed Door of Opportunity

2010-04-05T10:24:00.002+01:00

There's little doubt that education is going to be a big issue in the forthcoming General Election, and I don't doubt that everyone's aspirations for our country's children's and grandchildren's future are in complete accord. As for teachers' workloads, I have seen with my own eyes the heart-wrenching struggles of a dedicated teacher who is also a parent, and witnessed the stress teachers are under to perform when the performance is based on the unpredictability of childrens' progress.

Any parent of grown-up children will tell you: they are all different and reach the recognised milestones at different times in their lives. One child will walk unaided at 10 months; another not until 18 months. One child will chatter away at 15 months and another will not utter a single word until they are nearly two. This developmental unpredictability continues well into the teens and even beyond. What about the pensioners who go back to college and study for degrees? And the 50 year old who finally decides she is going into teaching?

My heart sank when I read in the news yesterday that children may be assessed at fourteen and forced to make choices as to whether they want to go down the 'technical' route or the 'academic' route. I think its a brilliant idea to prepare young people for a career other than one which is the product of a university education and the inevitable burden of a huge debt to pay for it, but it shouldn't be at the expense of those young people who find, in their late teens, they have made a mistake.

My own door of opportunity was closed and locked when I was eleven. Fortunately, I was handed the key to open it when I was accepted into a 'technical college' at 15, where I got those all-important 'O'levels and some other qualifications which helped me get a foothold in an (eventually) well-paid and rewarding career. But I was lucky - lots of my classmates at the secondary modern school I attended weren't so fortunate and, despite being perfectly capable of much higher levels of achievement, were railroaded into factory and shop jobs where their doors of opportunity were not only locked, but bricked over.

I would urge anyone who eventually holds the key to children's future not to create another generation of 'failures'. As a grandparent I want the very best for my grandchildren's future - whether it be 'technical' or 'academic', but above all I want them to be happy in whichever route they eventually choose for themselves.

I just hope the politicians listen to all the parents and grandparents, who really do understand the unpredictability of a child's educational progress.

Writing Progress

I'm still waiting for a response from JM about 'Sunlight'. I have just finished a radical rewrite of the second book in the trilogy (Melody of Raindrops) and now I'm going to have some fun with 'Horns of Angels' and just write, write, write and worry about plots, structures and the rules of writing another day. I'll go back to 'Melody' in a few weeks and give it an edit, but for now I'm going to enjoy myself and write whatever I like!

The Dysfunctional Synapses of a Writer

2010-01-29T08:19:00.003Z

I'm just coming to the end of a very busy January - both work-wise and at home. I haven't managed much writing because I've been too tired to get up at 4.00 am most days.

Last weekend was manic. It was all my own fault: I should never have booked to take my grandchildren to see Aladdin on the same weekend I had to work on a Sunday on the Holocaust Memorial Day service put on by the Council. It was all a bit too much for a fifty-something body in a thirty-something mind.

In the early hours of Sunday morning I had a dream and it went like this:

I open my eyes and they fall on my mum's old nursing chair which occupies prime position in my bedroom in the corner of the bay window. She's sitting in the chair with my crazy Jack Russell, Sam, on her lap.

'Sam!' I yell as I jump out of bed, what are you doing here. You are supposed to be dead.'

Sam jumps into my arms, licking me all over my face, squirming and squeaking with excitement. I can feel his stumpy little tail wagging on my forearm.

'My mum stands up. 'That's just typical of you, Anne,' she says. 'I haven't seen you for three years and all you can do is make a fuss of the dog!'

I put my arm around my little, dumpy mum and give her a hug. 'Rob,' I shout. 'Wake up. Sam's come to see us with Mum'

'That's not Rob,' says my mum. 'This is not your house.'

'Yes it is,' I begin to argue, but mum interrupts me shaking her head in frustration.

'It's no good me trying to explain,' she says. 'You never listen to a word I say. You never did.'

I know Mum's not annoyed with me really because she is smiling and biting her lip, trying not to laugh at me struggling to keep hold of the canine contortionist in my arms. I see her eyes glint with tears of happiness and want to tell her how much I've missed her, but don't.

I suddenly get very frightened and sweep back the vertical blinds to look out of the window. There's a grey car slewed across our driveway. Two young women are standing in the road, arguing loudly. The car engine is running, punctuating the usual quietness of our little road with the heavy breathing of a diesel engine. A man jumps out, leaving the door open. He grabs one of the girls and shoves her in the car. Her shoe falls off and he picks it up and throws it at her. There is a second or two of teenage hysteria inside the car, before the man slams it shut and it roars off at great speed into the night.

I wake up. In bed. I turn over and go back to sleep.

On Sunday morning I woke up. I asked Rob if he heard Technoson come in and he said he had. About 2.30 am, apparently. (He also said we had a visitor - Technoson had brought a friend home.)

I told Rob straight away about my dream and he said I'd been eating too much cheese. We had a little conversation about Jack Russells and almost had an argument because I want another 'Sam', but unfortunately Sam had only one master - me - and was possessive to the point of obsession and pleased himself for the vast majority of his long, yappy-happy life.

And that, folks, was that. Until last night when, in one of our rare conversational moments this week, caused entirely by Kettering Borough Council completely devouring every second of my life apart from when I've been in bed, asleep, Rob and I caught up with each other. This is what really happened on Saturday night/Sunday morning.

A new family moved into a house at the end of our road about six months ago. They have a fifteen-year old daughter. Mummy and Daddy decided that their little cherub was old enough to be left while they had a much needed weekend break. At about 2.00 am a worried J, who lives next door and had crept into the back garden in his jim-jams to investigate the wild party that appeared to be going on, decided that there was no other option but to ring his neighbours on their mobile phone. I don't think I need to explain what happened next. Around 60 15/16 year olds were unceremoniously chucked out when a furious G and his wife arrived home, their special weekend (and their newly decorated house) completely ruined.

Apparently, livid parents were all over Barton Seagrave collecting their variously scattered offspring - and yes, according to Technoson there really was a grey car parked across our driveway, and yes, a grumpy father really did chuck his daughter into his car ......

It's actually quite worrying that your brain can get quite so mixed up.

Ooo -errrrr ......

Anyway - I really should get to work. Two more days of craziness and then I can, perhaps, take a day off.

Silver Linings and Frayed Edges

2010-01-05T05:57:00.002Z

I always try to look for silver linings, both in people and in situations. Even the grumpiest, lugubrious of people must have something that tickles their fancy - or perhaps not!

For the last two years I've concentrated on my novels - I've still written the odd short story, but not subbed anything anywhere, apart from 'The Yellow Balloon' (which was accepted by My Weekly 18 months but not yet published), 'Hypnolove' which was published in an anthology, and a couple of other random short stories which were rejected.

I have decisions to make about my writing - two different agents have now said that I am a better saga writer than a writer of the contemporary stuff. Two unconnected professional people - two identical conclusions. The thing is, I loved writing The White Cuckoo. It was written straight from my heart. It is special and precious and it feels like I want to protect it, like a mother would a child.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed writing the sagas, too, but I was helped by a walking encyclopedia of memories of the 20s and 30s and didn't have to do much research other than sit and talk to my Great Aunt, who sadly is no longer with us.

The White Cuckoo is a contemporary women's fiction, with the back story set in 1910. My gut feeling is that it works as it is (and both the first and second RNA readers seemed to have the same view, so I can't be completely out of step, can I?) One of my local readers said she felt like writing to the agents I had approached to tell them how much she loved the story and that it was refreshing to have a main character she could actually identify herself with and root for, instead of reading about criminals, misery and doom and gloom all the time. Now two agents, completely unconnected, have suggested I write the 1910 story as a family saga. The whole point of the Cuckoo is the subtle strands of connectivity between two women - one who lived in 1910 and the other who is trying to sort out the tangled mess in her life in the here and now. If I could liken the novel to a diagram, it would be like the geometry of a sphere-shaped object, with everything connected and the formulae all adding up, but with tangents and parallels going off in all directions, sometimes hidden from view, but there all the same for the reader to discover.

If I re-write the 1910 part of the story as a complete novel, I feel I will be stealing the soul from The White Cuckoo and selling it to the devil.

One agent said that people don't want to read about your average 27 year old woman who drinks lattes, has a well-paid job and sports car and who travels half way across the country to find her estranged sister and then falls in love with a Civil Engineer. Why? I'm so confused.

There must be thousands of young women who have good jobs, a sports car and fancy the pants off a Civil Engineer. Not everyone is destitute, hard-up and living in a squat and being gang-raped by psychopathic handgun-wielding, granny-mugging thugs.

JM, the agent who has been trying to sell the trilogy of sagas, has suggested that I re-write my first novel 'Sunlight on Broken Glass' to make it grittier - to make the heroine really suffer, but to tone down Tom (see previous post) because publishers she approached felt his behaviour is a bit near the knuckle. I think I would rather do this than rip the heart out of the Cuckoo.

Is it really such a mortal sin for a new writer to write a book that is cross-genre - like The White Cuckoo. Apparently you can get away with it when you have a few published novels under your belt, but a new writer? No, no no!

Anyway, despite being a little frayed around the edges, I have decided to tinker around with 'Sunlight' and let the 'Cuckoo' rest for a while. I just can't bring myself to dismantle this work of art that, I, alone, have created - it was for me and it is precious to me. I'm not going to let it go. I don't have to, do I?

In the meantime, I'll fray myself around the edges a little more by sticking my toe into the muddy water of short story submissions, and I might tinker around with the NaNo novel and see if I can turn it into a pocket novel (using the very successful, Sally Q's helpful guidelines on her blog).

Right - when I get my first short story rejection, can someone please remind me that it's just a hobby, it's supposed to be enjoyment and that all writers have to deal with rejections.

Perhaps my frayed edges will have a silver lining, after all? Who knows.

Anyway, a Happy and successful 2010 to anyone reading this post by a very frayed and frazzled Annie.

Blog Takeover Day

2010-01-01T18:25:00.005Z

THOMAS FRISBY JEFFSON (1878-1971)

Annie has tried her best to tell my story, but we have to face facts. She's been trying to get a novel published for nearly two years now and ... between you and me and the computer mouse ... she need to try a darned sight harder and stop messing around. I know publishers don't like me because I'm such a nasty piece of work, but there is a reason. I have a secret - a skeleton in my closet - and I'd like to share it with you.

Hey …. don’t go away!. Please stay and listen to what I have to say. I know it doesn’t sound too good, so far, but there is a reason I am such such a horrible character. It isn't all my fault, you know!

When I was sixteen, I wasn't a bad lad. Believe me, I behaved myself and had ambitions. I respected my elderly aunt and uncle because I was grateful to them for giving me a new start in life when they rescued me from my sadistic, cruel mother and took me in. So, I suppose you are wondering where it all went wrong? This is where you hear my true story because I swear that I've never told a living soul about the dreadful thing that happened to me.

The year before I moved in with my aunt and uncle, a new family had arrived in the village and rented the cottage next door to them. Young Jack was my age and we became really good friends.

His mother, Mary, always made me welcome in their home. It was a lovely, wafty-walled thatched cottage with nice furniture and always very clean and tidy. She told me that she admired how I had tried to better myself and complimented me on my neat clothes and highly polished boots. Mary was well respected in the village and a regular churchgoer. She was also a very beautiful woman and turned heads wherever she went.

After a while I started to go to church and join in all the activities. I liked being around Mary because she was always so interested in me - I wasn’t just the lad who lived next door. Young Jack and I joined the village cricket team and life was good. I was having the time of my life after my miserable childhood.

Mary had married her husband, Old Jack, when she was very young and, although their marriage seemed strong, she often used to confide in me that she felt her best years had slipped away without her noticing. I was really wet behind the ears when I was sixteen!

Don't ask me to define the moment I fell in love. I always had a big crush on Mary, but I never let it show. I think most young lads about that age tend to get all fanciful about an older woman, don't they?

Anyway, it all started in a field on a warm late-August Sunday afternoon. I was collecting blackberries for my aunt to make a pie, when I heard a voice call out to me. I looked around and Mary was hurrying across the field, a radiant smile splitting her pretty face. She was carrying a nearly full basket of blackberries.

‘Here,’ she said to me, ‘let me put my basket down and I'll give you a hand to fill yours.’ We walked along the hedgerow, chatting away, plucking the ripe juicy fruit from the brambles.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her loose golden hair, which blew in wisps around her face and hung in waves over her narrow shoulders. She could have easily been mistaken for a woman half her age. I caught a faint scent of perfume - or was it fresh laundry - as she leaned in front of me and the blue and white cotton of her dress stretched enticingly over her full breasts.

After a few minutes of picking the ripe, juicy fruit together, I saw some particularly large berries that were right inside the hedge, just out of reach. I leaned into the brambles to pick them. As edged my way into the hedgerow, my foot went down a rabbit hole and I lurched and fell right into the deadly thorns. A hot rasping pain gouged the skin on the back of my hand and I cried out as I scrambled up. The bramble must have slashed through one of the veins on the back of my hand because there was blood everywhere.

Mary and I sat down on the grass; she whipped a handkerchief out of the pocket of her dress, shook it and wound it round my hand, pressing down on the cut with my hand sandwiched between hers. As the bleeding subsided I glanced up at her and was startled to see that she was looking straight into my eyes. A deep desire played around the edges of her seductive smile as we stared at each other. I could hardly contain my excitement. My heart pounded. All I could hear was the sound of her breathing and feel the warmth of her hands and thigh, which was touching mine. I was hypnotised, completely mesmerised by the smell of her, the sound of her voice and her hair tumbling over her shoulders when it should have really been pinned up, it being a Sunday. The sight of her breasts and tiny waist made her seem youthful and vibrant, and yet her maturity and experience seemed to gush from her eyes straight into the tops of my thighs and groin.

She stroked my bare forearm with one hand whilst holding my injured hand with the other and I thought I would be sure to explode. She could see how excited I was and kept looking into my eyes as her free hand effortlessly left my arm and caressed the top of my thigh. Her hand worked its way to my crotch.

‘Sorry,’ I said, after I few seconds, feeling as if I needed to apologise.

‘Never mind,’ she said almost in a whisper as her deft hand played with the buttons on my trousers. ‘When we can be somewhere more private, I'll show you what it's all really about!’

I looked all around to see if anyone had seen what had happened. There were people in the field only a few yards away along the hedgerows, and some children played cricket in the meadow on the other side of the hedge. I blushed crimson at the thought someone might have been looking, but a quick glance over my shoulder told me that everyone seemed to be minding their own business.

She stood up and pulled me to my feet. My face was still scarlet with embarrassment. She said, ‘don't be ashamed, Tom, I know how you feel about me.’ Then she let go of my hand, picked up her basket and walked jauntily away across the field back to the village. Her hips swayed rhythmically, and she tossed her head as she flicked hair out of her eyes. She didn’t even look back at me.

After that Sunday, I kept away from Mary for a while. I felt guilty about the whole episode and could hardly look Young Jack in the eye because of the shame at the thought of what I had done with his mother.

One Saturday, about a month later, my aunt and uncle went out with some other relatives. I was at home on my own, polishing my boots and minding my own business, when Mary tapped on the front window like a jackdaw after a sparkly jewel.

I put down the boot I was polishing, stood up and stretched. I felt a rush of fear mixed with excitement as I opened the heavy, oak front door just a little, a waft of delicate perfume filling the hallway through the crack in the door.

‘Could I trouble you to borrow a darning needle,’ she enquired, fanning her flushed face with her hand and shooting me a seductive look under her eyelashes. I opened the door fully, and politely asked her to come in. I made her wait while I turned my back on her to rummage in my aunt's needlework bag. I didn’t look round. I deliberately didn’t encourage her in any way. In any case, my face was red with embarrassment and I didn’t want her to notice.

As I was hunting for a needle in the bag, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle; her eyes seemed to bore into me and my cheeks burned crimson. Just as I was about to turn around, having found what I was looking for, I stopped breathing as I felt her arms encircle my waist from behind. I froze as she unbuttoned my shirt and caressed my bare chest. She laid her head against my back, pressing herself erotically against my buttocks. She was kissing the back of my neck and then licking my ear with the tip of her tongue. It was so difficult for me, a healthy young lad with normal desires and yet knowing that any sort of liaison would be inappropriate to say the very least. I did try to pull away - I honestly did.

I swear to you as God is my witness, I’m telling the truth. But … well … what lad could have resisted? I certainly couldn't. She took me by the hand and led me upstairs. She undressed me with slow, experienced hands, before taking off every item of her own clothing. We lay, naked, on top of the bed.

It was my first time.

After that Saturday, it happened about a dozen more times over the next year. It was always Mary who seduced me. At first I wanted it to stop and I tried to avoid her if I could, as I was so ashamed of myself. I was terrified that people would find out, especially Young Jack, but they never did. No one ever suspected a thing.

As time went on, I fell deeply in love with Mary. Whenever we were alone I told her how I felt about her. She told me she loved me back and was just waiting for the right time to leave her husband and for us to be together properly. I worked like a Trojan; saving every penny I could to be able to afford a nice home for us both and to have the means to support Mary and her two youngest children. I both dreaded, and yet lived for, the few times we could be together, consoling myself that the loneliness I felt when we were apart would be worth it eventually.

Just before I was seventeen, my aunt made a casual announcement at the dinner table one Sunday as we tucked into roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. She said that Mary was pregnant with her fourth child.

I was stunned.

I put down my knife and fork and took a deep breath before swigging half a glass of water. With a primitive instinct in my gut and a guilty heart tinged with pride, I knew that the child growing in her belly was probably mine.

We passed each other in the street a few days later. I didn’t think she was even going to acknowledge me. I caught her arm and asked her outright if the child was mine. She looked at me in the eye and said coldly, ‘of course it's yours, you silly little boy! Old Jack thinks it's his and it's best kept that way. You just keep your mouth shut, or else you'll be sorry!’

As she walked away she looked over her shoulder at me and then stopped. She took a step backwards and gave a condescending, unfeeling sneer. ‘Well I wanted to have another baby before it was too late, and that useless lummox couldn't give me one!’ she said

I was panic-stricken.

I caught her arm. ‘Mary …’ I said, ‘let’s just talk about this ….’

She shook my hand off and left it suspended in mid air.

‘Please?’

I was desperate.

She pursed her lips and shook her head, before walking away, her eyes cold and hard, staring straight ahead without even a backward glance.

My life was a living hell after that day; but I couldn't tell anyone. I can't tell you how hurt I was. I was angry with myself, too, because I could see how stupid I had been.

With the benefit of hindsight, I believe Mary only wanted another baby so that she could be the centre of attention. Her seduction of me was well planned and clinical. What was easier than a beautiful woman ensnaring an impressionable sixteen-year-old lad? She abused me and then discarded me like a bag of rubbish.

I was broken - my heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

After he was born, she would walk around the village, pushing my son in an expensive new perambulator, with her hair pinned up in an elegant bun under a demure hat, swishing her full skirts as she swayed her hips, nodding her head, smiling and passing the time of day with everyone she met - especially the men. Her tinkling laughter was so fabricated and contrived, I wondered how I could ever have been so gullible as to be taken in by her. I used to stand and watch, hiding behind a newspaper or bending down pretending to tie my shoelaces in a gateway. Her voice would change when she spoke to a man. Any man. Her head would lower slightly and she would look up at them under her eyelashes; then she would hold their gaze just a second too long. I’d wait for the trill laugh and for her to touch them gently on the arm. They’d walk away with a spring in their step, feeling on top of the world. I knew the feeling all too well and I wanted to run after them and tell them not to be such a bloody fool.

I’d watch as she and Old Jack went to church, pushing my son in front of them in his perambulator. She would march off on Old Jack’s arm, with her two little girls running along in front, looking for the entire world like a devout church-going pillar of the community.

My aunt knew there was something wrong and was worried about me. My mind was in turmoil - all my dreams and aspirations knocked aside, worthless and redundant as the reality of the situation hit me like a runaway horse and left me bleeding and broken.

I had been well and truly used.

To an inexperienced sixteen year old, Mary had been the perfect woman. In the next few months I gradually came to realise that her behaviour had been ten times worse than that of my slovenly, dirty mother. In their own disparate ways they had splintered and fragmented my fragile early years, and it took me a very long time to realise that Mary's actions had not only affected me for my entire life, but had moulded me into the bitter, nasty and unfeeling person I turned into afterwards.

Frank, they called him. I could hear his muffled cries through the wall, physically aching to hold him in my arms and be a proper father to him. I liked his name and it is one I would have chosen myself, had I had the chance. He was a lovely little chap, with bright blue eyes and fine blonde hair.

I can't even begin to describe to you all how much I loved him. It was a hopeless situation. It was like a heavy, constant ache around my heart. I cried lonely, helpless tears, night after lonely night, over the futility of the situation, knowing I could never acknowledge that perfect little boy as my son.

Occasionally, my aunt looked after baby Frank. I felt on top of the world at such times and always willed him to wake up so that I could pick him up and hug him to me, breathing in his delicate baby smell and feeling the warmth of his body, his little heart beating against my chest. I’d gaze into his eyes and make him chuckle with silly noises, and he would reach out to touch my nose or my mouth. My eyes would fill with tears and I’d deliberately let them fall on his face before wiping them away. In some perverse way I wanted him to be baptised by my tears; to somehow know how much his real father loved him and how it was tearing me apart.

I swear I can recall each and every time I held Frank. The memories are so pure, so clear in my mind. It was like finding a patch of warm winter sun on a cold, bleak day whenever I thought of my precious first-born son.

I threw myself into work and cricket and worked myself into exhaustion most days so that I had little time to dwell on things. I stopped going to church, because Mary was always there, and I couldn't even bear to look at her. To help ease the pain, I took just a little whisky to help me sleep through the night without having to hear my son living his life, disconnected from mine, through the few inches of the dividing wall. His cries pierced through my body right into my soul. I felt physical pain with the basic, simple need to be a proper father. Where’s the wrong in that? The tot or two of whisky before I went to bed was the only bit of comfort that helped me through that awful time.

After a year or so I took up with my lovely Liz. We married when I was nearly twenty-two. I wanted to make a fresh start but there were two things I just couldn’t do, try as I might. I couldn’t forget my perfect son and I couldn’t give up the whisky that eased the pain of knowing that he would never know that I was his real father.

I carried the scar of that hot, August Sunday afternoon on the back of my hand for the rest of my life. It was a permanent, constant reminder of Mary Haywood - the woman who had stolen my innocence and damaged my heart beyond repair.

That is why I drink. That is why I am such a horrible man. You see, Frank Hayward died of the consumption at the age of twenty-two without ever knowing how much I loved him. He died without knowing that I, Tom Jeffson, was his father.

I think Annie needs to tell her readers about my secret, don't you?

50k words in a month

2009-11-30T18:08:00.004Z

I made it. (Novel is nowhere near complete, though). It needs a ruthless edit too.

I loved it. It was hard at times, especially when I was busy with work, but on the whole it was very enjoyable.

Congratulations to everyone else who did NaNoWriMo, whether you made it to 50k words or not. It's the taking part that counts, not the winning.

Rocket Stickers, The Moon and Millbrook School

2009-11-26T20:01:00.006Z

'Granny,' said Tyler, 'I really did get a rocket sticker and now it's lost.'

His eyes were full to the brim and his bottom lip was quivering. 'Daddy said it was just a dream, but it's not, Granny.'

My son-in-law almost shouted at him 'Look - just get dressed - and stop being such a girl, Tyler. It's not on your sweatshirt. You've either dreamed it, or lost it on the way back from school last night.'

'I didn't,' retaliated Tyler under his breath as he pulled on his grey, school socks. 'It said well done for knowing my numbers.'

It was 8.25 this morning before I finally began to give my eight month-old granddaughter her breakfast. With my daughter and son-in-law flapping around because they were both late for work, Tyler in a strop over the rocket sticker and Sophie doing her level best to spread porridge all over my work clothes I was beginning to panic. We needed to leave the house by 8.45 at the latest or else Tyler would be late.

Today was just a typical weekday morning. It saddens me that, having worked so hard to get their degrees, buy a nice modest semi for their family and give their children a reasonable standard of living, the price they have to pay for their success is heavy childcare costs and a stressful, hectic lifestyle. Despite my son-in-law having a secure professional job, they still can't afford for my daughter to be a full-time mum. I feel so sorry for today's hard-working parents because they have so little choice. They have to take on a hefty mortgage to buy a house and then row their own boat in this upstream world, give up huge amounts of their salaries in taxes and then pay heavily for the privilege of rushing out to work each day - helped by an army of grandparents who had thought their school-run days were over!

On the short walk to school, Tyler said, 'I told my teacher that you went to the moon.'

'No,' I said. 'I haven't been to the moon - only astronauts go to the moon.'

'You did, Granny. You said you watched the men land on the moon when you were a little girl, and your mummy told you off because it was in the middle of the night and you should have been in bed.'

Over a year ago, we all visited the Science Museum in London. It was a throwaway comment about my memory of that night in July 1969 when men first walked on the moon. We had been looking at a replica of the luna module at the time. I couldn't believe he had remembered that far back but had to smile at the way he had taken my comment literally and had actually thought I had visited the moon in the middle of the night in some sort of magical, fairytale rocket trip.

Going back to Millbrook School every day brings back so many memories for me. I had thought I'd feel old and out of place at the school gates, but the truth is there are loads and loads of grandparents there, just like me, saving their adult children childcare costs before they rush off to work themselves.

Something tells me this is not progress. I think we were all better off when women stayed at home, looked after the house and children and perhaps just worked part-time while their men went out to work, mowed the lawns and cleaned the car at weekends.

Controversial view, I know, but I'm thankful that I was, probably, one of the last generation of stay-at-home mums.

What do you think?

PS: We found the rocket sticker!

RNA Winter Party

2009-11-21T02:43:00.013Z

Well, first of all let me introduce you all to Emily, my incredibly supportive daughter. Without her moral support I would never have made it to the RNA winter party.

I think I've mentioned before on this blog that all my life I've felt a bit disjointed. Different, quirky, odd - that sort of thing. The compulsion to drop everything I'm doing and sit down and write has been overwhelming, but my family has always thought I was a bit strange. My husband has, in the past, likened me to a secret transvestite because I kept my writing a secret. They kept it a secret. It was something not to be talked about. A skeleton in the Ireson family closet.

Emily absolutely loved the RNA party, so much so that loads of people thought she was a writer, too. Then she said something really lovely about all of us - published or not. She said that it was such a relief to her to know that there were other people in the world like her mum. She said she felt the same quirkiness throughout the crowded room that she had been feeling all her life and she felt really at home amongst us all.

We met up with Jane Wenham-Jones at the party. She gave me my usual injection of confidence - several times actually - and introduced me to lots of influential people as one of her 'Wannabes'. As you can see one glass just wasn't enough for me on this occasion as I had one red wine and one white wine! I also met Cally Taylor, Leigh Forbes and Kate Johnson and was absolutely gutted to find, when I got home and looked on the website, that Liz Fenwick had been there too! It was so crowded I just hadn't come across her in the huge, awesome library and I really would have liked to speak to her. Sorry Liz - I just didn't know you were there!

I met people I had met before in Caerleon and others I had conversed with by e-mail or in blogland. I managed to tell Judy Astley that she had won my little sunbed poll of the most popular books when I was on holiday (a 2-week long tally chart of books being read by people on sunbeds - 1st Judy Astley, 2nd Jill Mansell, 3rd Cecilia Ahern and they all beat Martina Cole into fourth place. Judy was thrilled to bits.)

Sue Moorcroft and her husband were there too. How on earth have we never managed to come across each other before, I ask myself? We live so close to each other we could practically chuck paper aeroplanes into each other's gardens (well - a bit of an exaggeration, but I'm talking 20 minutes walk here.) Our husbands have known each other for years and years. I like Sue. She's such a good role model. There she was, cool as anything, with 'Starting Over' sitting in WH Smith on St Pancras Station at No 4, no less, and her name on the cover and in the pages of 'Loves Me, Loves me Not'. You can't get any more successful than that, can you?

Elizabeth Hawksley was, as ever, so supportive of me as a new writer, as was Katie Fforde and Melanie Hilton. I absolutely loved talking to Cally about 'Heaven Can Wait' and came away feeling so happy for her that she had made it through the confusion and nail-biting agony that is becoming published. I spoke to Judith M about the trilogy, which I am rewriting on her advice at the moment, but am still confused about 'The White Cuckoo'. My gut feeling tells me this book is 'the one' but Judith is not impressed with it because it isn't a saga and she feels I should be concentrating on them. The RNA are helping me to hopefully find an agent to represent the 'Cuckoo' through the New Writers' Scheme and I am greatly indebted to my two RNA readers for all the help and guidance they have given me, along with Melanie Hilton, the NWS Organiser.

When we left, my feet hurt so badly from standing on heels (all 2 inches of them) all night, I really thought I wasn't going to make it to St Pancras. Emily's feet hurt, too, but she didn't moan about it all the way home like I did!

We ate a bag of giant chocolate buttons and another bag of chocolate clusters coming home on the train, and bumped into a Councillor, who looked mightily bemused at the sight of the 'other me'. Annie the eccentric writer of fiction as opposed to Anne, who is a boring, staid local government officer with personality extracted by years of having to write about protocol, constitutions and standing orders.

He e-mailed me yesterday, saying he almost didn't recognise me because I looked so different. 'You looked really happy,' he said. 'Had you been on the razz.'

'Nuff said. Councillor, if you read this blog, now you know!

All in all I would have to say the evening was AMAZING, but I won't because that word is beginning to annoy me intensely. Why does everyone on TV have to keep saying it all the time?

(PS: Debs - it would have been perfect if you had been able to come, too)

NaNoWriMo Day Three

2009-11-03T12:20:00.002Z

Dohhh!!!!! I was at a late Council meeting last night (didn't get home until 9.45 pm). I got up at 6.30 am this morning and managed around 500 words, but now it's nearly lunchtime and I'd forgotten it was fat club today, so won't even be able to knock out another couple of hundred at lunchtime.

Then I've got another evening meeting tonight. This is so unfair!!!!!!

(Holds head in hands). Why oh why did I say I'd do it?

Day One - Nanowrimo

2009-11-01T21:25:00.003Z

Well, managed 2,442 words in just over two and a half hours this morning, but it was completely uninterrupted writing time as hubby - very wisely - left me alone and technoson didn't fall through the front door until 5.30 am and so was in bed in an alcohol-induced stupour until midday.

I'm a bit concerned about tomorrow's word count (Monday). I'm at work all day and then have an evening Council meeting. I've got out of the habit of my early morning sessions, so I'm torn between going to bed now - 9.30 pm on Sunday and getting up at 4.00 am to write, or trying to write a little bit more before I go to bed.

The novel is called 'Horns of Angels' (working title) and is set in the Lake District and Crete. I have never visited either place, although I'm sort of hoping for a fact-finding weekend in the Lake District during the re-write. I'm not holding my breath, though. Hubby is not really a weekend break sort of bloke, especially during the shooting season.

NaNoWriMo

2009-10-22T07:37:00.009+01:00

The cuckoo has taken flight again, as of this week, following an edit. I was thrilled to bits to get a second read from the RNA and have had some valuable feedback from them.

Following my holiday in August, I began work in earnest on 'The White Cuckoo', and have really put everything I've got into the rewrite. I've examined every sentence, every single word and analysed the plot, scene by scene. I've been ruthless and cut out huge chunks of text that don't either (a) move on the plot, (b) characterise or (c) add vivid imagery. I've added an equal amount of text to strengthen characters, add conflict and tension and made the whole story more 'edgy'.

It's done now. I don't want to revise it any more. If it makes it then I shall be ecstatically happy, but while I'm waiting to find out I thought I might as well join Debs and Sally and sign up for NaNoWriMo. Probably a bit crazy of me, but I did so enjoy writing the Cuckoo, and my next novel 'Horns of Angels' (working title at the moment) is jumping around in my brain like heated popcorn and needs to be let out.

On a lighter note, hubby went to do the shopping yesterday and found two objects: one lying on the car park and one left in a trolley in the trolley park. I always think it's a good job we don't live near the sea, or he'd become one of those long-haired ageing hippy beachcombers, wombling along the shoreline for things that might come in useful one day.

The first object he found was a box of laxatives. The second was a rather funky little pink pen with multi-coloured inks. I'd take a photo, but I'm recovering from piggy flu and can't be bothered to get up off my backside to find the camera. He very proudly presented me with both objects when he got home, literally just minutes after I had signed up to NaNoWriMo. How very quirky and synchronised. I just hope the end result of my NaNoWriMo is not just a load of old c**p.

The White Cuckoo lays another egg

2009-08-20T10:21:00.004+01:00

I have some news about the Cuckoo. Remember, it's the novel I wrote in a crazy, manic attempt to banish the writing blues during May this year? (See previous blogs).

I have never been much of a romantic fiction reader. I prefer a good crime, or thriller - can't be doing with all this slushy romantic stuff. I used to titter at my mum's favourite books, but then secretly take them all on holiday and enjoy the feelgood reads. (Ohmigod, I've never admitted that before!)

I think every writer should have an ideal reader sitting on their shoulder: an actual character they are writing for. With me, it's my mum. I am writing solely for her, knowing that her type of books were my grandma's, and my great aunt's. In fact, my mum's paperbacks were always well worn and passed around amongst her friends until they ended up at my house, dog-eared and tea-stained, with a 'you really should read this, our Anne ... it's such a lovely story.' Mum could never get to grips with Ken Follett, Jeffrey Deaver or William Boyd and I remember her throwing her hands up in horror when she saw Dennis Wheatley in all his dark glory lurking under my coffee table. She would stand at the kitchen sink, or turn around while hard at it over the ironing board, iron in hand, and tell me all about the books she was reading. She'd describe the characters, comment on their shortcomings and give her opinion on which hero was her favourite. I didn't realise at the time just how much I was taking it all in.

I wrote 'The White Cuckoo' for my mum. I just poured my heart out and wrote a romantic novel especially for her. I wish she was here to see it.

I submitted the Cuckoo to the Romantic Novelists' Association New Writers' Scheme a couple of weeks ago, and as my friends at work will testify, I had my tongue firmly pressed into my cheek and a cynical smile on my face on the day I posted off the manuscript.

I heard today it's got a second reading! I'm ecstatic, to say the least. Apparently, only about ten manuscripts each year get a second reading.

I can't believe I have actually written Romantic Fiction!

I've learned a lesson, I think. I actually feel quite ashamed that I used to make fun of mum's favourite books. Since I've been writing seriously, I've been reading some of her favourites and I've actually got to know some of the authors through facebook and at Caerleon.

I always imagined writers of Romantic Fiction to be all girly-girly types - belonging to a club I could never be a part of. You see, I'm not a pink, fluffy, Barbara Cartland type of woman. I hate wearing make-up. Long fingernails get on my nerves when typing, so I cut them off with scissors. I fall over in high heels, doing a fair impression of Dick Emery's 'Mandy' and want to stick my fingers down my throat at sentimental films and suchlike. I've never watched The Sound of Music, either.

But underneath I am all woman. I must be.

Please can someone give me some lessons?

Prevarication

2009-08-15T10:14:00.002+01:00

I think I must be in serious need of a psychiatrist. This time next week I shall be in Ibiza and I have loads still to do. I had my Saturday all planned out and this is how it went.

1. Get up early, have a leisurely bath and then hit the town centre before the crowds.
2. Walk briskly past the library.
3. Marks & Sparks for new underwear to take on holiday.
4. Walk briskly past Waterstones.
5. Zoom into Boots for holiday toiletries.
6. Walk briskly past Waterstones.
7. Look the other way when walk past extremely tempting display of luxury choccies in Thorntons.
8. Walk briskly past the library
9. Wave to colleagues in the tourist information centre (to be polite) but not to pop in for a chat (which might appear rude)
10. Back home by 10 am at the very latest.
11. Pack cases for holiday.
12. Clean oven, fridge and the cupboard under the kitchen sink.
(Middle son is house-sitting Daughter will feel sorry for younger brother and will cook their dinner every night in my kitchen. Daughter's fridge and cooker are always much cleaner than mine. Daughter will tutt and puff and will probably put something up about my mucky oven on facebook. So you see, that is why I must clean my oven, fridge and the cupboard under the sink.)

This is what has happened so far.

1. Slept in until 8.45 am.
2. Watched BBC News while idly checking through documents in travel wallet and eating bowl of porridge.
3. FOUND £100 WORTH OF TRAVELLERS' CHEQUES IN TRAVEL WALLET FROM LAST YEAR - WAHEYYYYY! (Sorry, got quite excited about that)
4. Went on facebook to see if daughter on-line so I could tell her good news.
5. Just had a little browse on facebook and then read all the comments on Novel Racers
6. Visited Debs' blog and left a comment
7. Daughter rang. Spent 10 minutes or so on the phone.
8. Visited Mother X's blog (a bit worried about her because she sounded down the other day)
9. Looked to see what the temperature was in Ibiza
10. Logged into work e-mails and answered a couple of urgent ones (you stupid cow, Annie - it's Saturday for goodness sake!)
11. Visited own blog and decided to write a post about prevaricating when the ONLY day I have to get ready for holiday is today!

At work yesterday

I made a huge, long 'to do' list of things I needed to do before I finish on Wednesday night. I made another list of things other people need to do while I'm away. I made another list of things I needed to do as soon as I get back from my hols. Made coffee. Checked e-mails for the entire week to see if I had not dealt with anything I should have done. Found one I had originally opened on Monday morning, groaned, and then shut again. Dealt with it. Offered to help someone out from another department (WHY?). Checked all room bookings for meetings while I'm away. Checked food ordered for meetings while I'm away. Replied to a thank you e-mail I'd just received regarding a meeting I had last Monday. Got one straight back. Replied. Got one back. Replied. Got one back. Replied. Got one back. Made coffee. Wrote two letters. Crossed off two things on to do list.

Then it was lunchtime, and all I had done was written two poxy letters!

Now it's 10.50 on the only day I have to get ready for my holiday and I'm not even dressed.

Now, just had a great idea for Novel Number Five. Must jot it down ... otherwise I'll forget ...

Things I Have Noticed About Writers

2009-08-05T22:15:00.003+01:00

I haven't a hope in hell of adding anything constructive to Debs's brilliant review of Caerleon so I thought I'd share ten of my little observations about writers - mostly gleaned during my week in Wales.

1. All writers are extremely clumsy and drop/spill/throw/trip over/bump into things everywhere, all the time.
2. Writers do not appear to know left from right and have absolutely no sense of direction, wandering aimlessly through wrong corridors and getting distracted by other writers at every turn or in every doorway
3. Writers' bags are all very heavy - without exception
4. Getting food into a writer's mouth without spillage is nigh-on impossible (gravy on white skirt, beetroot on yellow top, lasagne on sleeve, superglue-like substance in hair, something white and slimy on sandal and something sticky in handbag - and that was just the first day)
5. Packing a case with suitable clothes is a definite no-no for a writer. A gloomy weather forecast, torrential rain and chilly temperatures ought to, by rights, equal more than one long-sleeved top and something more substantial than open sandals. I felt quite uplifted when I discovered there were at least a dozen other writers in the same predicament!
6. Writers don't always carry pens. I couldn't quite believe this until I was asked by someone if they could borrow my pen - and guess what - I didn't have one!
7. Writers tell fascinating stories and then forget (a) what time of day it is, (b) what course they are supposed to be on, and (c) what their husband's name is
8. Writing is classless, ageless and some writers are very witty and funny indeed (I'm not one of them)
9. Published, successful writers make it all seem so easy - and it's really not!
10. Writers take their shoes off under tables.
11. Writers are all very nice people and make friends easily
12. Writers, without exception, display varying degrees of contempt for numbers and can't count to save their lives. (Oh dear, I have twelve points - well, never mind - it's near enough).

Update

2009-07-09T18:37:00.004+01:00

I've posted on 'Cutting it Fine' for those fellow writers who are members. I can't quite make up my mind whether I am pleased with my agent's comments or a really despondent. Still - at least she thinks the Cuckoo is a 'jolly good story'. So that can't be bad.

I'd just like to know who makes up all these rules about genre.

Byesie bye for now. Still, it's all part of being a writer, isn't it. No pain, no gain!

It's a Funny Old World

2009-06-23T08:44:00.004+01:00

I'm back in the world of the unpublished blogger after a hectic six weeks or so, when the day job has seriously got in the way of just about everything. Over this period I haven't had the time to do any serious writing, let alone eat a proper meal. I've really missed it after the crazy month when I went a bit hyperactive with my writing and wrote an entire novel with a meticulous obsession usually attributable to some of the lovely autistic children in my daughter's school!

Trying to grab the odd hour to write during this busy time was like scratching the type of itch that hurts when you scratch it, and so you have to stop because you know you'll make the itchy spot sore and the itch will intensify.

Just as the day job was calming down a little, I got a call from Gerry at The Writers' Holiday, where I am spending a blissful week at the end of July. I had planned to follow the course 'Plotting and Coursing your Novel' but it was oversubscribed. 'Would you consider the Advanced Novel Writing course,' he enquired, 'if you have a finished novel to submit?'

This was just under a week ago. There was just a teeny, tiny amount of work to do before I submitted the first 50 pages and the last 10 pages of a finished novel. Just a brief little list of characters, and a chapter breakdown, scene by scene. I had time, according to Gerry. There was nothing to worry about. (What is it about a soothing Welsh lilt?)

'Fine,' I said, biting my lip at the little white lie. Advanced Novel Writing! Scary, scary!

Bloomin' 'eck. It was like trying to squash an extremely grubby super king-sized duvet into a washing machine. Just as I got one bit under control, another bit popped out! I eventually managed to come up with something reasonably respectable to submit to Marina Oliver, the course tutor, but in the process the duvet disintegrated in the wash and came out full of holes.

A few months ago I had thought the second book in the trilogy, 'Melody of Raindrops', was reasonably OK and wouldn't need much work. Ooo-er! I think I've just realised the wisdom of leaving a manuscript alone for a while and then going back to it. These published writers know what they're on about, after all. Still - at least I'll have some holes to patch in Wales!

On another note if I was a dog I'd be a lumbering, gentle St Bernard. The scene I have in my mind is this huge, clumsy dog digging up a perfectly matured bone when suddenly this lean whippet-like Jack Russell tears up behind him and snatches it out from under his nose just as he is about to enjoy the fruits of his labours and patience.

Fellow writers - I will reveal all on 16th July when we meet up. Damned plagiarists, they are. All of 'em!

Redundant Words from the Cuckoo's Nest

2009-05-12T06:24:00.004+01:00

Last week, I finally confessed to J that I had completed another book and the response was that she wanted me to send it to her straight away. I suspect it might need quite a bit more work on it before she gives me a verdict on whether or not it is good enough to send out to publishers. But hang on - 'The White Cuckoo' was a just masochistic tool to oil my typing fingers and knock the rust out of my synapses, so anything more than a sympathetic, slightly worried smile in my direction from her will be a bonus.

Now the nail-biting starts all over again.

After contacting J about 'Cuckoo' she gave me some quite exciting news on 'Sunlight' but I'm not counting my chickens and all that (ha ha) until they start to hatch.

Anyway I now find myself looking at the aftermath of the Cuckoo's parasitic behaviour, because I have almost 40k redundant words. I started a novel 'Doubled Lives' over a year ago, but abandoned it because it was so dull, but one of the characters was really strong and I knew I just had to use her now I had created her. I really liked the character, but hated the novel, so I abandoned the novel, but kept the character.

I then had an idea - a bad one as it turned out because it didn't really work - of telling two stories in alternate chapters, set in different times. I started 'Going Back' using two of the characters from 'Doubled Lives' in one of the story strands. Something still wasn't right, though. I just knew it in my bones - even though I was spending some very enjoyable time in the local library researching the archaeology of the area - interesting but completely off piste!

Then came the conversation with my uncle about the premature baby, and the visit to the Natural History museum late last year when I eavesdropped a conversation in the queue in the restaurant. The idea for 'Cuckoo' was sown. It wasn't long before my strong-willed character was tapping on my brain, wanting to be let in. She'd brought an odd assortment of friends and a couple of relatives with her. They are a right motley lot, I can tell you! (I really do hope you'll all get to meet them one day.)

I reworked the original idea of two stories in one and the whole thing just came together in one fantastic explosion of light and colour (or a damp squib, depending on what my agent thinks).

I've now got nearly 40k words worth of broken sentences, paragraphs, sights, sounds, smells and other bits and bobs that are left from 'Doubled Lives' and 'Going Back'.

I suspect they are just flotsam. What a flaming waste!

Any ideas as to what I can do with them?

The Very Scary Bit

2009-05-06T21:48:00.004+01:00

Yesterday, after thoughtful help from hubby with the copying etc., I sent out my manuscript to my three remaining readers, Emily and Katie having had a sneak preview.

I have broken some rules.

Rule No. 1: A reader should not be a close member of the family

The wisdom behind this is that they won't want to upset the writer, so will pin a happy smile on their face and pretend it was wonderful. Well, let me introduce my daughter to you all. Emily - the Queen of the Straight Talkers and very much her undiplomatic father's daughter. She is also spending lots of time pretending to be a cow at the moment (no, not a 'cow' a cow as in a milk), so needs something to do while my baby granddaughter thinks she actually is one.

Rule No. 2: A reader should actually like reading

Emily's never been much of a reader. When she was six/seven she was such a little perfectionist (again like her father) she wouldn't try anything unless she knew she could do it. Reading out loud was her worst nightmare. Enter scary teacher who forced her to do it in front of whole class even though she cried real tears. Result: one little girl who started out quite liking to read to herself quietly, but ended up at the age of seven being so scared of not being able to read out loud it put her right off.

Rule No. 3: A reader should not be a teacher (broke that one twice)

Enter very nice teacher who understood perfectly what poor little seven/eight-year old Emily was going through and made her laugh with Roald Dahl and Michael Rosen. (I don't think I ever thanked you for that, N, did I?) N is also one of my readers and I'm really grateful to her. She's a colleague of Emily's, although they teach in different schools, and that's how I've ended up with two teachers.

Rule No. 4: A reader of women's fiction should be a woman

But he's my best buddy and makes me nice cups of tea on a Thursday lunchtime and really doesn't notice if my hair is a mess or I've just taken my shoes off and put my feet up on his sofa without realising.

Rule No. 5: A reader should not be, just possibly, the cleverest person in the whole world with an IQ of about 200

But he knows what long words mean and can read (some) Hebrew and other clever languages like Latin and Greek. He does the cryptic crossword in the Guardian every day. Okay - I know 'The White Cuckoo' will be like Janet and John compared to the literary stuff he's usually got his nose in, but A's a bloke and there are blokes in my novel.

Rule No. 6: Readers should not be your daughter-in-law to be

Okay. Okay! I know. I know. She might hold it against me and tell my future grandchildren what a nutcase their granny is to even think she just might get published. But then again, I could earn lots of Brownie points and be a fab mother-in-law for trusting her with my precious manuscript. Not so daft after all, am I?

Rule No. 7: Readers should not be a work colleague

Well, H did a good job with Novel No. 1 didn't she? And M did offer! She's such a scatterbrain, though, I hope she doesn't leave it on the bus or anything.

So now it's being read by five people. This has got to be the worst bit of all. It is far, far worse than knowing that total strangers are reading your work.

Once I've got all the comments back I'll do another complete edit, or rewrite if necessary, and then send it to my agent.

The written novel

2009-05-03T05:56:00.002+01:00

Good morning.

It is done. I actually put the final full stop on the page at 5.45 pm on Saturday, but that wasn't the end of the first draft, because I always edit the previous session.

I finished editing yesterday's work just twenty minutes ago at 5.55 am. I then made a cup of tea, sat in the dawn sunshine in my garden and listened to the dawn chorus. (We live about a hundred yards away from a spinney - so the noise was actually quite deafening.) I was joined in my garden by a pair of collared doves, a finch of some sort, a blackbird and some starlings. Did I imagine it, but did they line up on my fence in a sort of avian fanfare in tribute to The White Cuckoo?

It's like pure, white fragrant-smelling linen - just the thing to place in your bottom drawer. It's a story to lift your heart. There is not a single ounce of grittiness; there are no (bad) swear words; no bawdy sex scenes. It will make you laugh and it will make you cry, sometimes at the same time. There is too much of me in it. I have exposed my soul.

Will a publisher want it? I don't honestly know - I doubt it. It's probably too simple and honest. But I know I needed to write it like a drowning man needs a lifeline.

There is a lesson for all of you here. I almost lost something so fundamentally a part of me because of this dream we all chase that is 'publication'. Okay - I know I have an agent, and I'm grateful for that but never, ever again am I going to let anything get in the way of writing just for the pure enjoyment of it. The pressure suffocated the words in my head before they could reach my fingers. It made me sterile and made me think too much about what I was writing.

Full stop. The end.
RIP The White Cuckoo - 4th April 2009 to 3rd May 2009.

(PS - final word count 96,361 if anyone's interested)

The finishing of a novel

2009-05-02T07:12:00.002+01:00

Righty ho!

This is yesterday's word count.

End of Thursday's session: 77,855
End of Friday's session: 86,068 (blimey - a palindrome no less!)
Total words: 8,193
Time spent writing/editing previous session's work : 7 hrs (give or take a few minutes)
Average words written and edited per hour: 1,197

Now. I must make a conscious effort not to rush the remaining story in an effort to finish the book. It's a bit like when I'm knitting and running out of wool. I knit faster to make the wool last to the end of the row and usually end up ruining the pattern because I'm knitting too fast and not paying attention to the instructions.

Note to self. It is not possible to run out of words. Don't rush Annie, don't rush!

The Writing of 'The White Cuckoo'

2009-04-30T20:21:00.004+01:00

I've taken two days annual leave to tag onto the bank holiday weekend so that I can get this novel completed by the end of Sunday (3rd May).

I'm expecting the first draft to come out at about 95-100k words, but it might be a little more or a little less.

Well, I'm about to hang up my computer mouse at the end of a solid day's writing. It's now 8.20 pm and I've been writing since 10.30 am, with about a couple of hours off at lunchtime and then time off to cook tea, etc and do the domestic bit.

At the beginning of this session today I'd completed just shy of 70k words and my word count now stands at 77,855 words.

I hit a small problem though. Yesterday, my ornithological adviser (thank you, councillor - you know who you are if you read this blog) informed me that the species of cuckoo that the entire book is based upon has never been seen in the British Isles. It is native of South Africa, India and the southern hemisphere.

I was gutted. I'd been putting all my eggs in one basket and the white cuckoo now appeared to be a white elephant.

Isn't it funny how things happen? I've changed the plot ever so slightly to accommodate the elusive Jacobin Cuckoo's very inconsiderate migratory habits and it's now woven a very nice sparkly thread through the entire tapestry of my novel.

My targets:

Tomorrow (1st May): 85k words

Saturday (2nd May): 92k words

Sometime on Sunday (3rd May): Enter the final full stop with fanfare and a theatrical flourish of the hand.

Monday: I'm having a day off!

My fourth Novel

2009-04-18T13:51:00.008+01:00

Have I gone just a little mad?

This novel really is a Cuckoo in my life at the moment. It's shoving everything else out. At lunchtime on Saturday, 4th April I wrote the opening paragraph of 'The White Cuckoo'. At the end of the following Monday early morning writing session I'd written 14k words. Two weeks later I was on 37,209 words and this morning (22nd April) I shut down the document at 45,788 words. It feels as if the story is draining away a part of me that has always been there - I just didn't know it.

I feel exactly like I do when I'm reading a novel I can't put down - I just can't stop writing. I've gone from one extreme to the other. I'm constantly turning over and examining the plot in my mind. There's a strange kind of synchronicity going on - loads of odd coincidences that are eloquently presenting me with answers to questions I have about aspects of the plot.

I thought I'd share one of these moments with you all.

I've been asking around since I first had the idea for the plot to try and find someone over the age of 70 who was born prematurely. I wanted to get some first hand anecdotes about what it was like to look after a tiny baby with no access to modern technology or incubators, etc. Yesterday I gave someone a lift to a meeting. I nearly didn't offer the lift, because it was during the day and I am really, really busy at work at the moment. On the return journey we hit traffic, delaying me even more. Then, this 78 year old lady, who doesn't know about my writing, completely out of the blue told me that when she was born she weighed just over two pounds and was a 'seven month baby'.

Voila! In one ten-minute car journey I'd all the information I needed. There was only one problem. You can't write it all down when you're driving. So as soon as I got home from work last night I made some notes.

The first draft of this novel will be written in just four weeks, and it is the most magical writing time of my life. Will it get published? Who knows, but it will certainly land on my agent's doormat with more unique selling points than she can shake her hat at!

Cuckoos and Loos

2009-04-14T03:29:00.009+01:00

The Cuckoo in the Nest

I really do love getting up at 4.00 am or thereabouts and savouring the purity and peace of the dawn hours. I write so much better at this time of the day. I've just had my cup of tea, I'll write until seven and then go back to bed for an hour or so before getting up and going to work.

Two days of bank holiday freedom has seen the word count for the cuckoo of a book I've very unwisely embarked upon soar from around 13.5k to a smidgeon over 27k.

I've asked around a bit for people's opinions and tips on writing in the 1st person present and got a mixed bag of responses. It seems to be a bit like Marmite - people either love it or hate it. It's either spectacularly good to read, or like wading through treacle.

I'm not making it easy for myself, am I? The plot makes me shiver with excitement. I hope I'm not wasting a good plot on a no-brainer of a novel, structured narratively in a way that hasn't a hope in hell of ever getting published. I am so enjoying writing the damned thing, though, I really don't want to burst my own bubble, especially after the disastrous three months I've just endured with the dreaded writers' block and feeling like I write rubbish.

My uncle told me about a premature birth at the beginning of the 20th century and I was captivated. I thought to myself that if I was captivated by the story, then other people would be too and I resolved to write about it one day. Then I remembered that, in November last year, I overheard an interesting snippet of conversation behind me in the queue for lunch in the Natural History museum about someone researching a family tree that wasn't their own.

I got the idea for the new novel from these two five-minute conversations. The conversations then dove-tailed (ha ha!) quite nicely into an abandoned novel I'd got bored with. Voila! 'The White Cuckoo' was born and now it's growing so quickly, and needing so much energy, that it's squeezing everything else out of my life until it's finished.

Target date for completion of first draft, I hear you ask whilst scratching your chins pensively? End of May. Yes, really. I need to do it. I can only meet this target if my family help me, though.

Emily - stop rolling your eyeballs upwards: I need you to sit, quietly nursing Sophie, and listen to me reading out loud. Labradors - likewise. Rob - sorry in advance about the housework: you'll need some new rubber gloves and a pinny. Tatie Katie - feel free to log-in whenever you like and tell me when you get bored with the story. Lee - likewise but from a male point of view. Garry and Nicky - coffee duty and amused tolerance/indifference is all that is required of you, but any (constructive) comments will be gratefully received. Tyler - when Granny is busy writing you really must remind her that, although you are sitting quietly pretending to play with your Nintendo DS, you are really watching Power Rangers on Jetix. You mustn't wait until 55 minutes after it's started to tell her that it's on.

(NB: Tyler is not allowed to watch Power Rangers - his mummy and daddy have banned it.)

The only thing that will stop me now is seeing a pig flying past my window in the form of a publisher for the trilogy.

The Loo

Our downstairs toilet broke last week. It would not flush. After many mutterings of frustration at having to actually climb stairs to spend a quick penny, hubby investigated. It needed a new syphon, apparently. New syphon = £12.5o. I took the broken syphon to bits, being curious like I am, and it was just a piece of thick plastic that had gone. After telephone calls and visits to various DIY places and Plumbing Centres it was ascertained that said thick piece of plastic was not a spare part and new syphon was essential if flushings were to be restored. So I removed the plastic with the bread knife (no not really - I'm not that mucky), found a piece of similar thickness and cut a new one out with my dressmaking scissors. Hubby most impressed! Reassembled it works perfectly.

Now ... how about a little change of career ....

Back on the Straight and Narrow

2009-04-08T06:43:00.002+01:00

Yesterday I gave myself a 'Writers' Migraine'.

Some of you might know that I've been suffering from something of a writers' block just lately, mainly as a result, I think, of the stress of anticipation, rejections, anticipation, waiting, wondering and generally just beginning to feel panic at the thought that I might be losing the pleasure of just writing for the sake of it.

I still have no news from my agent. The trilogy is still alive, I think. So I'm still waiting. Apparently it is very hard to get anything new taken on at the moment, according to my agent. Sign of the times, I suppose.

Anyway. Back to the writers' migraine. It was those damned birds again! (See previous blog about magpies). Only this time it was a cuckoo.

I decided to go back to a previously abandoned novel and re-work it. In fact, I've re-worked it so much that I've completely changed the plot. And the title. Anyway I decided to try writing in the first person present tense.

'Doubled Lives' is now called 'The White Cuckoo' and I am on a roll. Nearly 14,000 words in a weekend (although about half of that could be classed as a re-write). Yay .......

(but it did give me a headache through too much screen-staring - ooops)

Any tips on writing in the first person, present?

Skating on thin ice

2009-03-25T09:05:00.003Z

I have to visit the Minor Oral Surgery Unit today. My appointment is at 10.25, but I have to get there for 10.00. I'll spare gory details, but one of my teeth must come out. It's the one next to the big one at the top on the right-hand side. When I feel it with my tongue it feels alarmingly near to the front of my mouth but a probing fore-finger reassures my tongue that it's quite far back really. I did a little test at work the other day ... I stuck blu-tac on it and smiled, beamed and laughed in the mirror in the office. Trouble was everyone else smiled, beamed and laughed too!

I had to know, you see. When it had gone, would I look like a toothless old hag?

It's a slippery slope! It's important to remain vigilant and ward off the age-gremlins when you're in your fifties. In the last few weeks I've:

Cooked liver for tea and actually enjoyed it instead of pretending to
Moaned about the price of fish
Got in someone's way in the aisle at Tesco's
Obsessed about magpies and silly superstitions
Indulged in some bad driving
Been praised for having a miniature sewing kit in my handbag
Become a granny again

And now I've started losing teeth .... oh my gawd!

To keep the grim reaper at bay I've decided to take some positive action.

1. I have 101 Housework Songs (as advertised on TV). Oh joy! Will dance naked to the first track on the first CD with a new and handsome domestic appliance
2. I will drink a Jack Daniels and Coke in the pub on Sunday
3. I'll listen to Radio One and not Radio Two in the car
4. I'll smile seductively at the first handsome young man I see today
5. I'll ask Emily if I can borrow an item of her clothing

Do you think that might do it?

Kissing Frogs

2009-03-19T05:24:00.007Z

I am a masochist. I know I'm not alone because all writers are masochists.

We put ourselves through the hell of rejection but still keep doing it. We are like toddlers trying to stand up under a table - we bang our heads once, but then swiftly forget where we are and do it again, and again and again.

I have heard back from my agent about the publisher who was/is interested in the trilogy. They have suggested further work and have given me some substantial general notes to work with.

My agent says the notes might be worth thinking about (she has e-mailed them to me) but says there are plenty more fish in the sea and 'we only need to kiss the right frog'. She states she is confident we will get there eventually.

I now have to go through it all again, because she has sent the m/s out to more publishers.

So I'm afraid the news on the writing front is not good news, but it's not horrendously bad either.

Anyway - the news on a personal front is BRILLIANT!

I have a grand-daughter so the magpies were right the other day. "Three for a girl". Here she is with her very proud granny.

Her name is Sophie Rose and she was born at 10.00 am on 11th March. She weighed 9lb 8 oz. Her big brother, Tyler, was very pleased to have a little sister because 'she will have her own girls' toys, won't she?'

Mum and baby are doing just fine and she is a little princess. She's very good and sleeps well. She is absolutely beautiful.

So who cares about a book deal? If it comes, then to say I'll be happy is a massive understatment, but if it doesn't then I'll just write another book and dedicate it to my lovely grandchildren.

And anyway, I've just joined the Novel Racers, so that is good news too.

Traffic Lights, Magpies and Furry Dice

2009-02-24T20:56:00.007Z

There are roadworks on the main route from my home to work and traffic lights that take ages to change. Over the last week or so, I have been indulging in a bit of rat-running, but yesterday yet more roadworks on the rat-run resulted in traffic lights breeding like rampant rabbbits, so I decided to make the most of an enforced few minutes of nothingness in the long queue by the park and indulge in a spot of mind wandering ....

Oh my god! There's a magpie. On its own!

[Eyes frantically search the skies and scan the grass verge.]

One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl and four for a boy ... what's five? What if you see ten or twelve magpies? I bet the superstition doesn't cover twelve magpies. Oh ... please let there be another. Come on. Come on ... where are you?

[Said magpie takes to the air and gracefully glides to the ground about twenty feet away. Edge forwards in first gear whilst casting eyes up and down the hedgerow searching for the elusive second magpie. Move about twenty yards before realising that car in front has stopped. Hasty jabbing of right foot on brake pedal just in time, because - oh joy of joys - the solitary magpie has just been joined by another.]

Two for joy. Hmmm. I wonder if that means it will be today ... please let it be today. I wonder if J will ring and tell me I have book deal for all three books. What would I do? What shall I say? What about: 0h what wonderful news! Or shall I just say a simple thank you for letting me know, or shall I just jump up and down and scream? Nahhh ... too obvious ... I need to rehearse what I'd say ... what do other people say when they get the call? Oh my god ... what shall I say if she rings? What if it's a rejection? I hope it's not at work. Mustn't cry at work.

[A third magpie joins the two that are pecking for worms on the verge. Smile to self.]

Ahhh ... three for a girl. How lovely! A grand-daughter! I wonder who she'll look like ...?

[Suddenly realise that there is a rather large gap in the road. Car in front has obviously moved forwards whilst I was watching the magpies. Release handbrake - try to move forwards, nothing happens. Realise not in gear. Glance in mirror. Grumpy Victor Meldrew driver of car behind seems to have just a teeny tiny road rage gremlin jumping up and down on bonnet.]

... a little girl, eh? Thank goodness there wasn't just one magpie. Oh look ... there's some collared doves too. I wonder what that means? Three magpies and two collared doves. Sounds like a Christmas song. (Sings in head .... three magpies, two collared doves and a partridge in a pear tree .... ha ha.)

[Crawl forwards a little way. Magpies disappear behind car out of sight. Glance in the mirror for a last view of them. Sneeze. Then sneeze again. Rootle in bag on passenger seat for tissue. Sneeze again and then one more time. Find half a packet of Polos in bag and pop one in mouth. Just in time realise car in front has stopped. Phew. That was close.]

What was it grandma used to say about sneezing? One a wish and two a kiss, three for a letter ..... did I sneeze four times? Yes I did ... must be the CK Summer perfume ... hope it's not the start of a cold ... four for something better. Whaheyyyy! Something better and a little baby grand-daughter? Book deal and grand-daughter? How lovely ...

[A solitary magpie drops from the sky into hedgerow just a few feet away.]

... or another little boy would be just as nice. Four for a boy .... oh-oh ... hang on. Was that another magpie or was it one of the three behind me just fluttered up the road a bit. It could still be three for a girl. Oh no! It could be one for sorrow. It's just one ... all on its own. Come on little magpies where are .....

[Jab right foot on brake. Didn't realise was creeping forwards.]

... it's all just stupid anyway. Who cares? Boy or girl ... doesn't matter. Only sorrow and joy matters.

[Glance in mirror. Car behind has furry dice hanging from rear-view mirror. They have initials on them. B and R. Man is obviously not Victor Meldrew or would be V for Victor. Red traffic light is now only a few cars in front]

Bert and Rose? Brian and Ruby? Brenda and Ron? Beryl and Roy ... ha ha. I wonder if their grandchildren bought them for Christmas. Or if Roy gave them to Beryl on Valentines day? I wonder if they are married or geriatric lovers. Perhaps they are eloping ... perhaps they are not really going shopping in Sainsburys but are really an elderly Bonnie and Clyde going to rob a bank and Beryl has a 2.2 pistol tucked in her knickers .....

[Loud toot of car horn. Red light has turned to green and the car in front of me is way in the distance.]

Ummm ... what a nice few minutes ... must write this down ... could be a short story somewhere ...

Confucius say: Many traffic lights makes writers bad drivers!

Losing It

2009-02-19T20:19:00.004Z

For most of my life I have been like a child wandering barefoot through a wild garden on a warm summer's day. I've gone just where I want to, stopping to pick daisies and buttercups, blowing dandelion clocks and breathing in the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses. I've chased butterflies and listened to the buzzing of various insects. I've been perfectly happy, playing in my garden, alone. I've needed the company of no-one. I've been content.

About eighteen months ago I tiptoed outside my little garden and was delighted to find some playmates. We skipped along together and frolicked in each other's gardens, we became friends and found that although we liked to play with different things, it was good to spread our wings and run free within the security of our own little community. We built up trust with each other and one day we decided to try and step outside our safe little world. We knew we were good - well at least as good as some of the other people who had gone before us and had made their way in the wide, harsh world outside the village boundary. We said we'd stick together, and give support to each other on our individual journeys. We've collected some more friends on the way and have never lost sight of what is important to us.

It's hard outside the village. People you don't know tell you not to wander aimlessly, and stop dawdling and dragging your feet and to ignore the little things that take your fancy, but that others won't understand. If you want to make it in the big world outside you must stop playing with the frivolous things you like and concentrate, listen and take notice of the rules.

It is the way. The only way.

Since I stepped into the world of the big boys and girls I've come to realise how precious my little garden was (and still is). I want to be able to visit my own little piece of paradise and not have to worry about all these silly rules. I want to run as fast as I can through the long grass, feel the wind in my hair and not have to think about anything at all. I want to be able to sit cross-legged in the grass and pick petals off daisies, one by one if I so choose, and then close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my face and hear the buzzing of the bees and the singing of the birds.

But I can't find my garden any more. I've searched and searched. I know it's still there - somewhere.

I'm stuck outside, in this vast world where people I don't know are talking about the things I created while I was alone in my garden, and didn't have to worry about what other people would think. I've listened to others and manicured, chopped and pruned. I've got rid of the greenfly and picked off any withered, imperfect blooms.

These people I don't know are judging my creation - right now. They are passing it between themselves, turning it over in their hands and prodding and prying at every aspect of my work of art.

Until they tell me whether they are going to keep it or give it back I know I won't be able to find my precious garden again. And right now I am wondering if I will ever be able to go back there.

25 Things About Me

2009-01-29T19:37:00.004Z

I was tagged to do this a while back, but prevaricated somewhat. Captain Black has put me to shame - so ....

1. When I was a child I felt ‘different’ from everyone else

2. I once ended up in A & E for two separate accidents on the same day

3. At the age of 7 I had a reading age of 14 and was thought by head teacher to be gifted (huh!!)

4. Accelerating me a year did me no good at all, because

5. I failed my eleven plus

6. I suffered from alopecia between the ages of 11 and 21 but refused to wear a wig

7. Rob and I were owner/occupiers at the age of 18 with a hefty mortgage (£46 a month)

8. I was pregnant from October 1979 until May 1982 (well - nearly all the time!)

9. I have taken part in international medical trials

10. I don’t like driving – it scares me

11. I am cross-coordinated (right-handed, left-footed, left-eyed) and don't know left from right

12. I used to be able to read music, but now I’ve forgotten

13. It is 222 steps from my office to the library

14. I used to wear glasses but my eyes got better with advancing years!

15. I can ride a horse and even galloped once without falling off

16. I like thunderstorms, big waves and wild weather

17. Sometimes I pretend to be stupid when really I know the answer (why I ask myself?)

18. I have eight grey hairs in my head, which I pluck out :-)

19. My best friend is a man

20. I can’t see the point in being secretive

21. I hate conflict and arguments – anything to keep the peace, I say

22. My head is full of useless information, untold stories and unanswered questions

23. I liked being a housewife when my children were small

24. I enjoy my job, but

25. I WANNABE A WRITER

(Gawd knows what a psychiatrist would make of that lot!)

News

2009-01-21T22:14:00.000Z

Hiya. For those of you who want to know, I'll pop a little note on CIF.

Annie
x

Diamonds

2009-01-21T03:59:00.002Z

My mum, Margaret Rose Beasley, was one of this world’s little rays of sunshine. She never had a bad word to say about anyone. ‘If you can’t say something nice, then don’t say it at all,’ she would reprimand when Julie and I were slagging off some poor hapless soul. We’d give each other a guilty sideways look and stop being bitchy straight away. Mum had that effect on you.

She wasn’t old by today’s standards – only in her early 70s – and she was my best friend.

She’d make excuses for people who were moaners, or were discontented with their lot in life and make allowances for their behaviour. ‘It doesn’t pay to be nasty, girls,’ she’d say to us. ‘There’s always someone worse off than you. Be thankful for what you’ve got.’

Just before we all went to Ibiza on a family holiday at the end of July 2006 I was in my office, looking across the Council Offices car park towards the Art Gallery and Library. I just caught a back view of my mum, marching across the car park, Burberry shopping bag in hand. She was going to the library to change her library books ready to take on holiday on the following Monday.

Her house was about 35 minutes walk away from the town centre. She used to walk to town, go to the library and then walk home again. Fit as the proverbial fiddle she was. I kept one eye on the window, waiting for her to walk back across the car park.

About half an hour later I spotted her coming back and stood up, waving with both arms. She looked up at my office window and waved, a huge smile splitting her face and I swear I could see her cheerful eyes twinkling as she lifted up her sunglasses to make sure it was me who was waving at her. I ran down the stairs and she was already sitting on a seat in the foyer of the Council Offices, waiting for me.

We had a conversation. I told her to catch the bus back home, because it was such a hot day. (She didn’t!) She joked with one of my colleagues, Jean, about our forthcoming holiday and said she was hoping to meet a millionaire.

A couple of days later, just before we were all due to leave for the airport, mum was watering her lovely garden. She stood up with two watering cans full of water and felt something ‘go’ in her back.

That was the start. Fifteen weeks later the monstrous ‘C’ word had deftly side-stepped chemotherapy and claimed another victim: my lovely, gentle mum who was incredibly funny but didn’t know it; who’d never said a bad thing about anyone in all of her life; who loved us all unconditionally and hadn’t an enemy in the world.

I miss her so much and always will, and the memory of her walking across the car park, waving to me on that glorious summer’s day in July 2006 might be ordinary, but it is the one I treasure most of all. It shines like a precious diamond in a garden crammed full of beautiful memories of her.

One afternoon just before she died I said simply, ‘I love you, Mum’. I was expecting her to tell me she loved me too but she didn’t.

‘I know,’ she whispered. Although the words were small and light they were heavy with meaning. At that moment I knew she was content and at peace with the world and people she was leaving behind.

Oh My Word Part 2 and Predictions

2009-01-08T04:36:00.005Z

Thank you to everyone for their kind comments on my previous post and also to those of you on 'Cutting it Fine' who have given me their feedback. I really appreciate it.

Captain - Hypnolove did indeed start out as a post on Cloud Line as my contribution to the Valentine's Day exercise last year. I revised the story a bit for the competition.

Note to all those on Cloud Line: I've grabbed a smidgeon of success out of our little exercises so get out there and let's make a huge effort in 2009 to have a little sidebar of Cloud Line successes.

Lane - I wonder what it feel's like to have your name on a book cover? I've always wondered what it would be like to be browsing in the library and see your own book on the shelves.

Caroline - I'm keeping my fingers crossed for your exciting story ;-/

Helen - A successful and excitement filled 2009 to you too.

TF and Pat - I hope 2009 brings you all you have ever dreamed of.

L-Plate - If only publishing fiction was so easy, but you feel so cheated, don't you when a Committee report you have written has your boss listed as the report author, or your work is copyrighted to the organisation you work for with no reference to the author.

Debs - It was a lovely Christmas present. Happy New Year to you too.

Dar - I'm still a wannabe really, just like the 37 other authors in the book. Some of their work has taken my breath away - there is some real talent out there

Tam - Me too, but the next time my name is in print will be in the local paper tonight on an official notice about the budget consultation at the Council!

Femin Susan - Thanks for visiting my blog and a Happy New Year to you too.

The Dotterel - Hi Tim. What's it feel like to have made it? I bet you are up there on Cloud Nine, swinging your legs watching the rest of us struggle up the ladder.

Karen - Yeah, I was disappointed My Weekly didn't publish 'The Yellow Balloon' at Christmas because they had said back in May that it would be in the December issue. Still, they have paid for it so it's up to them when and if they use it.

Mother X - You too. I'm glad you're back on track again after your hectic Christmas with your gorgeous boys. I bet you are glad they are back at school, though!

2009 PREDICTIONS

I couldn't get to sleep the other night, so I thought I might make some predictions for 2009 (I only thought of about five before my brain went on a three-day-week and I fell asleep)

1. The first Facebook Wedding - Two people who met on Facebook will appear on the TV. 20,000 gatecrashers will then go on the rampage, causing tailbacks on the motorway and a trail of destruction. 'Tracey' will then appear on the TV with tear-streaked face and 'Darren' will sport a black eye.

2. The murderer who killed Rhys Jones gets beaten up in jail (now I thought this and then it actually happened a couple of days later, but it wasn't really a prediction - just no surprise was it?)

3. There will be some scientific revelations about the Moon - triggered by India's recent mission.

4. There will be more Royal shenanigans. This is a fair bet anyway - happens most years.

5. 'Sunlight' will nearly get published but not quite. The publisher who is interested will say it's because of the economic climate blah, blah, blah. My novel was not quite good enough, burble, burble, burble. It's the story of my life. I am such a 'nearly' person. I might cry, but then I'll look back at this blog post and remind myself that I was expecting it anyway.

I've kept one New Year's resolution and broken another. One of my resolutions was to try and keep up with blogging. The other one was not to let Facebook and Blogging get in the way of my early morning writing time. 'Nuff said!

What are your predictions for 2009, both personal and in general?

Oh My Word - I am Published

2008-12-23T08:10:00.007Z

It's a funny feeling! Although I was published under my Grandma's name in the 1980s (thanks Grandma) this is different.

I sold a short story earlier this year to My Weekly. It was a story set in December and they said it would be published at Christmas. It wasn't. Apparently it can be years before My Weekly uses a story they have bought. I was gutted. Ah well ... perhaps next year ...

This has made up for it. I know it's not on Amazon and only on sale from the Author v Author website, but listed in the back are the titles of over two thousand short stories that were submitted to the competition nationwide. The thirty-eight winning entries from all over the country have been published in this anthology.

I feel humbled.

And happy.

And published at long last under my own name and not 'Rose Foster' or copyrighted 'Kettering Borough Council'.

What a lovely Christmas present eh?

A huge thank you to all the people who voted for my story from all over the country, whoever you are.

This is the website if anyone is interested in entering the 2009 competition. It starts again in January. www.authorvauthor.com

Little Things that Warm your Heart

2008-12-18T05:56:00.006Z

I suspect am going to be alone on Boxing Day and until this morning I didn't quite know how I felt about it.

Traditionally, until mum died two years ago, Boxing Day would be spent round my mum's house with my sister in law and nieces and much womanly and girly jollity would be enjoyed by all. I'd give anything for just one more Boxing Day like that ... but then would I? Maybe not. Maybe those types of Boxing Day belong in the past, just like the Boxing Days of my childhood, all warm and fluffy to be plucked out of the memory box when feeling gloomy. The songs may have ended, but the melodies linger on.

It's only 8.30 am and three nice things have happened already.

1. Barney arrived for his day with Zak (Barney is my son's dog and we have him during the day so he's not alone in the house). He tried to get on my lap and then snugged his head into my neck and licked my ear. Aaahh. There's nothing like a doggy hug!

2. My friend rang me. 'Look,' she said. 'I've been thinking. Why don't you come round to mine on Boxing Day and we can have a game of Scrabble.' Now ... this is tempting. Could this be the first of many memory-making Boxing Days, I wonder to myself? My friend is single and has devoted her life to her disabled brother, who despite his learning difficulties is a demon at Scrabble!

3. I had a Christmas Card 'To my Special Friend'. It was from a Councillor. I am not supposed to be 'special friends' with Councillors - because the Member/Officer Protocol for Local Government says so. Stuffy local government gets right up my nose sometimes!

I shall now look forward to my different kind of Boxing Day this year, whatever I decide to do with it, and I won't sit and feel sorry for myself because my lovely family appears to have deserted me - I shall just thank my lucky stars for good friends and the good health to enjoy it.

Have a fantastic Christmas and New Year, and thanks to all my blogmates for their friendship and support.

A new character

2008-11-26T07:57:00.002Z

A throwaway comment on Sunday in the wannabe chatroom about the General Strike in 1926 and one of the sub-plots in 'Sunlight' has thrown up a new minor character for me to weave into the story. It all started when I decided to check dates for the history of what actually happened around May Day in 1926 and I discovered that the General Strike started on Monday, 3rd May. As a result I knew I had to put something about it in the story, because there is no way my family would have had a little jolly on May Day, which was on a Saturday, and not been thinking about the General Strike on the Monday.

(Fiona knows who he is)

Well, this very nice young chap has been whispering in my ear constantly. He's very proud at appearing in the book and appears to fancy Rose. He was absolutely gutted when he found out that she was spoken for. Now, I have a problem. Rose is getting married and this rather handsome young student doctor has the hots for her. What will she do? She can't run off with him because that would mess up the entire trilogy. She can't say to him 'take me and do what you will with me' because she's been there and done that with her fiance, and Rose is too much of a nice girl. This character is giggling in my ear as I write this. He's nudging me with his elbow 'go on ...' he's saying. 'Be a devil.'

Hmmm. It appears my sensible, prim and proper Rose is about to be sorely tempted.

Blog birthday and meeting friends for lunch

2008-11-12T17:59:00.004Z

Yesterday was my blog birthday. Yes, it's been a whole year since Lane, Fiona et al persuaded me to set up a blog after chatting on Sunday mornings for a while.

Coincidentally we all met up for the third Wannabe Lunch on Monday, almost a year to the day after I had posted my first nervous piece on my newly created blog. I had a fantastic time, even though I (and Helen too) got soaked through in the dreadful rain, and my feet were killing me by the end of the day. I was gutted, though, because Lane, Fiona and Mercedes couldn't be there. I was so looking forward to seeing them again. It was great to meet Andrea, a new Wannabe, and I hope she takes our advice (nagging) to join us in blogland.

Kevin was the perfect gentleman, as ever, and made sure I didn't get lost on the way home. As usual one glass just wasn't enough for Jane, and we ended up ordering wine by the bottle which raised the roof and added to the general chilled-out ambience of the day. When we eventually got chucked out the bar we just went upstairs and had a nice cup of coffee, which gave me a perfect alibi for being home later than I'd thought.

So....

What have I learned in the 366 days since I started blogging, and crept out of the closet writing-wise?

I would have to say that the last year has confirmed to me that 'the whole is greater than the sum of the parts'. I'm not talking about writing, particularly - I'm talking about the power of a group, or a team. I'm definitely a much better writer for being part of a writing community and, I think, this must be true of any shared interest, not just writing.

So, here's to friendship and the power of the blogging community and the wannabe chatroom on Sunday mornings.

I'll just raise my imaginary wine glass. Cheers!!

Thank you all

2008-11-04T04:10:00.006Z

Thank you all for your fantastic words of support.

Pat: You sound like such a lovely lady. Thank you for visiting my blog and taking the time out from your own writing to give me such hugely appreciated words of wisdom and sprinklings of 'lucky dust'.

Lane: I hadn't thought of that. What does a poxy couple of months matter in the grand scheme of things? The early mornings are a way of life now. Looking forward to seeing you on Monday!

Helen: So sorry about Smudge, and thanks for your kind words. I don't get the impression your novel is limping at all. See you on Monday!

Debs: It's also very scary as well as exciting. I think you are a very focused writer and your shed will end up being your very unique selling point! I wish you could come to London on Monday. It would be great to meet you.

TF: Thanks, and sorry I haven't had time to write about your pictures on your blog. I just love your pictures and you are a truly creative person. Your blog makes me smile and sometimes inspires my writing, so thank you.

L-Plate: Yep - us Council girls need to stick together on the couch - let's just hope its a 'Richard and Judy' couch eventually for us and not a great big long waiting couch, although they don't seem to be doing too well in their new slot, do they? Your comment the other day about ideas for your books: I find there is nothing better than a good old Council meeting - I get loads of little gems that way and sometimes the few minutes before the meeting, or the ten minutes or so afterwards, is a little gold mine! (Can you snaffle a day's leave to come to London with us on Monday? It would be great to meet.)

Karen: Thanks for your support. I'm a bit like you - once I get going I find it frustrating to have to stop. I'm prevaricating now! I should really be 'getting on with it' but all I've done is cut out 600 words from 'Sunlight' so I thought I'd better stop before I end up decimating it.

Captain: My brain is very strange. It stores snippets from here there and everywhere. I thought I'd heard that 'blinking' sentence on Dr Who!

Leigh: Thanks for popping by.

Mother X: Thanks for your support and see you on Monday!

Cait O'Connor: Thanks for visiting my blog and your kind words.

Publication Saga

2008-11-03T11:59:00.002Z

I thought I was going to have to go to London this week, to meet with my agent to talk about Sunlight on Broken Glass, but a very long phone call sufficed, so I don't have to go now.

I'm going to have to do more work on 'Sunlight' to suit the current market. It will go out again at the beginning of January. My agent has given me some great advice and a massive injection of confidence, so I don't feel too despondent.

I can wait. I am patient. And more than anything, I'm still in there with a chance of publication - it's just that it won't be this week.

Annie
x

Prevaricating

2008-10-26T07:55:00.002Z

I think I've discovered the reason why writers (well, me anyway) will do anything rather than actually write when they set aside alloted times. For me it's early mornings.

I never used to suffer from this affliction until just recently, because if I didn't feel like writing - I simply didn't write.

Now, with deadlines looming and everything being so intense, I'm having to discipline myself, and it's hard not to blog or creep onto Facebook. It takes an enormous amount of self-control.

My discovery is that writing invokes extremes of emotion and for me, at least, it's against my nature to be on a high one minute and then tearing my hair out in despair the next. The conception of an idea is intensely private, but if, like all of us, we want to be published, the outcome is about the most public thing you'll ever do in your life.

The bit in between is like being pulled in two directions, and the emotions are the same - either a tortuous lack of self-confidence, which isn't helped at all by reading someone else's brilliant display of literary talent, or soaring to that high place when you have a particularly unique idea that you just have to get down on paper, and then, when it's written, you feel euphoric and the feeling is better than anything.

It's being so absent from what is going on around you that you don't even hear when someone mentions your name. You are so deep within your own imagination that you really are in a different place mentally. Then - wham - the phone rings and it startles you so much that you actually jump. It's like blinking and finding yourself on the other side of the world.

Does anyone else have any ideas on this?

In Limbo

2008-10-18T16:01:00.003+01:00

I'm sorry I haven't visited blogland for ages. It's because I've been spending every precious minute of my spare time writing. Now I am in Limbo - in that strange place where I'm sure many writers have found themselves before. I have an agent. I sort of have a publisher - but I'm betwixt and between, waiting to hear whether my reworked blockbuster of a family saga splits successfully into three average length books. This was at the request of the interested publisher who wanted three books instead of one.

I've finished the re-write of the first novel in the trilogy and the manuscript has been very ceremoniously posted off at our village post office. I kissed it - the post office clerk kissed it - and his wife did too (who works with him and is an old friend of mine) and for good measure the bloke behind me in the queue kissed it too, saying 'blimey - that'll put us on the map having an author living in the village.'

I wish I shared his optimism!

My kind-hearted neighbour, Dulcie - elderly, with long grey hair and a hooked nose, stone deaf and very scary to children and animals - was in the queue too, fetching her pension. She pretended, very loudly because she didn't have her hearing aid switched on - to put a good luck spell on the manuscript and a child in the shop nearly wet herself with fright, asking her mummy if the lady was a witch.

It was all rather touching, really. I gave her a lift back home in my car in appreciation of her good luck spell. Well, wouldn't you? I didn't want to tempt any bad vibes.

So this is the state of play:-

Book One (80K words). My first manuscript is now with my agent for onward transmission to the interested publisher, but my agent has been in Frankfurt all this week (is it just wishful thinking that she might - just might - have been peddling serial or film rights?) OK OK - I know I'm just being silly!
Book Two (78K words) is complete, but needs a serious edit to make sure it has a definite beginning, middle and end of its own. I also need another reader to make sure it can stand alone as a novel in its own right.
Book Three (83K words) is in a mess - comprising of the end of the original novel, and the beginning of the original sequel. It needs a serious re-work to give it a beginning, a middle and an end of its own. Mind you it's a bit longer than the others, so I have a bit of lee-way to be ruthless.
I have written three, separate synopses.
I have written a single synopsis covering the whole saga.

My deadline for submission of Book One was the end of September, which I managed to meet - just.

I'm hoping to get Book Two to a local reader next weekend, and sent off to my agent by the first week in November.

My deadline for completion of the first draft of Book Three is the end of the year.

If all this is for nothing, then I will have to have lots of virtual TLC. I feel as if I am so close, and yet so far.

Limbo is quite a lonely place to be I can tell you. I really need that Wannabe meet-up on 10th November to give me another injection of empathy.

Happy Birthday Rob/Dad/Grandad

2008-09-15T04:55:00.005+01:00

It's my hubby's birthday today, so I thought you might like to know a little bit about him - not the boring stuff, but the interesting things.

He can't spell

He's never written a cheque

He hates dealing with money - as long as he gets his spending money every month he doesn't give a damn about the bank balance and he's only just mastered the 'hole in the wall'

He can't do predictive texting and shouts down his mobile phone

He hangs out shirts on the line by the cuffs and tips of the collar crucifixion style

He sings and whistles all the time

He is not very diplomatic and speaks his mind - please or offend

He hates reading (I think he's intentionally dyslexic because he has no problem with Land Rover manuals or long technical building construction books)

He sleeps with a dog (ahemm! our Labrador actually)

He tucks his t-shirt into his jeans and wears shorts with black socks and white trainers if I don't stop him

He makes a very nice cup of man-tea but always puts too much sugar in it

He hates football

He's very witty and never lost for words

He loves winding people up - but his lack of diplomacy makes us all cringe

He's never jealous

He hates the phone - especially when it's his mother on the other end

He actually enjoys doing the food shopping in Tescos (so I just let him get on with it)

He invents silly challenges for family members

And before anyone asks - no, he doesn't appear anywhere in my books or short stories. However, if anyone else would like to use him - feel free!

My Town Centre - The Next Generation

2008-09-09T04:33:00.005+01:00

One bleak Sunday morning in November 1964 Grandad and I went for our usual weekend walk.

"Why are we going up the town on a Sunday, Grandad?" I asked.

(In those days it was unheard of for the town centre shops to open on a Sunday.)

"Because we are going to watch an old building being demolished," he replied.

That morning Grandad and I stood with a crowd of locals, tutting and puffing and shaking their heads in disbelief, as we watched the sombre, but proud, Old Grammar School on Bakehouse Hill being reduced to a pile of Victorian rubble as it made way for what is now called 'Newlands Phase One'.

Being a Kettering gal, born and bred, as I was growing up I can remember the redevelopment and modernisation of the town centre that took place in the 60's and 70's, and which began on that chilly November morning. I can clearly recall, as a teenager, the fight to save the Queen Anne Beech House from the clutches of the gurus who worshipped at the altars of pre-stressed concrete and pre-fabricated steel sections and presumed they knew best when it came to the buzzwords – 'Central Area Redevelopment'.

In the early 1970s a local hack called Tony Ireson fought like a Trojan to save our heritage. He had the full backing of townsfolk as he embarked on his crusade to save Beech House. Well-known and not-so-well-known residents of the town alike made their views known in the local newspaper and the Civic Society eventually took off its velvet gloves and replaced them with iron fists in the quest to save the unique and majestic buildings at the heart of this busy market town – all to no avail.

No-one was listening, and if they were, they had their hands over their ears and their eyes tightly shut as Kettering's residents tried in vain to make themselves heard outside the closed doors of the Council Chamber.

Beech House was demolished and all that remained of this grand old mansion was the blue front door, fixed defiantly to the wall just inside the Tanner's Lane entrance to the Newlands Centre (then called the Newborough Centre).

'Ketrin' ent never gunna be the same agen,' people said, with a morose shaking of heads. There was a general feeling that Kettering had irrevocably lost its unique sparkle when the Gold Street shop frontages and the Dickensian cobbles of Richards Leys had also been sacrificed in the name of modernisation.

Tony then embarked on the fight of his life to save his quaint and quirky home, Beech Cottage, from the concrete-worshipping timelords who hid behind their gigantic mechanical monsters. This time he was successful, but sadly sacrificed his lovely garden, which was replaced by a road running right outside his front window.

My home town is now facing another comprehensive town centre redevelopment, but this time, I think, the decision-makers are listening. Mindful of the mistakes of the past, residents are being given the opportunity to let the decision-makers know how they feel, and what they think. The Council has rented out a vacant shop in the town centre to stage displays and answer questions about the new-look multi-million pound town centre. Its a far cry from the whisperings in smoke-filled chambers of the sixties and seventies when people were ignored.

Don't you think, though, there's a touch of serendipity here? The town centre shop, where people can go and have their say, is on the site of the first building demolished all those years ago -The Old Grammar School.

No Pain No Gain

2008-08-10T09:36:00.003+01:00

I've come to the conclusion that the term 'annual leave' should be re-named 'annual-work-shift'.

I know I've been a very bad blogger recently, but going on the Writers' Holiday meant clearing everything up at work the previous week, and then catching up last week. So I technically haven't had any leave - I've just done the work I would normally carry out in the week I was in Wales at different times.

Similarly, next week I shall be doing the same again - only I'm off for two weeks this time!

I need to somehow find some 30 hr days next week (no way am I giving up my 1k words a day writing time, though) and even when Friday inevitably rolls around there'll be no let up. I'll be packing on Saturday, cleaning on Sunday and exhausted on Monday as I fall into my tiny space in the flying sardine can and take to the skies. It'll take me a few days out of my two weeks to recover, and then guess what? Back at work again to catch up!

Writers' Holiday

It was fantastic. People were so friendly and supportive and it was great to have conversations with such fabulous authors as Jane Wenham-Jones,Lesley Horton, Dee Williams and Elizabeth Hawksley.

When I'm in Ibiza I'll whittle away at some time sitting on the edge of the sea, water lapping around my legs, and write down some of the things I learned in Wales to post on my blog.

I haven't had any news about 'Sunlight' yet. My agent says not to expect to hear anything now until September, because August is notoriously slow. I've decided that even if she can't find a publisher for Sunlight, I shall press on with the sequel, finish that and then pick up on Novel No. 3 (the one with the stolen title). Ken Follett apparently wrote ten (yes 10) novels before Eye of the Needle was placed with a publisher.

Just about all of the published authors at Caerleon confirmed that disappointment and rejection is the name of the game, but getting an agent is the single most positive step towards being published. I was told that it took Carole Blake 14 months to place one of her author's novels - and then when it was eventually published it sold over a million copies!

So the point of this post is: please don't think I've abandoned the blogging cause - I'll be slogging away over a hot desk next week and then (hopefully) chilling out over a cold Martini for the following two weeks.

Back in early September folks!

Oh - by the way - I can officially spill the beans now (although I think most of you have already guessed because I'm bad at keeping secrets). I AM GOING TO BE A GRANNY AGAIN!!! YEAYYYY!! Little Miss Prim is pregnant - due in early March.

The Incredible Shrinking Ann(ie)

2008-07-22T21:41:00.002+01:00

Now lost ten and a half pounds. (Only another two pounds to go and I shall weigh the same as I did this time last year.) I put on nearly a stone sitting on my backside writing 'Sunlight on Broken Glass'.

Kevin - please STOP me pigging out in Wales. Remind me that it's taken me five weeks of severe self-deprivation to lose the equivalent of ten and a half packets of slimy, greasy white lard.

The weight watchers leader had a dozen packets stacked up on the front table this week. It made me feel quick ill looking at them.

Mind you - my extremely tactful hubby has just reminded me that he can't tell yet.

'Still Waiting' and Agent Responses

2008-07-17T09:42:00.007+01:00

I'm still waiting to hear. And it is HORRIBLE!

I know that I am lucky to have an agent.

I know I should be grateful that my novel has been pitched at the publishing world and no news is good news (so they say!!).

I know I am a complete pain in the a**e to anyone who knows me. I can't concentrate on anything else - this enormous warm and fluffy feeling that is my first novel occupies every space in my brain, forcing out mundane things like shopping, cleaning and working.

I'm coiled up like a cobra, periodically sticking my head up to spit venomous poison at anyone who asks if I have heard anything from my agent.

Anyway - less of the incoherent burblings of a frustrated wannabe, the reason for this post is to share some information with my fellow aspiring novelists.

I sent out a total of six submissions to agents earlier this year. I have now had a reply from all of them; the last one responding just yesterday. I thought you might like to know the statistics and how and by when they responded. I won't put the names of the agencies on my blog, but most of you know who they are anyway from chatroom ramblings, and if you e-mail me I'll tell you privately.

Agent No. 1: Submitted end February. Replied five weeks later with a request for the full manuscript. Rejected one week later with an individually written letter, mentioning the huge amount of submissions they receive, the current economic climate and suggesting that I try elsewhere. The letter was polite and friendly and I got the feeling this was a top-class agency.

Agent No. 2: Submitted 3rd May. E-mailed on 20th May to say she would like to read the whole manuscript. M/S submitted 21st May. E-mailed on 29th May to say she liked it and would like to meet me to discuss it. Meeting held on 6th June. Revisions suggested. Rewrite submitted on 16th June. E-mailed back to say she was sending it out to two big publishers on 3rd July and 'a few more' during week commencing 7th July. She says she will let me know immediately she hears back from any of the publishers. (Hence the constant checking of e-mails and jumping each time the phone rings.) I have to say that the service I have received as a new author has been second to none, and although this agent has a scary reputation I feel she will do her utmost to get me published.

Agent No 3: Submitted 3rd May. I received a lovely individual response at the end of May saying that she had enjoyed the first three chapters, but that 'on balance, she felt she would have to pass this time as it didn't quite grip her in the way that it should for her to offer to represent it'. She urged me to try other agents, who may be looking for this type of family saga. Once again, she made me feel valued as a person, even though she had rejected my manuscript.

Agent No. 4: Submitted 3rd May. Package returned with no covering letter, standard letter or anything to indicate where it had come from. I had to guess which agency it was by the postmark. Big thumbs down for this agency. I wouldn't have thought a standard rejection letter would have been too much trouble to include in the package. Mind you it does now say on their website they are not considering any unsolicited material at the present time, although it didn't mention this at the time I sent it off. Perhaps a junior assistant forgot to include the standard letter?

Agent No. 5: Submitted 3rd May. Packaged returned with standard rejection letter mid June. I have to say that the manuscript looked as if it hadn't even been read.

Agent No. 6: (Submitted 3rd May, reply received yesterday). A letter requesting the full manuscript after I have re-written it using just one narrative voice. The agent said '.... we enjoyed the writing immensely, but feel that it is best for a new author to stick to just one narrative voice.' I have written back to the agent thanking her for her time and informing her that I now have an agent.

What do you all feel about the response of Agent No. 6?

The first part of my novel is written in the first person from five points of view as each of the principal characters describes what happened on Easter Sunday in 1922. The second part takes up the story from the Autumn of 1922 and tracks the life of the family up until 1978. It is written traditionally in the third person, with occasional narrative (typed in italics) in the first person as the main character (Tom) speaks directly to the reader and makes comments on his life story, giving shocking little secrets away.

It just goes to show how agents have differing opinions doesn't it?

JM (my agent) loved the way it was written. She said it was original and made the reader feel a part of the family. When we met I did say that I was worried about the structure of the novel, but she dismissed my comment with a wave of the hand and said that 'true writers just write, and it's how it grips the reader that matters, and how quickly they want to turn the pages, not how it is technically constructed.' Mind you, she suggested changing the viewpoint in places, and I could see why when I did the revisions - the whole thing flowed much better.

I'm just hoping that publishers won't take the view of Agent No. 6 just because I'm an unpublished author; I feel that No. 6 does have a valid point about using just one narrative voice, and it's something that I've read elsewhere too.

The only thing is, I don't see how the story would work if I changed it.

Anyhow. I'm keeping everything crossed that it's just a hypothetical conundrum, and hardly daring to hope that one of the publishers will want to publish my novel. If they don't - then I suppose it's back to the drawing board, but even though the waiting is killing me, I wouldn't miss the experience for anything!

But what is really comforting is knowing that my blogmates are right beside me, and if the ultimate outcome is rejection then I know I'm in good company!

A Tribute to the Man who Serviced the Trains at Wicksteed Park - Ben Martin - An Urban Legend

2008-07-07T22:19:00.004+01:00

Ben Martin was a joker: his loud booming voice delivering random snippets of quirky wisdom about anything and everything could be heard all across Wicksteed Park Lake.

He worked there for nearly forty years as the park's Chief Engineer.

His workshop was on the edge of the water, hidden behind some bushes - out of sight of the thousands of day trippers who descend on Wickies Park in the summer. 'The Lady of the Lake', 'King Arthur' and 'Cheyenne' were his babies. He knew every single nut and bolt and took them to bits, serviced them and put them back together again endlessly. How many people enjoyed a ride around the lake on the miniature railway, kept safe by Ben's meticulous maintenance on the trains? How many children squealed with pleasure on the roller coaster, not realising how much dedication went into keeping it in perfect working order?

When Rob was a little boy, Ben decided to take him on some mad expedition or another involving a farm, pigs and lots of mud. The only thing was, eight-year old Rob didn't have any wellies with him. Did that matter? No, course not. Don't be silly - there's always a solution somewhere! Seven pairs of socks and a pair of size 10 wellies was the answer. Rob says he could hardly drag his little legs along the track, let alone through all the mud and pig muck.

When Rob and I were sixteen we helped him push an old green Morris 1100 across a field from the farmyard to Ben's house in the heart of the Northamptonshire countryside (please don't ask why!). I laughed so much my sides ached for a week afterwards, as he kept telling me to push harder, because the herd of cows that were following us were catching us up fast.

He told me I was beautiful on my wedding day - in a very loud and embarrassing voice! When we eventually had children he sat them on his lap and pretended to steal their nose and find it behind their ear. Once my boys were big enough he helped Rob teach them how to mend their cars for themselves, and how, if they couldn't find a part that needed replacing, they should have a go at making one.

His big hands were always grubby, his fingernails caked in oil. His overalls did actually stand up themselves in the corner of his workshop. Everything about Ben was big, loud, jolly and fun.

Rob and my boys (and Ben's son, Scott) are all Land Rover mad. They've all got one - it's Landy City around here and Nicky can't wait until his insurance comes down so he can have one too.

Ben also loved Land Rovers. I couldn't help but laugh watching them all, getting in each others way. They were all like great big kids playing with giant meccano sets!

Sadly, Ben died in the early hours of Saturday morning of a massive heart attack. No warning. No nothing.

He left his legacy though. On Friday he was in the middle of mending a tractor. It's now in bits on his front drive in a glorious rendition of his last joke! Rob's Auntie doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

So Benji, if you are up there reading this, no-one knows where all the bits go. Can you come back and give them a hand!

Ben Martin
24.7.38 to 5.7.08
RIP

Giant Leaps

2008-07-04T03:31:00.004+01:00

My book is now with publishers. JM e-mailed me yesterday afternoon at work and confirmed that she has sent it out. She says she has her fingers crossed.

I sat staring at the unopened e-mail for a few seconds before I clicked on it to open it.

I work in an open plan office and everyone was doing their own thing. It was 4.30, quiet, with just the sound of tapping fingers, humming of overhead fans and the occasional rustling of paper. It was just another e-mail.

So why, then, did I feel as if the entire population of Kettering was looking over my shoulder?

I clicked on it to open it, just as my phone rang simultaneously. The sound of the phone made me jump. I answered it. It was reception.

DAMN! I had an appointment at 5.30 and he was here a whole hour early!

Well - the poor bloke. I just shoved him in the Council Chamber (I didn't want to take him up to the office because of the e-mail. What I really wanted to do was tell Heather and jump up and down in the privacy of the Democratic Services kitchen without the straight-jacket of an Iimportant Consultant from the IDeA in the office.)

DAMN. There was no water in the kettle in the Chamber. I shoved the spout under the nozzle of the little tap on the water cooler. Water splashed everywhere.

'Be careful,' my visitor said, alarmed. He thought it was a boiler, and then realised it wasn't, laughing at himself.

'What's up with you?' he said. 'You're a bundle of nerves.'

Now. I know this man is a Very Important Consultant with High Level Connections with Very Important Government Ministers; hell - he's even on first name terms with our 'Gordon'! I also know he is devoted to his wife and kids, has two very sloppy labradors and LOVES reading. I know all about his kids. I know where he lives. I know lots of things about Very Important Visitor. I know all these things because we've spent quite a few hours talking about such things as 'Books We Have Read' , 'Where We Are Going on Holiday' and 'The Ups and Downs of Life with Labradors' when we should have been working on boring local government stuff.

I decided I knew Very Important Visitor well enough to tell him about my book, and the just-opened e-mail on my PC upstairs.

What I wasn't expecting was the reaction.

'I knew it,' he said, a wide, silly grin plastered over his face. 'I knew there was a lot more to you than met the eye. KBC will be losing a damned good democratic services manager.' (Aaaah - he was only being nice - we do get on quite well despite his Very Important status.

'I'm not leaving,' I said. 'Authors don't earn very much. I need to keep my job.'

'Bloody hell,' he said. 'When can I read it? What's the title? What's it about? Can I come to your book launch? Oh, please ... you've just got to invite me to your book launch.'

'I haven't got a publisher yet,' I said - a tad alarmed at the public display of excitement. 'Don't go spreading it around.'

Anyway. This little conversation with Very Important Person is significant on my journey out of the writing closet.

I've finally told someone - outside close friends and family - about my book and being a secret writer. Do you know - it felt quite good? In fact, it felt bloody marvellous!

Could it be that people won't think I'm mad after all?

Now who would have thought I'd have said that a year ago!

An Early Morning (B)rainstorm

2008-07-03T04:25:00.007+01:00

***

Melody of Raindrops

***

A possible title for the sequel has just presented itself to me as I complete my 1,000 words for today. It's four thirty am and I've just got up to write before going to work. Please tell me what you think. Does it work as a title? Would you buy a book with this title? I shall use it as a working title anyway because it's better than just 'Sequel to Sunlight'.

The Book Cover Diet (Week Two)

2008-06-30T20:15:00.004+01:00

I have just got back from WeightWatchers. My weight loss this week is 2 and a half lb.

Tip of the week: If you are hungry in the evening, either find something to do with your hands, other than reading or watching TV (that always makes me want to eat), or have an early night.

One of the most beautiful places on this earth

2008-06-29T12:27:00.002+01:00

I'm talking about Ibiza. Yes Ibiza!

Now - this is not the Ibiza that throbs with young people and nightlife, but the Ibiza where James Blunt has a very grand villa to carry out his songwriting; where artists, writers and film stars seem to pop up on street corners and where time stands still. It's one of the best kept secrets of the Mediterranean - and one which is shared by a relatively few people (I know, because we meet them every year in the same place!).

We always go for the same two weeks in August each year. Two years ago the entire extended family all went together and we had a fantastic time. (The kids hired out a car and went clubbing every night, totally missing the point of the beautiful location.) My mum came with us: it was only three months before she died. I'll never forget our mornings drinking coffee and trying to complete the cryptic crossword in this heavenly place. The memories are very precious and I'm so glad that she spent her last holiday on this earth in such a lovely place, and that she didn't know she had cancer then.

There is an exquisite fragrance in the air in Ibiza, which I wish I could bottle. It's the smell of fresh pine trees, mixed with lemon, and just breathing in the warm fragrance, whilst soft, warm, white sand slips between your toes is absolute heaven on earth.

My favourite place is sitting on the edge of the waterwith a good book, gentle waves lapping around my legs. I can sit there for hours, just listening to the rustle of the breeze in the pine trees behind me, and breathing in that lovely smell. Rob likes snorkelling and is also a qualified scuba diver, so I just sit on the edge of the water, drinking Sangria and reading my book with one eye and watching him with the other.

(We won't talk about the sand - but suffice it to say that each session sitting on the edge of the waves necessitates a brisk swim in deeper water!)

Last year, Rob and I went alone for the first time and had a very lazy holiday indeed. Lazier than any holiday we had ever been on before. Looking back - that holiday was a watershed in my life. It represents the transition from my old life to my new one, which is very different. It was the Saturday before we departed for our holiday that I bought Jane's 'Wannabe a Writer?' from Waterstones, and it was when I got back that I decided to come out of the writing closet after nearly thirty years of secret writing.

This year my holiday will be subtly different. I can't wait. This year I will be a writer in Ibiza and I somehow think some of my summer reading on the edge of the waves will be replaced by summer writing.

If I were to win the lottery, I'd buy a villa in Ibiza and invite all my lovely blogging friends to join me for a writerly holiday.

It really is a fantastic place and I can recommend it for a lazy holiday.

Update on 'Sunlight'

2008-06-26T21:10:00.002+01:00

My agent liked the re-write. I'm so relieved. I've had to send the manuscript off as an e-mail attachment ready for it to tiptoe in next to the big boys next Tuesday.

It feels a bit like packing a four-year old off to school for the first time. I feel physically sick with nerves.

Anyway, less about the novel. I'm on a diet. It's called the 'book cover diet' and it's the most effective diet I have ever embarked upon. Every time I even think of eating something I shouldn't the thought that maybe, just maybe, in a few months' time my picture may be taken for a book cover spurs me on. I joined Weight Watchers a week last Monday. Each week I promise (flippin' 'eck, now that's done it) to post my weight loss for the previous week on my blog. I also promise to publish a little bit of wisdom on dieting, or a tip each week to help you lose weight.

I lost 3lb the first week

Here's the tip for the week. Drink loads of water. Use the loos on the top floor of the building at work thus necessitating climbing two flights of stairs about twenty times a day whilst at work. This means that your employer will be paying for your daily workout. This type of activity with henceforth be known as functional inconvenience.

Rainbows

2008-06-24T02:45:00.002+01:00

I had a lovely day yesterday.

My three-year-old grandson goes to a playgroup called 'Rainbows'. All three of my own children went there (although the staff have changed). So you can understand why I wanted to slip back in time and accompany him on his annual day out to the West Lodge Rural Centre. It wasn't quite the same, though, as my last experience of a playgroup trip seventeen years ago.

These are the differences:

1. Tyler was as excited about going on a bus as he was about going on the trip itself. I realised he has hardly ever been on a bus.

2. I had to sign a form to say that he had suncream on.

3. There is a small playground at the Centre. All the equipment is set in sand. None of the equipment is above five feet high. The playground is fully enclosed. I got some very odd looks indeed when I fished 'World Without End' out of my voluminous bag and fetched myself a cup of coffee. Shock horror at the thought I was about to take one of my eyes off my grandchild.

4. We had a picnic lunch. When my kids were little, picnics were special and you could eat your chocolate treats first if you wanted to, although they did have to sit still to eat it. I'd taken a clean tea towel and Tyler spread it out on the picnic table and then placed all the items out of his packed lunch on it exactly how he wanted them. He then proceeded to eat it in this order. Four yellow Smarties (we then placed a two rows of Smarties in 'rainbow' order using the headed paper of the playgroup to go by, and had a race to see who could eat their row first). A grape. A Mr Men Fromage Frais. The rest of the yellow Smarties. One bite of a ham roll. A packet of Quavers. Two more grapes. All the red Smarties. A mini scotch egg. (We then counted the remaining grapes and 'shared' them - one for Tyler, one for Granny - and then counted how many we each had.) About five more grapes. Ribena. A couple more bites out of the ham roll. Then he said he'd had enough and put all the blue Smarties back in the tube to eat on the bus on the way back.

I vaguely became aware of the din around us. Kids were running around with food in their hands, shouting at each other with their mouths full, showering the picnic area with litter. I noticed that all the grannies and grandads there, and some of the parents too, had done more or less the same as I had, and made their grandchildren sit at a picnic table.

The last time I went on a Rainbows outing, everyone had to sit at a picnic table to eat their packed lunches and weren't allowed to run around whilst eating. So this has changed (and I'm not sure it's for the better).

5. There seems to be an obsession about cleanliness. OK, I know it's a working farm. I'd taken wet wipes and made sure he had clean hands. There was an abundance of germ-busting new-fangled alcohol gel, though, in mums' handbags. Wet wipes don't seem to be enough nowadays.

We got home - to my house - at about 3.30. Grandad finished work for the day and we all had a cup of tea and talked about 'the farm'. I needed to keep him awake until tea-time so we got the crayons out and he drew a picture for his mum and dad at the kitchen table while I cooked tea.

Lee was picking him up on his way home from work at 6.00. I'd sneaked his jim-jams out of the house in the morning, so I made sure he'd had his tea and a bath before Lee arrived.

Emily rang at 7.00. He was tucked up in bed - absolutely shattered. She said he'd never been to bed so early.

I got the feeling yesterday that children nowadays are constrained in ways that the last generation weren't. They are watched like hawks, and no wonder given the horror stories that are in the news. I noticed that parents couldn't relax from keeping their eyes on their children - not even for a second - and panicked whenever they were out of view.

There weren't many children who were made to sit still and eat their lunches. Tyler was quite happy sitting at the picnic table with me, and so were the handful of other children who were made to do the same.

The suncream and hygiene obsessions seem a bit over the top too, compared with a few years ago. Apparently the signing of the form is now a health and safety requirement - lots of people said it was going a step too far, considering each child had to be accompanied by an adult, who, presumably should be responsible enough to make a judgement on suncream.

Lastly, bed at 7.00 pm after a hectic day out seems pretty normal to me. Today's three-year olds, though, because their parents have to work and don't get home till about 6.00, tend to stay up later.

So what do you all think? Is it just me getting older and looking at the world through granny specs, or have things really changed over the last twenty years or so.

Writing Squidge

2008-06-20T07:33:00.002+01:00

I've been thinking a lot this week about why people find it so hard to write sex scenes. I've had to pep up one of the scenes in 'Sunlight' and I've found it incredibly difficult.

I think I know why I find it so hard. It's because all fiction inevitably has an element of experience in it - you just can't avoid it. How can you write otherwise? I don't want to upset my husband. You just can't help a bit of yourself coming out in whatever you write - whether it's squidge or not.

And I don't know whether I want to share that bit of myself with the whole world.

So I don't think writing squidge is going to be my scene. I'll do it if I have to, but to me, it's a bit like taking medicine.

Anyway, the real thing is so much better .....

Sunlight Fifth Edit

2008-06-16T03:35:00.002+01:00

Well. It's done.

I've given it all I've got, and it's packaged up and ready to go - and it's now 3.30 am. I've finished ahead of deadline, but once I started I just couldn't stop. I had a little blip on Friday when I was under the weather, but crashed on with it over the weekend.

Thank for all your support and good wishes.

I discovered a very strange phenomenon, though, whilst editing. Although I was enjoying reacquainting myself with the characters after a couple of months away, I found them nagging at me quite a bit. Nagging me to leave them alone and just clear off and start reading 'World Without End'. I ordered it from Amazon a few weeks ago (I was fed up with waiting for the paperback version to come out and am the zillionth person on the library waiting list for it).

I started reading, and then couldn't put it down. I knew this would happen. It always does with a Ken Follett. And this one is special - it's the sequel to 'Pillars of the Earth' and if any of you haven't read that, then I can highly recommend it. It's long - very long - but fantastic.

My wise guru of a friend said it was because I was scared of my novel actually being published, so I just wanted to hide behind someone else's book and bury my head in the sand.

I think he might be right. I'm sitting looking at the packaged-up manuscript on the coffee table in front of me and think I might just have to go to bed and get some sleep before I rip it open and just do another little check ......

Wanna Meet-Up

2008-06-11T18:20:00.002+01:00

What a lovely day we had, didn't we?

I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed it and can't wait to meet up again.

I'll not be blogging very much while I race to complete my edit. I have to make sure my m/s is with my agent by Wed. 25th June.

Stolen Titles and New Beginnings

2008-06-07T02:12:00.005+01:00

I don't even know how to begin, other than to say that JM is one of the most perceptive people I have ever met (but also one of the scariest because she obviously knows her stuff). She was very welcoming and almost felt like an old friend. I felt very relaxed in her library, surrounded by hundreds of books and buried in a very comfortable sofa, as we went through my book and my life looking for a unique fact about me to use. I'm not so boring as I think, apparently!

The meeting with her yesterday left me exhilarated but exhausted. I finally got home at about 9.15 pm.

I'm going to do a full report back for my Cloud Line buddies, but this is a snapshot.

I have a deadline of three weeks to re-work Twisted Garlands. She seems confident that it will make it. Common-sense keeps whispering to me that her view is obviously subjective, and its success depends on others sharing that view. She says she has some publishers in mind but it is crucial that she pitches it with the right publisher for the genre.

Anyway, that is the last time I shall refer to my novel as 'Twisted Garlands' because Sunlight on Broken Glass, my second novel, has suffered from a stolen title! It's not terminal - she likes my WIPs - but, she says, we'll concentrate on them later. J says it is a brilliant title and will capture attention on the bookshop shelves (!!! omg I can't believe she actually said that !!!). She already has some ideas for the book cover.

I am scrapping my prologue, and substituting it with a half-page beginning which 'reflects' the title. We spotted what J called a 'gem' buried halfway through the novel to rework and use as the prologue. It's only half a page and I've just done that. I'll post the new beginning on Cutting It Fine for feedback.

J hasn't suggested any changes for the storyline at all - but I've got to put the novel on a diet and cut down the word count a little; she's suggested finishing the story in 1971 (thus covering about 50 years) instead of 2007 and saving the ending for a sequel!!

This means combining two of my characters (a mother and daughter) into one character and having one wedding instead of two. This will then cut down the word count and the excess can be saved to be used in the future.

Re-working the ending is going to take the most time, I think.

We went through the novel, page by page, in about four-and-a-half hours. I've got some tweaking to do with the structure of the chapters (mainly finding more natural chapter ends and running consecutive chapters into one).

Also I have to insert the main character's 'voice' at strategic places in the text to bring out the symbolism and give the reader an insight into his thoughts.

I'd say it's half-way between a rewrite and an edit.

And I have just three weeks, because, she says, when she gets back from her holiday she wants to get it out there!

(As an aside, do you know just how much the average advance is in the current economic climate? Just 3K but with enhanced royalties, apparently. It's a bloody good job we don't do it for the money, isn't it?)

Twisted Doubled Glass on Broken Sunlight Garlands ..... someone please make me another cup of strong coffee

2008-05-30T17:48:00.003+01:00

Package sent off first class - as agent requested. I feel worse than post-count after a General Election. I've had two and a half hours sleep in the last thirty-six hours. My head is fuzzy and I'm all edited out. zzzzzzz ....

I've just realised that I stink. I badly need a bath. I hate smelly people and now I've become one. When I'm not smelly again, Hubby is taking (dragging!!) me out to Hobson's Choice for tea and then I can go to bed.

I just wanted to say thank you to all you lovely blogmates for your best wishes and support. Even if all this comes to nothing it will have been worth it for the sheer experience of working to a deadline and meeting god-like agent - erm - I mean a real live agent! The thing is it won't just be my experience - it will be for all of us because there's nothing like sharing stuff like this. I hope it will help us all.

Big hugs all round and speak on Sunday in the chatroom.

Update

2008-05-29T16:35:00.007+01:00

This afternoon Twisted Garlands hauled itself up onto the second rung of a very high ladder. I was at MacDonalds with Tyler and when I got back Hubby said someone called J had rung me and was ringing back at 3.3o. I looked at my e-mails. J had e-mailed me.

I sat looking at the unopened e-mail for a few minutes. I really thought it would be a 'thanks, but no thanks' and wanted to hold onto the dream for just a little bit longer. I eventually opened up the e-mail.

She liked Twisted Garlands. It was one of those arcane moments when you can't quite believe your eyes and have to read-every-word-one-at-a-time-just-to-make- sure.

I'm meeting her next Friday afternoon - 6th June. The experience of speaking to a real, live agent (especially someone who is obviously held in such high regard) was scary-scary and I know I must have said some very daft things on the phone because I was so damned nervous. But she, herself, wasn't scary at all. She was really nice. She obviously knows her stuff inside out.

She said I need to work on Twisted Garlands in places for it to be publishable and we are going to talk through the revisions next Friday. She asked if I was in a position to do the revisions quickly. Of course I said 'yes'. If I have to take unpaid leave from work, I'll do it.

Horror of horrors though! She wants both WIPs sent through to her by post as soon as possible. The dark and dreary Doubled Lives and Sunlight on Broken Glass.

Please may I be excused from blogging for a few days (until Monday) to edit, re-edit and then edit some more. And can someone please tell me how I can lose five stone in a week?

Oh - and something else really important. Please vote for FARYL SMITH FROM KETTERING in tonight's Britain's got Talent. She's absolutely amazing.

Reverse Mid-life Crisis

2008-05-29T09:26:00.004+01:00

I'm having a mid-life crisis, only it's sort of in reverse.

I'm on a week's holiday at the moment and absolutely loving it. I've got Tyler today while Little Miss Prim writes her annual reports. I'm off to see an old friend at lunchtime in his brand spanking new posh bungalow, and taking Tyler with me. (Hope he behaves!) See - I could quite easily fit into the 'lady who lunches' category! No problem there. Nice healthy lunch with salad leaves and fruit. See - I'd even lose weight!

I still love the job I do, only I don't want to do it any more. Does that seem kind of retro? I'm not enjoying going to work at the moment and just want to escape from the straight-jacket.

I really want to write all day - not boring local governmentese, but exciting fiction that people actually might want to read without being grabbed by the scruff of the neck and forced to cast a perfunctory eye over my pathetic 'passive-voice disguised as plain-English' offerings.

My ideal existence would be:

1. To look after my grandson for one or two days a week, taking him on exiting adventures to Tescos and garden centres with 'carrots' (sorry ... parrots - these three -year olds are very persistent), wabbits and fishies.

2. To become very efficient secretary in hubby's business and keep up with the invoices and book-keeping in the manner of twenty-something pin-striped PA.

3. While pretending to be PA to hubby, to sit at computer (much like I am now) and write, blog and wallow in being a published writer.

It's nice to dream, isn't it. Still I've got four more days of freedom before being thrown back to the lions, so I'm going to make the most of it!

Sunlight on Broken Glass ...

2008-05-27T03:24:00.003+01:00

Is my latest title for 'Going Back' which is just a working title.

A few days ago I spent ages making lists of titles that just didn't fit What a waste of time. I should have learned the lesson from Twisted Garlands and just let it find its own name.

When I was writing Twisted Garlands it was known for at least the first 50K words as just 'Book'. Then it became 'A Tangled Web' - but that was a cliche and had been used loads of times before so I quickly discarded that. There followed lots of silly titles; sad titles; titles that bore no resemblance to the story; titles that when googled revealed they had been used before and titles that were as dull as Lane's washing-up water. (By the way, Lane, how's the hair now after the hair dye incident?) It was nearly as bad finding a title that fitted the story as writing the story itself.

Then the title materialised right in front of my eyes in a paragraph of dialogue spoken by the sensible and wise Rose '... life is like a twisted garland of daisies, one links onto another and there you have it ... blah blah' Good old Rose had found it for me! Thank you Rose.

Similarly in 'Going Back' I wrote just now (3.30 am in the morning when I flow at my fastest and strongest):

'Tony stared at the broken glass in his hand and remembered when, as a child, he had started a fire just by concentrating the sun's rays on a patch of dry grass. The mid-day sun on his back served only to fuel his anger and light a raging fire in his soul. The very same mid-day sun that had once filled Pippa's soft hair with warmth and made her eyes dance with twinkles and sparkles now glinted with menace on the broken glass in his hand ....'

Tony is about to do something that he won't regret for many years. For nearly thirty years his secret remains buried. He thinks he's got away with murder, but he hasn't. He smugly covers up his crime and events conspire to ensure that he escapes justice. That is, until his wife's long-lost daughter, Tammy, comes back to the village to find her roots twenty-eight years later. She wants answers and has nothing to lose ...

So there it is. 'Sunlight on Broken Glass'. I googled it and it hasn't been used before. It's quite apt, really, as it relates to the pivotal point in the story, from which the back-story and present tense odd-numbered chapters radiate. I'm sort of wondering whether or not to use it as a prologue, or leave it where it is, almost slap bang in the centre of the story. I wonder if I'll keep it or change it as the story progresses? We'll just have to see.

I seem to have abandoned 'Doubled Lives'. It's turned into the proverbial damp squib. I wasn't enjoying writing it and didn't get that little tingle at the prospect of a couple of hours uninterrupted writing time. 'Sunlight on Broken Glass' is firing me up and I just can't stop writing. I'm up to 47,846 words now. I've got a week off work and am going to aim for 2K words each day for the next six days which should bring it up to about 60K by next Sunday.

I might resurrect 'Doubled Lives', but I doubt it. I don't like the characters one little bit. I won't press 'delete' just yet, but I think it might have to disappear off the top of my blog.

Right. It's now 4.00 am and I'm going back to bed for a couple of hours. At least I don't have to go to work today ... hooray!

Synchronicity

2008-05-25T17:42:00.002+01:00

In the last few minutes of the wannabe chatroom this morning we were talking about friendship - Lane, Denise, Fiona and myself.

You know those moments in life when you get a little shiver down your spine because you just know they are going to be so significant in the future? Well, I had one of those moments of pure synchronicity after I had logged out. I just knew without any doubt at all that we were all going to be published, and that we would always be friends.

Of course, Fiona is leading the way and shining the light ahead for all of us. I'm so excited about her book and can't wait for it to hit the shelves. We all have our strengths and weaknesses, but the whole is greater than the sum of the parts and I just know we can pull each other through the looking glass into the other world that we all crave.

Twisted Garlands

2008-05-21T04:34:00.003+01:00

Is still alive out there. Agent has asked me for a full manuscript via e-mail. I was up half the night printing out the 4th draft after not getting home from work until 10.30 pm. I was at a Planning Committee meeting where BBC News turned up to film. If you look at 'Look East' tonight you'll probably spot me trying to hide behind a box. (I really hope they don't use that bit because, thinking about it, all that will appear on the screen is a box with a rather large bum!).

I really need to get a faster printer. I'm going to bed for a couple of hours kip now before work tomorrow. Oh for the luxury of not having to go to work!

Construction of a novel and gliding on the wind

2008-05-18T09:27:00.003+01:00

I've been busy at work this week - I did put a post on this blog about all the excitement of Annual Council week, but removed it (Lane knows why). I've written a very 'nice' short story instead and posted it off to the 'People's Friend' because I think it will appeal to that kind of market. I've called it Albatross because I know I'm sailing close to the wind at work by blogging but I'll probably use a pseudonym on the remote chance it is accepted. Anyone who would like a sneak preview, let me know and I'll e-mail it through.

I've submitted no less than four short stories this week. Before anyone collapses in disbelief I have coaxed over forty unsubmitted stories out of the writing closet over the first months of this year. 'Magpies and Marigolds' was first written in 1984 and made me chuckle when I typed up the handwritten script. I had obviously based the central character 'Sheila' on my grandma. I'd captured her character exactly and it made me shed a tear because it felt as if she was still here. Grandma had written on the bottom of the script 'I'm not sending this off - everyone will laugh at me' (I always used her name to submit short stories.)

I also submitted 'Torchlight' and 'Full Circle' but to different magazines.

Anyhow back to the novel. I need some advice. I've started Book No. 3 and the working title is 'Going Back'. I have posted off the first three chapters and synopsis to Suzanne Ruthven to work on in the workshop 'Plotting and Coursing Your Novel' in July/August in Caerleon. The thing is, I'm getting the same sort of excitement I felt with 'Twisted Garlands' and I can't resist galloping on with it. I know I shouldn't really, but the pull of the characters and the plot is very strong. I just have to get on with it while the enthusiasm is at its peak.

Going Back is written in the first person present in the odd numbered chapters - with Tamsin telling her own story in real time as she begins her frantic quest to find her roots and a family she not only has never met, but who don't know of her existence. The pace is very urgent and emotional as Tammy discovers not only shocking facts about the past, but discovers her inner self too. The even numbered chapters are told in the third person past, as her father, Alan - after 30 years of silence - reveals the back story of his unusual marriage to Tammy's mother and the reasons why they cut themselves off from their families. The even numbered chapters are deeper and more slowly paced that Tammy's emotionally-charged first person present chapters.

My daughter has read the first three chapters and declared it better than Twisted Garlands (very undiplomatically I must say!). However, I read some on-line advice that said that telling two parallel stories in this way should be avoided by new writers because it is very difficult to balance the two, with the reader usually preferring one of the plots to the other.

Has anyone else heard this? And has anyone got any advice on how I can manage it? I really do want to try this approach in 'Going Back' because as well as mixing the past with the bang-up-to date present, I want Tammy's determined personality to break through as the novel progresses and the best way I can do this is by using the first person present and a fast pace.

All suggestions gratefully accepted before I race off into the sunset in the wrong direction!

Bliss

2008-05-10T12:37:00.006+01:00

I'm sitting in the garden with my laptop , wirelessly connected to the internet with one labrador draped across my feet and the other sitting with his head in my lap, watching me type.

A solitary blackbird is trying to out-trill a thrush and the hum of the lawnmower in the front garden indicates that hubby has moved on from the side of the house to the front with his lawnmower. I breath in the fresh smell of cut grass.

I'll just cut out the scene about neatly trimmed borders, weed-free perfect lawns, newly planted hanging baskets and the inviting cedarwood summer-house because the reality is that the borders need seriously weeding, there is a pile of rubble in the corner of the garden waiting for a skip and the cedarwood summer-house is really a soon-to-be-cleared-of-junk greenhouse ready for the annual tomato and cucumber planting ritual.

I'm just about to plug myself into my MP3 player and write my homework piece for Cloud-line. Daughter-in-law-to-be is in the kitchen, making us all sandwiches for lunch (she needs to practise!)

The lawnmower's stopped and Rob's just appeared to put it away and fetch the strimmer.

'Are you writing another story?' he asks.

'Umm - sort of,' I reply.

'Well, if you are, then I'll leave you in peace. Do you want a cuppa?'

Smug giggle behind hand. My little short story success has worked absolute wonders in more ways than one!

Well!! We have just built an extension - what do you expect? We can't all have perfect gardens!

Busy Busy Busy

2008-05-07T19:09:00.002+01:00

It's that time of year again. Annual Council and Mayor Making.

This will be the tenth year I have been responsible for it, and I'm as nervous as if it were the first!

Something always goes wrong. This is a list, in descending order of heartbeats per minute:-

0 (!) Being locked in the loo five minutes before the start of the meeting, when a screw fell out of the lock and jammed in the mechanism. I had to physically wrench the loo door off its hinges, with literally seconds to spare before the civic party made its way from the Mayor's Parlour to the Chamber, led by the mace-bearer.

500 At the mayor-making dinner - forgetting the menus and have to race back to the Council offices from the St George's Suite at Wicksteed Park, in the style of Lewis Hamilton, to fetch them.

300 Skateboarding kids playing noisily in the driveway outside the Chamber, jumping up periodically to stare in the windows at the Mayor giving his first speech in his ceremonial robes.

250 Planters and tubs of flowers leaking water all over the Chamber floor - and all the cleaning cupboards locked with no sign of an attendant.

200 The microphones packing up as the proposer for Mayor stood up to give his speech.

175 My naughty husband telling mucky jokes at the mayor-making dinner and showing me up.

175 My naughty husband thumping the new mayor on his shoulder saying 'Good on yer, congratulations mate!' Cringe. (You are supposed to address the Mayor as 'Your Worship'.) Mind you, the Mayor that year was my cousin's husband!

150 At the end of the Mayor-making dinner speeches, the new Mayor saying 'and finally I'd like to thank Anne Beasley for all her help'. This was my maiden name. At the time I'd been married for twenty-seven years. I could have crawled under the table in embarrassment because my naughty husband couldn't stop himself giving a very loud laugh.

Now you might notice that three of the embarrassing moments above involve my hubby. I can't avoid Mayor-making and most mayors send Rob a personal invitation so that I'm not on my own at the dinner. This year, unfortunately, is no exception.

Has anyone any ideas how I can make him behave himself next Wednesday night?

I am going to be published !!!!

2008-04-30T15:51:00.002+01:00

I've had a short story accepted.

Believe me, I'm so excited. It is better than winning the lottery. The Yellow Balloon has been accepted by My Weekly in their 'supernatural' slot!

I heard this morning. Today is Full Council day. I have to get my head in gear for tonight.

(Posting from work so very naughty, but just had to share with my bestest blogger friends.)

Whaheeeeyyy!!

Help!

2008-04-27T10:07:00.002+01:00

'Doubled Lives' has doubled back on itself and tied itself in knots.

The characters are flat, one-dimensional and I'm so annoyed with them. They need a swift kick up the backside and to stop being so namby-pamby and pussyfooting around with each other.

I'm still committed to the plot, but have lost the excitement I felt with Twisted Garlands.

I think I chose the right plot with the wrong characters. The characters fit into 'Going Back', which has a completely different plot, in a different location, and a very strong central character with the wherewithal to galvanise them into actually doing something about their petty little obsessions and insular lives.

I've found myself playing around with short stories and little pieces of nothingness, just because I can't bring myself to open up the file 'Doubled Lives.' To be frank - the bunch of no-hopers and pitiful weak men I have created as characters bore the living daylights out of me!

I originally created Tammy for Doubled Lives. I like Tammy - theres a lot more to her than meets the eye. She's getting into my head just like Tom did in Twisted Garlands. The trouble is, Tammy wants to catapult herself through the glass ceiling and be the central character. In 'Doubled Lives', she just can't - it would ruin the plot.

I didn't mean to start 'Going Back'. I just did it to keep Tammy quiet and stop shouting 'hello - I'm here - what are you going to do with me now that you've made me?'

But she wouldn't shut up. So now I've started Book Three without finishing Book Two.

With Tammy's drive she motivated me to write 4,300 words in one sitting. Oh my god. I'm so excited about 'Going Back' I don't think I want to go back to 'Doubled Lives'.

Today I'm going to start on my character profiles. I'm afraid those nit-picking anally-retentive dullards in Doubled Lives are going to have to shape up PDQ, because Tamsin Hargreaves has arrived!

By the way - heard nothing more about 'Twisted Garlands'.

My Me Time

2008-04-25T02:38:00.002+01:00

I've never needed much sleep. As a child I'd snuggle myself down under the covers with the Famous Five, the Secret Seven, a torch, a pen and a writing pad and the dark hours would just fly by. I'd hug my knees in secret defiance of parental constraints about needing my sleep, listening to my dad snoring, my brother muttering randomly as he slumbered the night away and the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall.

I think my parents knew I was a night owl, but turned a blind eye to it because I never did cause any bother. (Until I got to be a teenager and get up at 4.00 am in the summer, sneak out and take my little dog around Wicksteed Park lake instead, causing them great worries when I was missing at breakfast-time!)

My average as an adult seems to be about five hours, but is linked to brain activity. Sometimes it just won't shut down, no matter what I do, and I end up only sleeping for about two or three hours. A bit like a car engine revving out of control.

So here I am taking a few minutes out of my 'Me Time' to write my blog. It's 2.40 am and I've just made myself my early morning cuppa! Mind you, I did go to bed at 9.00 pm last night, which was early even for me.

I absolutely love writing in the middle of the night. This time is mine - all mine and no-one can take it away from me.

Sitting here on my laptop in the middle of the night I chuckle to myself. I've come such a long way since reading Jane's 'Wannabe a Writer' last summer. No more do I have to scribble in secret in the middle of the night and guiltily hide away my writings as if they were a sinister, dark secret.

I can be a proper writer now. And writers are a bit scatty and eccentric aren't they? So posting a blog at three in the morning is not really all that odd, after all.

Taser Guns and Planning Meetings

2008-04-23T21:46:00.003+01:00

At 4.00 pm yesterday afternoon I was looking forward to getting home to a takeaway, a nice relaxing evening and doing some writing before going to bed early with a book. Bliss.

We had a controversial application going to Planning last night. It wasn't my meeting, so I made sympathetic noises to a colleague and felt relieved I didn't have to cope with it. There were 75 objectors to one particular application.

Now - it's impossible to take the minutes at a meeting when you are suddenly ... well ... 'colonically challenged', and that's what happened to my colleague. She had to go home. There was absolutely no alternative. I ended up doing the meeting.

The Council Chamber was absolutely packed - standing room only. The sound system failed mid-way through the meeting. It went on and on and on. I ended up not getting home till half past nine (and I'd left for work at 8.00 am that morning,)

Then to top it all - when I did eventually get home after being directed by multiple police to Europa and back again just to be able to access my driveway, they'd eaten my takeaway and hubby said there had been an 'incident' down the bottom of our street involving the entire area being sealed off with police swarming everywhere and reports of someone being shot!!!

Now this is in sleepy little Barton Seagrave - a respectable little village on the outskirts of Kettering. Shot? Shot! I thought. NO! People dont get shot in Barton Seagrave!

These are two headlines that appeared today on BBC News and in today's papers:-

MUSLIM CENTRE IS GIVEN GO AHEAD. RESIDENTS OBJECT.

and

MAN SHOT WITH TASER GUN DETAINED

How on earth did I manage to be involved in TWO headlines in one day!!!

No wonder I couldn't get to sleep last night and was blogging at 3.45 am.

A Chinese Tale

2008-04-22T03:51:00.002+01:00

Lane's post about her daughter's fashion manifesto plucked a random memory from deep within my brain cells.

I learned to knit at about seven, taught by my great-grandma. At nine I knitted my very first jumper. I remember it was bright orange and I was so proud of it. By the age of 16 I'd progressed to elaborate fair-isle and complicated cabling. With nowhere else to go to find new and interesting knitting challenges I decided to design my own!

A new restaurant 'The Mandarin' had opened in town. Kettering's very first, ever, Chinese restaurant. As I passed by a couple of days after it had opened, there, in front of my eyes, was a brilliant idea for my next knitting project.

I could just picture it - my very own unique fashion statement, complete with state of the art Chinese writing encircling my boobs.

The next day I went back and carefully copied some Chinese writing I'd seen on a colourful poster of a Chinese lady serving food in the window. Later, at home, I designed my jumper on graph paper, colouring in the little squares that represented the Chinese writing. I was really chuffed and couldn't wait to get started. I bought the wool the next day.

Two weeks later I wore my latest creation to college, where I was a full-time student taking my O levels. A lad I didn't know offered to buy it off me for a fiver! Everyone loved it and wanted one too. My teachers oooed and ahhhed - especially my Art teacher. How clever I was to actually design it myself! My head (and ego) expanded.

A couple of weeks later, in the corridor at college, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around. It was a Chinese lad.

'Excuse me', he said, 'why have you got Chicken Chop Suey and Fried Rice on your jumper?'

For a split second I thought I'd spilled something down my front. Then it dawned on me.

My inflated ego shrivelled like a popped balloon. I never wore the jumper again.

(By the way, I still love knitting - nearly as much as writing)

A Mere Puff in the Ether

2008-04-19T09:43:00.006+01:00

The lovely (and very helpful) comments from fellow bloggers has prompted this post. I thank them all for reading my previous post and taking their time to offer words of wisdom and their own personal thoughts and experiences.

Reading through the comments this morning really made me think. Has Denise hit the nail right on the head when she talks about women being more independent than men? I think so.This tendency can't happen by accident, though, can it? Could it be that, as mothers of girls, we instinctively and sub-consciously prepare them for the huge weight of responsibility as future mothers themselves one day?

I can remember quite clearly the different 'feeling' of being a mother to a girl as opposed to how it felt to have boys. Both my boys were more loving, more clingy, less outgoing and less confident than their sister at a similar age throughout their childhood and adolescence. But did I make them that way - and did I somehow force my daughter's more independent nature without knowing it?

Karen says that her teenage children evoke an uncomfortable sense of ageing in herself. I remember feeling exactly like this about ten years ago when my daughter was about 18, my eldest son 16 and Technoson was 10. I can remember clinging to the sense of relief that at least I still had a young child as well as fledgling adults, and that relief seemed to balance out the relentless canter towards becoming my mother.

Lane always posts such lovely comments. She thinks I'll be a good mother-in-law. My son-in-law is a gem. I love him to bits and I know he's fond of me too, despite the leg-pulling and jokes! BUT ... and it's a big 'but' .... will my daughter-in-law-to-be feel the same? Or will I come across as an interfering old bag? I think I'll have to learn a new set of rules, because my son-in-law doesn't bat an eyelid when I pick up toys, or make myself a coffee in his house, and yet I think, had Rob's mum been a 'normal' mum, I would have resented it had she done this in my house. (I know my son-in-law doesn't mind because I asked him once. He just laughed at me and told me there was a pile of ironing in the back bedroom, too!)

Tomfoolery says she's not worldy or wise, but underneath the cheery, fun-loving blog I know there lies a very clever, wise and perceptive lady. I'd love to hear her words of wisdom on this one!

Helen's gone all soppy with her 'aaahh!' I didn't feel very soppy or benevolent about five months ago when I angrily confronted Technoson and The-Girl-I-Didn't-Know dressed in his dressing gown at 11.00 am in the morning. Was my reaction just a sign of the times? Has sex really become the new snog 'n' grope? Am I just as old-fashioned as I perceived my parents to be back in the 1970s?

Debs has given me an enormous amount of comfort. Her two husbands still love their mums! My husband has never been close to his mum, and neither have I, so I've no comparisons to make to ease my fears. Thanks Debs, for that!

Mother X is one of Blogland's most devoted mums. Anyone who reads her blog will know that. All I can say is that I wish with all my heart that one day her sons will learn to live independent, fulfilling lives and perhaps find someone to fall in love with. How will she feel though, steering them along the rocky road towards independence? My fears about losing my son to another woman are mere puffs in the ether in comparison and I feel humbled.

Quillers married at 19. So did I. So did lots of my friends. It was quite usual in the 1960s and 1970s to marry young. The divorce rate is much the same as for older age groups. Another thing - I've always believed age-gaps don't matter to those involved - it's other people sticking their noses in that matters. Quillers's marriage survived, and so did mine. If our children's marriages fail, there's nothing we can do about it but be there to support them. There's an army of first wives out there who all married at 19, so I'm not so much worried about them being young.

So, all things being equal, my main worry is about their future happiness in this dysfunctional topsy-turvy world, where greed reigns and sensibility falls, defeated, to its knees.

So let's all make a concerted effort to just be the very best parents we can to our adult children, giving support when it's asked for and keeping silent when it's not. The most we can do is to all work together, locally, regionally, nationally and internationally to make a better world for them and for future generations.

Being a Mother in Law

2008-04-15T21:13:00.002+01:00

Do some of my 'wannabe' chatroom buddies remember a few months ago when I turned into a fire-breathing dragon when our nearly-20-year old Technoson brought a girl we didn't know back to stay in his room without asking?

I was furious with him, but despite not knowing his girlfriend before I clapped eyes on her at 11.00 am the following morning, in the intervening months I've warmed to her. I can see she makes Technoson very happy, and he does let her stick her cold feet up his sweatshirt to warm them, so it must be love!

Last night Technoson and Girlfriend took us out for a meal. It was totally unexpected - I didn't know anything about it until I got home from work at about 5.30.

Afterwards, we were just finishing our drinks when they went all serious, and said, 'ummm ... errr ... we've got something to tell you.'

I feared the worst. Technoson's whole life, past present and future, flashed before my eyes in a split second!

'We're engaged,' said Techoson, doe-eyed and obviously gone very soft in the head judging by the silly grin plastered all over his face.

(They're only babies! How can my little Twinkle be engaged. We haven't even met her parents yet and now we find ourselves with a joint-family engagement party to organise.)

Their birthdays are only two days apart in the middle of May - so that's when it will be official.

Last Friday night Technoson apparently did everything properly and asked her dad if he could marry her. I had to laugh at what her dad was reported to have said to him:

'Well mate. You're the best of the bunch, so I guess I'd better say yes. She's been out with some right twerps before you.'

Apparently, according to the Girlfriend, that was a rare compliment, and Technoson should be highly honoured! I somehow think Rob will get on very well with her dad.

Now, to get to the point of this post:

Being a mother-in-law to your daughter's husband is easy. It just feels like you've adopted another son. When Little Miss Prim and son-in-law-to-be told us they were getting engaged it didn't feel like this. I didn't feel like I was losing my daughter in the slightest.

Can someone tell me why I feel like I am losing my son? Is this what is meant by the saying:

A boy is a son until he takes a wife....

... but a daughter is a daughter for the rest of her life?

They're planning on getting married in three years' time when they're 23. Part of me is screaming that they are far too young - but deep down I don't really think age comes into it. A marriage will either survive, or it won't. If they both feel it's right then it probably is.

I just want them to be happy.

2008-04-11T00:57:00.001+01:00

Old ties and renewed friendships

2008-04-11T00:15:00.006+01:00

I've been in contact with an old friend this week. We went our separate ways at eighteen - she went away to uni and I went and got married. She lived up north for a long time and now lives in Wales. Christmas cards, letters and the occasional e-mail have been our only form of contact since we met up briefly about twenty years ago, just before her parents moved to Wales to be near to her.

We dawdled idly through our mutual adolescence on the edge of parental boundaries - I don't suppose we were that bad, but alcohol, boys and skiving off school were big features of our teenage years from 11-18. We went to different schools, so skiving was sooooo easy! We never once got caught.

She now lives and works only a few miles from Caerleon - the home of the Writers' Holiday. I emailed her to tell her I would be in Wales in July and on Tuesday evening I rang her.

The first thing that struck me was her Welsh accent! It made me want to laugh out loud because she most definitely didn't sound Welsh twenty years ago. She said I sounded just like my mum!

After the first ten minutes or so of polite exchange of news about our respective jobs and kids we sort of slipped back in time. It felt just like we were teenagers again. I could almost feel my mum creeping up behind me, ready to yell 'get off that phone'.

Our mums were both such old meanies about the phone. They didn't seem to understand just how critical our late night phone calls were - mind you we did live next door to each other!

So - pick up the phone and renew an old friendship or acquaintance. You won't regret it. I promise.

F-word Proliferation

2008-04-06T18:11:00.002+01:00

Has anyone noticed how the F-word is now the old B-word?

I hate my kids, or hubby, saying it - and it's even more important now young ears are flapping around.

Everywhere you go, people are f-ing this, f-ing that - or even worse - the dreaded c-word. I think that's horrible.

Whereas everyone used to say 'bloody hell', now it's 'f-ing hell'. 'Bugger it' has become 'f - it'.

Even though I hate it, I'm guilty too, as I demonstrated at work last week.

I was horrendously busy, and very stressed. A colleague sent me an e-mail.

'I wondered if you could help me write a letter sometime today. Would this afternoon about 2 be OK?'

My reply was something like this: 'Sorry, perhaps tomorrow. I'm stacked out this afternoon.'

Her response was: 'Could I pop round your house after tea, then? I really need to get this out tomorrow morning.'

I just let rip and shouted out loud without thinking: 'No you f-ing well can't.'

I looked around at my colleagues, who were speechless at my rare f-word outburst, not having had the benefit of reading my e-mails.

Do I really have M.U.G. tattooed on my forehead?

Update

2008-04-03T20:09:00.002+01:00

The tumble dryer is mended! It lives!

It's not very elegant, but my "never-let-it-beat-me" hubby invented a solution and a made a new bracket for the door in his garage.

Now what can do with all that money I've just saved .......

The Throwaway Generations

2008-03-29T08:06:00.002Z

Yes - I'm talking about us. You, me, our children (but not our parents or grandparents).

I can see a real contradiction in today's society. In the mixed messages we are giving the next generation.

We preach recycling like a religion, and yet the amount of packaging we discard every week is a disgrace. What on earth was going on with Easter egg packaging this year? It seemed more extensive than ever before. Thick cardboard boxes; preformed plastic inner shells that were at least 200% larger than required to hold the egg; accompanying sweets in separate compartments when we can all remember when they used to be encased within the egg.

Imagine a seven year old child. A new brain, just soaking up information from school, tv, books, newspapers etc. This child has, let's say, six Easter eggs similar to the one I described. All that rubbish to throw away - even if the cardboard does go in the recycling bin. It doesn't take a superbrain to realise that producing easter egg boxes uses energy! Now, this is confusing. Adults talk about global warming, climate change and preserving energy and resources. They tut, tut and say how worried they are about future generations and the world they'll grow up in. The seven year old must think - hey - this is my world you're talking about!

Then we just carry on - chucking things away when they stop working, and produce everyday items with so much packaging we need two wheelie bins and two smaller containers to fit all the family's rubbish and recycling in each week.

I can remember when I was a child we only had a single metal dustbin - and that wasn't full most weeks.

Our seven year old must be very confused. Adults are saying one thing and then doing the complete opposite and it's obvious in everything around them.

My tumble drier door broke this week. The machine is only about 3 years old. It can't be repaired and a replacement part costs 75% of the cost of the original appliance! I found myself saying "oh, let's just get another one and take it up the tip".

This is absolutely disgraceful. This is only my second ever tumble drier. The first one, bought in 1979, lasted nearly twenty-five years - it had new seals, a new control panel and only ever broke down once before the casing went rusty and it looked really skanky in my nice new utility room! It was actually still working perfectly well when we gave it to my sister-in-law's parents and they kept it in an outhouse.

What happened to mending and repairing? My dad was always trying to mend things - as was my grandad. It was unheard of to chuck things out if they could be repaired. So much nowadays can't be repaired or reused. An example is electrical plugs. An appliance now comes (heavily packaged) complete with a plug. Whatever happened to re-using old plugs? There's just no point now, so they get chucked out when the appliance fails, along with the appliance.

So our fictitious seven-year old grows up not even knowing how to change a plug.

So come on bloggers - let's come up with some ideas for saving the planet for our children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

My idea for starters is to start selling appliances without plugs again.

Children and Labradors

2008-03-20T03:29:00.003Z

'Granny, Zakky wants some milk!
Tyler called me from the kitchen. I hauled myself up from my armchair and went into the kitchen.
'Sit', said Tyler, copying his grandad and raising his hand in a hand signal.
Zak's bum hit the floor and he looked at Tyler expectantly.
'How do you know he wants milk?'
'Cause he told me.' Tyler jumped up and down. Zak rose from his 'sit' and did the same.
'Dogs can't talk.'
Zak looked at me with huge brown eyes and then deliberately looked at the fridge. He did this twice and then wagged his tail.
'Ooooohh. Granny. They can. They talk to little boys and girls and say Oiiiii, I want some milk.'
'But Zakky doesn't drink milk. He drinks water from his water bowl when he's thirsty.'
'I know that Granny, but he told me he really likes milk.'
'I didn't hear him go woof, woof, woof.'
'He told me in my brain.' (Tyler's still got a thing about his brain - remember the dead fish?)
Zak went over to the fridge and sniffed the door. I gave in.
Now, every time I go in the kitchen, the blasted dog asks me for milk!

Giving nature a helping hand

2008-03-16T21:39:00.002Z

We sat eating breakfast on Saturday morning watching a thrush trying to build a nest in a climing rose bush in our garden. It had found a piece of blue plastic about six inches long - this piece of plastic was obviously crucial to the nest-building infrastructure.

It tried to drop this piece of plastic in just the right place for about half an hour. The plastic kept falling down behind the rose bush. The thrush just kept trying and trying, to no avail.

After breakfast, I had to giggle when standing at the sink, because Rob had grabbed a handful of grass and weed cuttings, stuffed it in the place where the thrush had started to build its nest, and then placed the piece of plastic in the centre.

After about five minutes the thrush came back with a beak full of fluffy stuff of some sort. It sat on the fence - puzzled. After a while it looked around and then descended on the nest built with a strange human hand. Twenty minutes later it was proud as punch of its work. It must have thought it was its lucky day!!

I just hope the neighbours' cats don't interfere with nature too ....

Childhood Deprivations

2008-03-12T16:52:00.002Z

My kids ganged up on me the other day laughing about all the little things they weren't allowed to do/must do when they were little. Apparently I was an embarrassment when they were younger because I wouldn't trust their friends parents. But in the light of all the child abductions in the news recently, they admitted that perhaps I was right after all to ring up parents I didn't know to check that when they went round for tea they wouldn't be allowed to play in the street!! (Cringe - I don't remember doing that ....but it was only when they were little!!)

It got me thinking about my own childhood. What things were you made to do/weren't allowed to do? Here is a list of mine as a child of the 1960's:-

Forbidden things

Bubble gum/chewing gum
Comics like Beano, Dandy, Beezer (Bunty and Judy - OKish)
"Modges" - might have been a made-up word - meaning sweets/crisps/biscuits that ruined your tea
"Rubbish" - meaning flying saucers, pink shrimps, fruit salads and black jacks
ITV after school - frowned on - BBC was more educational
Eating chips in the street
Playing outside on Sunday afternoons
Playing in the street - until I was ten - yes ten!!!
Lucky bags
Swearing
Talk to "strangers"

Musts

Clean socks/vest/pants/hanky every day
Eat greens
Eat bread and butter with jelly
Read all the classics (I preferred Enid Blyton)
Brownies (hated it - refused to go in the end)
Always say please and thank you
Sunday school

A Writing Room of my Own

2008-03-08T16:49:00.005Z

(well - almost)

My hubby has a room in the house where he's set up his drawing board and works from home since he took early retirement last year. He shifted everything out and decorated it last week. He put up more shelves and re-organised the room. I came home on Friday lunchtime to a lovely surprise.

Look at my writing corner. Isn't it just perfect? I can escape here in the evenings and get some peace and quiet when I write. Technoson has also installed wireless networking, so I can use my laptop in bed if I want to; or sitting at the kitchen table with the TV on.

I feel like a real writer now. Do you know why? It's not really that I've finally got some space I can call my own, although that's fantastic. It's because at long last Rob and our offspring have begun to take my hobby seriously.

Belly Button Goo and Gore

2008-03-06T07:57:00.003Z

I'm posting this so Lane can show her daughter.

Emily had her belly button pierced, without telling me, when she was about fifteen. I found out about a week later (as mothers do). I didn't say anything to her because I wanted to teach her a lesson. She had an infection - a bad, bad infection.

Emily became ill, had a temperature and wanted to stay in bed. I made her get up and go to school (as mothers do who are not supposed to know that their daughter has a belly button infection). She went to the doctors and got antibiotics - I know because I saw them. I also smelt the antiseptic stuff in the bathroom, so I knew she was treating it.

I threw tales of septicaemia from tattoos and piercings into the conversation a couple of times. She gave me strange looks, but I just pretended to be a daft mother.

I never did tell Emily that I knew, until we were both out having a lunchtime drink two years later. Amy (who I work with) was there too. She had just had her belly button pierced.

I said to Amy, "ooooh - that's nice .... Emily show Amy yours ......"

Emily's jaw hit the table. "How did you know I'd got my belly button pierced ........?"

I confessed. Emily said I was a bad, bad mother.

So - Lane's daughter. If you are going to have it done, ... and I know nothing will stop you if you're determined ... PLEASE PLEASE DON'T DO IT BEHIND YOUR MUM'S BACK AND PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T GO TO A DODGY TATTOO SHOP TO GET IT DONE!!

Wot a Week That Was!

2008-02-29T17:15:00.002Z

Whew! Glad it's Friday. Lots of blogging time next week, though.

Last night was full Council. It's the most formal of all Council meetings and tends to last a couple of hours at least - last night it was 2 and a half hours. The Committee Administrator (traditionally the Democratic Services Manager - which is what I is) sits rather grandly on the raised dias, alongside the Mayor, the Deputy Mayor, The Chief Executive MBE and the Head of Democratic and Legal Services (my boss) and the Mayor's Chaplain, who says prayers at the start of the meeting.

Picture it - the Council Chamber with sensitive sound system and shiny wooden panelled walls, 36 councillors, about 40 members of the public, three Deputy Chief Executives and around a dozen senior officers all staring expectedly at the raised dias where moi sits rather grandly (not forgetting name badge - see previous post). We had two journalists there too - because it was the meeting where the Council Tax was set.

Do you all remember when your mum used to say "have you got your hanky?" whenever you went anywhere important, or left in the morning? Well it's taken me nearly fifty years to realise it's actually quite good advice!

I went into the meeting without a sniffle or even a hint of a cold. After about half an hour my eyes started pricking and someone turned a tap on inside my head. I didn't have a tissue, or a hanky, or even a jumper with long sleeves.

I kept sniffing to keep the runny nose at bay. After two not very ladylike sniffs, picked up by sound system, I got a dirty look from the Chief Executive MBE. I then tried to pinch my nose so it didn't run and got a funny look from the Mayor's Chaplain, who was sitting beside me. After a few seconds he sniffed his armpit, pretending to wipe his brow with the back of his hand.

The pressure was building behind my pinched nose. Then, horror of horrors, they took a vote.

I let go of my nose and it dripped on my minute book. There was an ill-disguised snigger from one of the Deputy Chief Executives who is actually quite human and funny. He caught my eye and grinned as he delved in his pocket, looking for a tissue for me.

I wiped my nose on the back of my hand and counted the votes with the other hand.

My boss threw me an exasperated frown which spoke volumes. (He denied it this morning.)

I had a black jumper on with three-quarter length sleeves. I had an idea. If I pulled one sleeve down my arm far enough I could surreptitiously wipe my nose on the sleeve. I know this sounds disgusting but I was desperate. I'd pulled the sleeve down in readiness, but hadn't actually wiped my nose on it, when Cliff, the Mayor's driver caught my eye. He was standing at the door, on duty. He raised his eyebrows and pointed to his shoulder. I looked at my shoulder. Oh No! There it was in all it's glory - a bright purple bra-strap, made even more vivid by the pale skin on my shoulder. Where I'd pulled my sleeve down it had also delectably exposed my shoulder.

I decided I'd just have to sniff at a strategic place, such as when councillors laughed or raised their voices. This usually happens quite a lot at Council meetings. It didn't last night. I knew I'd just got to sniff, so I tried to do it quietly - I honestly did. The thing was there was so much runny snot in my nose it made me choke - very loudly into the microphone.

Another black look from my boss followed by a deadly one from Chief Executive MBE.

I whispered to the Chaplain. "Have you got a tissue I could borrow?" He shook his head sympathetically.

I sniffed and dripped and choked all through the meeting. I made a quick getaway at the end and shot upstairs to my office where I had a pack of tissues in my drawer.

Cliff came to find me this morning. "Your purple bra-strap gave me quite a turn," he said. And half of Kettering, I thought!

Note to self: always take tissues to meetings from now on.

(I now have a poorly cold)

Absence Note

2008-02-27T17:36:00.002Z

Please may I be excused from blogging until Friday? I am suffering from toomuchworkitis this week because two of my colleagues have rung in and croaked at a dragon (me) saying they are much to ill to be at work and would only spread the lurgy anyway.

To top it all it's Council week - one of the important ones where the budget and Council Tax get set - and Big White One (MBE) barks out comments left right and centre to the humble minions and we all have to run around like headless chickens, falling at his feet with every whim and command.

Please God, don't let me forget to put my name badge on for the meeting, or horror of horrors, print out the list of questions with the wrong shade of maroon for the logo - or else I fear that poor Annie will be no more, having been hung, drawn and quartered by the Big White One in the Manor House Gardens.

(I will try to do my homework for Cloud Line, though)

Speak to you all at the weekend.

Appraisal of my Baby

2008-02-20T20:52:00.005Z

Picture the scene: it's ten to five and I think I'll just have a quick peep on my home e-mail inbox from my work pc. Shock. Horror. Panic. There's an e-mail from Real Writers. It's my appraisal for Twisted Garlands, which has been the cause of me checking my home e-mail from work every half-an-hour for the last two weeks!

I shut web-mail down quickly without opening the e-mail, switch off the computer, pick up my bag and coat and fly out of the office as if I'm being chased by the devil.

It takes me twelve, long minutes to drive home: the traffic's backed up and I'm mightily impatient. It seems like at least an hour.

When I get home I'm hoping no-one's there. No such luck. Technoson and hubby sit in the lounge watching a DVD of "Only Fools and Horses" and laughing their heads off.

I switch on the computer and go into the kitchen to make a cuppa. When I come back I sit down at the computer desk.

"Haven't you had enough of bloody computers?" nearest and dearest says. "Give it a rest, for god's sake!"

I take my cuppa to an armchair and sit down like a naughty schoolboy caught looking porn, pretending to watch, and laugh at, "Only Fools and Horses". I want to look at the appraisal - and yet I don't want to look at all.

Finally, I end up alone in the lounge and creep furtively over to the computer desk. I read the first sentence, remembering what Mercedes said about critiques always lulling you into a false sense of security with a positive opening statement.

"First of all, and possibly more important than you realise, congratulations on a near-flawless command of grammar and syntax."

I hardly dare read on any further. OK, I think, turning my attention to a labrador's head on my lap, looking up at me with huge brown eyes that are saying 'scratch my ears, right now', what she's really saying is that I can string two words together text-book style but forget the creative bit.

I read on. It isn't too bad. In fact when I get to the bit "you gave me such arcane details as hyphenated compound adjectives, correctly used semi-colons, and, joy-of-joys, properly placed commas" I begin to feel quite heady! Then I hit the second paragraph.

"I suspect you're still at a fairly early stage with this work."

Huh!! No I'm not! I've sculpted and painted; shown not told; extracted adverbs and too many adjectives; injected smells, light and shade, hot and cold, and even counted the number of words in a sentence to make sure it's not more than fifty!

Oh dear. She still thinks it's in the raw.

(We'll skip the bits about the synopsis. It's only a few words - I can mend that later. It's bad, really bad.)

Then we really get into the appraisal. What Lynne is saying is so right. I can actually see that she's right - I need to work on viewpoint and balancing the narrative. She makes some really positive comments about the bits I, too, feel I've written well - so as I read on I'm pleased that I'm getting such constructive feedback. The bits I feel are weak, she feels are weak too.

This is really OK, I'm thinking to myself. I give myself a little pep-talk as I read. This is what I needed and exactly what I wanted when I forked out the £50 for the appraisal. Then Lynne wonders if I haven't already stopped reading and hurled the appraisal at the wall. No, I think. Why does she say that? After all, what she's saying is true. She's not trying to piss on my bonfire, just help me, a novice, to become a real writer.

Then I get to a lovely bit. I can see she really means it - about my inspiration and energy coming through in my writing. Then she says she was disappointed when the 10K works ended mid-scene because she wanted to know what came next. I want to give her a hug for being so nice.

The appraisal concludes with "I'm sure that, give or take the odd technical detail such as viewpoint, I've said nothing you weren't already aware of at some level. Everything I've mentioned can be resolved; it's all part of the process of becoming a writer".

Then she says that I clearly know my market and can write engagingly for it.

Lynne - if you ever read this - you're a star. Thank you for returning my baby to me as a toddler, having learned it's manners!

Spending the kids inheritance

2008-02-19T19:38:00.004Z

Been splashing out this week on interesting things rather than skips, concrete and timber.

At long, long last the extension is at the decorating and furnishing stage. Thirty-three years I've waited to have a nice house like wot other people have got. We were very nearly there when we were hit by the optimism bug and decided to build a double garage in place of the single one and then put two more bedrooms and an en-suite on top. Oh, and then, just for good measure, we extended the kitchen and built a utility room and downstairs loo on the back as an afterthought. What the hell possessed us? Our family was shrinking, for goodness sake, not growing! We needed a smaller house, not a bigger one.

"A year," he said. "Or perhaps eighteen months at the most."

Huhh. Fibber. He knew it was going to take four years.

The extension gobbled up our money like a hungry lion. We ended up having to have a complete new roof - because the original roof was not quite gone, but would've been in the next few years. On a whim one boring Saturday afternoon we knocked out the downstairs cloakroom to make a bigger hall and moved the front door (yes - we had to have a new front door too!)

It disrupted the rest of the house and turned me into even more of a disinterested housewife than I was before. Why bother cleaning up, when you know it won't make any difference whatsoever?

Dust. Ohmigod. The dust and muck. Garden? what's that?

As I type, hubby is upstairs, decorating. Technoson moved into his new room yesterday. It's very smart with a large squidgy cream leather sofa for him to lounge on while he watches his new tv on the wall. He doesn't appreciate it, though. He wasn't the slightest bit interested in choosing the wallpaper or new carpet. All he was interested in was the location of his Playstation. I caught him earlier this evening with blu-tac and posters just in time. His dad would have had an absolute fit if he'd stuck posters on the brand new wallpaper!

So - here we are, hubby and I, rattling around in this huge great house with just one son whose hardly ever here anyway and one doleful-eyed labrador (the other one moved out with Garry).

Anyway, yesterday I had the afternoon off work because I had an evening meeting. I went out and bought a lovely marble fireplace and new fire - oh and a new leather sofa and chairs for the living room. I don't know whether our old sofa and chairs will last out till the middle of May, when we get the new ones.

I suspect not.

Writing Saturation Point

2008-02-13T21:45:00.002Z

Had a busy writing day today. Two sets of minutes typed up and an old powerpoint presentation re-written to bring it in line with new legislation this morning. Then home for the afternoon when I re-wrote the Valentine story I posted on Cloud-line to make it into a short story. Just for fun.

Back to work at 5.00 for a 7.00 meeting, two hours of writing notes by hand for the record of decisions (which I have only 48 hours to publish - you might like to read it on the website on Monday - or there again ..... perhaps not!) and then got home at 9.10 pm to a lovely casserole I had put in the oven before I went back to work.

Heard a little gem at the meeting tonight which I shall definitely use somewhere. Hey ... get this:-

"It's like pushing an elephant in high heels up a steep hill." I haven't heard that before, but perhaps it's an oldie - enlighten me if it is!

Needless to say, that little snippet won't make the record of decisions, but it did make my scribbling pad hidden in the back of my minute book!

I do so love my job. Type, type, scribble, scribble, doodle, doodle.

But now I have reached writing saturation point today, so please excuse me my while I log off. I'll look at all your blogs tomorrow lunchtime. Going to get a nice hot bath and go to bed with the Captain's chapter of Bridge Across Forever, which I meant to do last night but fell asleep in the chair instead.

Loopy Lunchtime

2008-02-12T18:20:00.000Z

I popped out to get a birthday card for a friend today. Five minutes walk into town, five minutes in the shop and five minutes back - leaving me the rest of my lunchtime to finish a short story I'd downloaded onto my dongle stick. Or so I thought!

In the card shop they had some very cheap 2008 calendars. £9.99 down to a quid. I bought two. Then, at the checkout, I bought some first class stamps.

It all came to £5.37.

"You've spent more than £5 so you can have one of those Valentine Cards free," the lady said nodding towards some huge boxed cards in the window.

I wasn't going to bother (having no-one who would appreciate a 2ft Valentine card - hubby would have doubled up laughing). Then I suddenly thought of technoson, skint and with expensive girlfriend.

I went over and chose one with "To my Girlfriend" on the front, hoping he hadn't already bought one.

I thought nothing of it, but it quite put the the elderly shop assistant about! She was all of a fluster when she gave me my change and there were some raised eyebrows to her young assistant when I left the shop.

I got back into the office, wrote the birthday card, went to put a stamp on it .... and no stamps!

I put my coat back on and trecked back into town. The shop assistant remembered me, of course. She had forgotten to put my stamps in the bag with the birthday card and calendars.

I thought I had better explain:

"That's a really good offer," I said nodding towards the free cards. "I got one for my son's girlfriend."

2008-02-12T17:44:00.000Z

I'm passing this onto Kev (alias Captain Black) because he's a nice man and made sure I didn't get lost in London.

I'm also passing it on to Hesitant Scribe, because she's lovely and needs cheering up right now.

Photo tagged

2008-02-09T15:23:00.000Z

Moondreamer tagged me with a photo thingy.

This is what you have to do

1) Answer the questions below

2) Take each answer and type it into Photo bucket

3) Take a picture from a page of results, copy the html code (bottom left of the photo image) and paste directly into your post.

4) You can’t copy the persons answers who posted this before you!

Your age at next birthday

A place you'd like to visit

Your favourite object

Your favourite place

Your favourite food

Your favourite animal

Your favourite colour

The town you were born in

The town you live in now

The name of your pet

The first name of the one you love

Your nickname

Your middle name

A bad habit of yours

(aaahhhh... [sigh] ... so true - especially blogging friends)

Your first job

Your grandmother's name

Your favourite book

I was supposed to be writing this afternoon. Never mind. I think everyone I know has been tagged with this already.

Place-shaping and emotional intelligence

2008-02-08T12:50:00.000Z

May I just give fellow bloggers a snapshot into creating tomorrow today? It's imperative that today's "in-crowd" learn how to be creative thinkers and a creative doers by developing their self-awareness and emotional and spiritual intelligence. There are many skills involved, such as becoming an expert in body language and using improvisation and comedy to improve communication skills. The balanced scorecard for modern business uses stories and metaphors to help people understand the implications of change and plan for the future. Holistic practitioners will guide up-and coming executives to become experts in mind/body techniques to release blocked energy and thus gain focus and purpose.

Products on offer to improve team cohesion include Inside Out, Outside In Upside Down, and Make a Difference. Aspiration is a global force for people's imagination and is the spark which will light your inner fire, improving your sense of self and common purpose for outstanding performance and results.

What is this wonderful opportunity, I can hear you all asking. How can I shape my place and become more emotionally intelligent?

Well, I'll let you into a secret. Become a Local Government Officer!

Make a Book for Me

2008-02-06T19:23:00.000Z

I have been sitting here blogging, with my grandson sitting next to me. (He comes for tea twice a week.)
He's loved looking at all the pictures on your blogs!
"Are you writing a book, Granny?" he said.
I showed him a printed out manuscript of Twisted Garlands.
"Read it to me," he said.
"It's a grown-up book," I said.
"Make a book for me," he asked.
"What shall I write about?" I said.
"Those little doggies," he said, pointing to the pictures of Peggy and Teabag on Lane's blog.
Well, I'll try. Lane - I might need your help!

Who is the thief?

2008-02-04T20:45:00.000Z

Last May we lost our lovely Springer Spaniel, Max, to cancer. Here is his picture.

Max was very good at stealing food without leaving a trace. He was never caught in the act, though, he was too clever for that. If Max had still been here I would have known that he was the thief. He would have crept into the kitchen and very delicately stolen just one sausage roll, leaving the others untouched.

Rob and two of our offspring have Coeliac Disease, which means they can't have anything containing gluten. Although there are a wide range "Free From" foods to choose from nowadays, I still make things like fruit crumbles, sausage rolls, cakes, pies, etc. in big batches and freeze them. The picture is of my last bumper batch of sausage rolls to freeze. I was quite proud of this batch - apart from the rack containing the neat lines of almost perfect sausage rolls destined for the freezer there was another plateful cooling on top of the fridge of those that weren't so perfect. (Note the gap at the bottom right hand corner.)

The labradors were not the culprits. Not only were they nowhere near the kitchen when the sausage rolls were cooling, but if they had managed to get in there, believe me it would have been total devastation!

Hubby said it wasn't him
It wasn't me
It wasn't technoson (he says with a cheeky grin - hmmm I wonder)
It wasn't sparkyson (he says and I believe him)
Daughter does not live here.

So - who stole the sausage roll?

Old Friends and New Friends

2008-02-02T09:45:00.000Z

Four times a year I meet up with old friends. We all worked together in the Council's typing pool as teenagers, apart from one, older, woman who is an infiltrator to our little group. She never worked in the typing pool with us, although she did work in the same building, but somehow wheedled her way in about twenty years ago and sort of took over. We are all aged between 50 and 55 now and B is approaching 70. As teenagers we all found her slightly scary and to be honest she was a bit of a dragon to us scatty young girls who were too scared to answer back.

Believe me, my oldest friends are all lovely women. We've been through marriage, divorce, children, bereavement and just about anything that life can throw at us together. We're not bosom buddies but we're always there for each other. Sometimes we don't see each other between our quarterly nights out.

Last night we went to the Thornhill Arms in Rushton, a delightful little village pub nestled in the heart of England. There were only six of us - a bit depleted because three others couldn't make it.

I wanted so much to share my experiences in London on Wednesday with my oldest friends. I'd made my mind up that I was going to tell them about Twisted Garlands, Jane's inspirational book and how I'd always loved writing.

B started off the evening, when H and I picked her up, by starting to talk about one of the others, who has been having a bit of a hard time lately. This I could have coped with - if it had been just two friends showing concern for another - but it wasn't. It could easily have turned into a bitching/slagging session and it made me feel uncomfortable all the way to L's house and H, who was driving, never uttered a single word all the way there. I was relieved when L got in the car.

It was a long, long night. Small talk about the weather; Florida and the Everglades; what was the difference between alligators and crocodiles; MBE's; which was the cheapest - Tescos or Morrisons; hairstyles; dogs and cats; the pros and cons of fake tans; air travel and check-in desks and America. All these conversations were cut short by B, changing the subject. C and J then started up a conversation between themselves, which I had half an ear on (it sounded fascinating and I'd have loved to have listened and joined in). L and H then started to talk to each other and I ended up talking to B, or rather B talked to me and I nodded, tutted, shook my head and made sympathetic noises now and then.

B went out to the loo. We all fell silent. J said "I've got something to tell you all, but well ......" her voice tailed off as she shrugged and raised her eyebrows.

I said "So have I but ..."

We all just looked at each other and H said, "Perhaps we ought to meet in town one lunchtime so we can have a chat."

Isn't life complicated sometimes?

Meeting New Friends

2008-01-31T08:25:00.000Z

Wow!

Despite butterflies in my tummy and the heart-stopping panic I felt when waiting outside WH Smiths at Euston station for Kev and Mercedes the Wannabe Meet-up was everything I thought it would be, and more.

This morning, the experience has left me kneeling at the feet of the power of the written word more than ever before.

None of my fellow bloggers looked like their photos, and I don't suppose I did either. I now realise that photographs are two-dimensional images and no more; it takes the talent of a real artist to bring them to life. However, the multi-dimensional, multi-faceted and multi-coloured human personality can be captured precisely by the power of the written word.

Caz, Denise, Fiona, Jane, Lane, Linda, Mercedes and Mother X were every bit the lovely women I admire in blogland and in Sunday chats for their skills in showing us, through words, aspects of life we can all identify with and yet never seem to see for ourselves. Their personalities exactly mirrored those I had conjured up in my mind, even though I don't think anyone looked like their photos. This phenomenon can only be down to one thing, and that is their considerable skill in manipulating the written word.

Kev is the only man I felt I had come to know through cyberspace - as, poor bloke, he is outnumbered by us nattering women in blogland and in the chat room. I recognised him immediately from his photo, and yes, he was every bit the perfect gentleman I imagined him to be. Quiet and yet perceptive and creative, he came out with some little gems during the day.

Liz, Barry, Wayne and Mike I'd never communicated with before yesterday, either in blogland or in the chatroom. By the end of the day I felt an incredible affinity with them, because, just like all of us, they were writers.

I don't know how to say thank you to all of you for the lovely day I had yesterday. I only hope I didn't talk too much, as once I start I find it difficult to shut up! I hope our friendship endures throughout the coming years and we can celebrate together as we all, one by one, become published authors.

Cheers!

London (continued)

2008-01-29T16:01:00.000Z

The Bad News: Colleague off sick today; couldn't get out to the shops at lunchtime; and then, to top it all - I have to work tonight to cover sick colleague's Planning Committee.

The Good News: At home this afternoon (because working tonight); spending some unexpected time in blogland and realising that everyone else is a bit nervous too; just had a big bag of giant chocolate buttons instead of lunch so feel very giggly and naughty.

PS Not wearing jeans tomorrow because bum looks enormous from the back in them and belly spills over the top somewhat. Now ... just off upstairs to put back all the clothes I've been trying on in an effort to find the right outfit. I don't usually give two monkeys about being fat, but today I wish there was a miracle pill you could take and lose about five stone overnight. Diet most absolutely and definitely starts on Thursday, fellow bloggers.

See you all tomorrow lunchtime!

London on Wednesday

2008-01-28T18:54:00.000Z

Right. Do I wear black trousers or jeans. Do I wear my black posh coat that makes me look like a granny, my tweedy bit less-posh jacket that my daughter likes and has borrowed (so must be just a teeny bit funky), my faithful old parka or my olive green suede jacket. I could wear a skirt, though. My long black one? Oh no! Can't wear a skirt because would have to wear long black boots. Definitely not. Wore them yesterday and they absolutely KILLED my feet. Do I wear a jumper or dressy-up top? Or perhaps that new top I bought in the sales - mind you it might hang below my tweedy bit less-posh jacket. Will have to wear old faithful shoes - will have to polish them before Wednesday because they're a bit muddy - can't risk my feet hurting - might have to walk a bit. How far is it from St Pancras to Euston? Should I risk walking and getting lost or get the tube?

Oh - bloody hell. Will have to go shopping tomorrow lunchtime. Haven't got a single thing to wear!

Dare I park in the Council car park and walk to the station? Someone might see me. I might have to talk to someone who says "where are you going?" What will I say? Could park in the station car park but that will cost a fiver for the day when I could park at work for nothing. Oh no! What if I see someone I know on the train or at the station!

Ohmigod! I'm going to London. On my own, to meet people I've never met before. What if Kev and Mercedes forget me and leave me at Euston?

Lane - your daughter is right! She's a good sensible girl. I'm putting my photo back up on the blog for a day because I need people to know I'm not really a bloke called Arthur with a pierced whatsit and rude tattoos. I'll put up a nice mumsy/granny one this time so that Lane's daughter won't worry.

Must remember to charge phone. Download Christmas pics off camera. Don't forget camera. Don't forget phone. Take some tissues in case get overcome with emotion and snivel. Remember comb so don't look like Ken Dodd when meet Kev and Mercedes.

Do I just hold out my hand and say "how nice to finally meet you." Really formal. No. Perhaps not. Will I make a prat of myself? Just say "Hello?" Try not to talk with a 'Ketrin' accent.

Must remember to tell someone not to let me have more than four alcoholic drinks UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Four is absolute limit or else will act really silly and do things like shutting my eyes so no-one can hear what I'm saying. Or like on New Year's Eve 1999 when tried to snog son-in-law for saving husband's life when a big mega firework hit the tree!

Moles, Joy-Riding and Dire Straits

2008-01-27T10:13:00.000Z

Actually quite pleased to be tagged – I couldn't think of a single thing to blog about today, and it's not like me to be lost for words, Tom Foolery thanks for saving the day.

The idea of this tag is that you have to state six quirky, odd things about yourself, or little habits. Not big scary life-changing confessions or anything - just little bits of strangeness.

My husband says I'll have no trouble finding at least ten times that amount of peculiar facts about me. (Git,) Right, here we go.

1. I don't know my left from my right without looking to see where my wedding ring is (know that wedding ring goes on left hand – see?)

2. Years ago I had a troublesome moley thing on my boob, which had to be removed. It was actually a third nipple and caused much hilarity and innuendo. My best friend very sympathetically said I would have been dunked as a witch in the olden days. (Cow.)

3. I went joy riding at the age of fifteen. My mum said I was in with the wrong crowd and easily led. I agree with her excuse completely.

4. I failed my eleven-plus exam and went to a mixed-sex secondary modern school, much to the horror of my parents. Five children from my class were selected - but weren't told what the test was - to have another chance at thirteen). I passed, was congratulated by the Head Teacher and given a letter to give to my parents, saying I could transfer to the High School. I ripped it up, threw it in the hedge on the way home and kept my mouth shut because there was no way in the world I was going to go to an all-girls school. A subsequent, posted, letter came during the Easter holidays addressed to my dad. I intercepted it, typed a very eloquent reply on mum's typewriter, forged my dad's signature and voila .... no-one ever knew! That is, until the parent consultation night at the end of the summer term ... oops, forgot about that, didn't I?

5. My most favourite track ever is "Why Worry" by Dire Straits. I have it in the car, on CD in the kitchen and on my MP3 player which goes everywhere with me. I bet I've listened to it most days for the last twenty-odd years. It's better than popping a Prozac when you need 8 minutes and 31 seconds of immersing yourself in a little bubble of self-indulgence and escaping from the world and everyone in it. A close second in the "Prozac" category is 10cc "I'm not in Love" and Led Zeppelin "Stairway to Heaven".

6. I am hopelessly clumsy and have no co-ordination whatsoever. Dancing is out of the question (see No. 1). I got banned from ballet lessons at the age of five because of it and caused devastation at aerobics thirty years later.

Now, I tag the following Mercedes, Captain Black and Mother X

The small print: Link to the person that tagged you. Post the rules on your blog. Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself. Tag random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.

Prevarication and flying the nest

2008-01-22T18:41:00.001Z

Twisted Garlands second edit is complete. The synopsis is done.

So why, then, am I reluctant to send it out, even for a professional critique, which I know I ought to do?

Because I'm scared. I want to hold on to it. The comparison of writing a novel with giving birth is accurate except, for me, there was no pain. I really enjoyed writing Twisted Garlands. The first edit was like bringing up the child - a bit difficult but nothing more than I could cope with.
The worst part, for me is now. I've raised the child. I've guided the teenage novel through the difficult times when my readers gave me feedback and I did a second edit. Now the fledgling is ready to be cast out into the world; just like my eldest son who has just left home.

It feels very similar, except a mother can't really tell a 25 year old grown man that she really just wanted to keep him safe at home with her and his dad and that he needn't have gone and got a mountain of a mortgage just because other people said to him "What? You're still living at home with your mum and dad?"

I could do that with my book if I wanted to. I could hug it to me and keep it just for me. Safe and shielded from rejection and criticism. But I don't think I'd be doing it justice. Exactly the same as if I'd kept my quiet, gentle son shielded from the world in the family nest, and believe me, it would only have taken one word from us and he'd have been content to carry on living here. After all, he has had his house since the beginning of May last year. Prevarication personified was Garry. He admitted that he liked living at home and didn't really want to move out. He even talked about renting it out to cover the mortgage.

"For God's sake, Garry," we said, "most people your age would give their right arm to be in your position."

He finally moved out two days before Christmas. He doesn't have a girlfriend so he's living alone with Barney, his labrador. I could have cried buckets when he finally went because I couldn't bear the thought of him being lonely.

A month later he's happy and content. We still see him every day because he brings Barney in the morning and fetches him in the evening so he's not in the house on his own all day. He has lots of friends of both sexes and a great social life. He's a bit hard-up, as you'd expect, but I help him out by cooking his evening meal, which he sometimes takes with him to microwave at home and sometimes eats with us. Sometimes he cooks himself if he has friends coming round.

You often have to let someone, or something, go, even though your heart is screaming out to you to keep it close. If I were to squirrel Twisted Garlands away and not let it see the light of day again I wouldn't be doing the right thing.

Just like I wouldn't have been doing the right thing by my son to let my heart rule my head and let him take the easy road in life.

Meeting Jack Trelawny

2008-01-21T20:23:00.000Z

On Saturday I went into Kettering Town Centre and wandered into Waterstones for a quick browse.

In a corner of the children's section was a small desk piled high with books and posters. It was a book signing and I hadn't heard about it. People were walking by and ignoring the poor bloke when I was there - hopefully it picked up a bit later on. There hadn't been much publicity locally, which I think was a shame because I'm sure lots of children would have loved to have met him.

I spent a pleasant few minutes chatting to him about his experiences when he was trying to get published. He was incredibly helpful to me, giving me some tips about writing a synopsis and presenting my work. He reckons that if you submit something that is well presented , with no spelling, punctuation or grammar mistakes and you are polite in your initial letter then you are at an advantage straight away. This advice echoes that of Jane Wenham-Jones in her book.

He did recommend self-publishing initially, but I said I wouldn't really be interested in that. He said he knows several authors who have successfully started out in this way.

He is a really nice man and I wish him well with his Kernowland books, the first of which is "The Crystal Pool". I have a signed copy to give to my grandson when he is older and, who knows, he might turn out to be the next J K Rowling!