Archive for the ‘about me’ Category
April 14, 2010 | about me
Another highlight of the Festival was the pair of shoes which Liz Fenwick so kindly and generously brought all the way from Dubai to give to me as they no longer fit her. They are things of beauty and grace, they say “Louboutin” on the red soles, and I can even walk in them. I felt like a queen.
April 12, 2010 | about me, courses, writing
Saturday morning, after scrubbing my neck with vodka, I found myself on a train to York.
Now that’s an opening sentence, isn’t it? I mean, if you didn’t know the pathetic reason why I needed to scrub my neck? It gives you everything you need for the beginning of a story—the time, the place, the heroine, and a mystery.
I analyse this sentence in order to make it sound writerly. Because I was on my way to the Festival of Writing, which is a brand-new event starting this year. I was giving two workshops, one on Creating Character and one on Chick-Lit: More Than Shoes and Shopping. I was also doing some one-on-one consultations as a book doctor (I wonder what a book stethoscope looks like), and generally hanging out with other writers and industry professionals for a couple of days.
First, though, I got four hours to myself on the train. This is an incredibly rare event. I thought I’d do some work, but in fact I ended up mostly staring out the window, relaxing and letting my brain percolate in a leisurely manner over whatever it wanted to, and definitely nothing involving laundry, hoovering or what to cook for tea.
York was sunny, with daffodils nodding around the medieval walls, and my taxi driver assured me in broad Yorkshire that he wasn’t really a reader, in fact he’d only read four books, including the two he had to read for O-level. But he reckoned he could probably write a book as he had a sort of a gift with words. Such was my joy in the day that this only made me more cheerful, because it was clear that somehow I am so incredibly, unspeakably fortunate as to have the job that everyone wants.
I had a fantastic time. I missed Katie Fforde’s opening speech (though I did get text message updates about it whilst I was on the train) but I did get to see her, and Sue Moorcroft, and also got to meet the fantastic Veronica Henry and Adele Geras. I met a very polite and charming young man who turned out to be Toby Frost, and I bought the first of his Space Captain Smith books to read on the train home. I had the great joy of discussing books with Barry Cunningham of Chicken House, I met agents Jane Judd and Oliver Munson. I made Helen Corner of Cornerstones squeal by showing her my shoes, and had the lovely experience of sitting next to Kate Allan as she signed copies of a book which I’d read in manuscript form. I thanked agent Lorella Belli for giving me one of the nicest rejections all those years ago. I got the real thrill of introducing an aspiring Mills & Boon author to two Mills & Boon editors. I had far too much to drink (as always) with my great mates Brigid Coady and Liz Fenwick, and I met so many friends, old and new.
But that’s name dropping—the most important part was meeting so many writers, published and unpublished, all of whom have an absolute passion for this job. The best moments of the weekend were probably the chance meetings, the word or two exchanged in a queue or at lunch or walking to and from somewhere where I just got to share the reality of being a writer, with another writer. Published, unpublished, veteran or just starting out, writer or publishing professional—everyone had that commonality, that they loved writing, and that they were there to take their careers to the next level, and also to help others to do so.
And that is what I came away with from York. The place was packed full of people who are very different from that cab driver. They all knew that you don’t become a writer through having “a sort of gift with words”. You need talent, sure. But more than that, you need passion. You need dedication. You need the brains to learn the skills and the humility to know when you have to improve them and the arrogance to know when you’re ready to share your words with the world. Mostly though, you need bloody, nerve-wracking, brain-straining and often body-wrecking hard work.
It’s worth it, though. Definitely.
April 11, 2010 | about me
So this morning at the Festival of Writing in York, I was giving my workshop on “Chick-Lit: It’s More Than Shoes and Shopping”. This was a particularly satisfying workshop for me because I managed to create a Power Point presentation for it which included a different red shoe on every slide. Frivolous, I know. But if you can’t please yourself, who can you please?
Anyway, it was great, great people and excellent questions, and one of the things I was talking about was creating character arc, and I referred to my series of posts about character arc and put up my website address so people could check it out in more detail if they wanted.
In the back of the room, a hand went up. A gentleman politely inquired, “How’s the back of your neck?”
He’d instantly called up my blog on his iPhone and read about my hair-dying incident.
Doh! So much for my veneer of cool.
(Fortunately the vodka swab had already worked to get the worst of the giraffe-spots off. Thanks for the tip, Joan.)
April 9, 2010 | about me
Okay, this is a VITAL TIP for writers. Are you listening? Do you have a notepad handy to jot it down, in BIG LETTERS so as to remind yourself?
Right. Here it is.
If you happen to take a break from writing in order to dye your hair yourself, don’t, I repeat, DO NOT think about what scene you’re going to write next whilst you’re applying the hair dye to your head.
Because you will not pay proper attention, and you will end up with hair dye all over your neck, which will stain your skin, and you will end up looking like a spotted giraffe.
The internet tells me that toothpaste is the remedy for such a foolish predicament. I’ve tried it, and now I look like a minty fresh giraffe.
And tomorrow I’m going to the Festival of Writing in York to give workshops and Be An Author. How interesting I will appear. I wonder if anyone will offer me a tall tree to gnaw on.
March 29, 2010 | about me
The book signing was a hoot. The nice thing about doing a signing in the town where you live, is that you get to invite all your friends. My husband the Rock God came along with the Fecklet, and the two of them happily read books in the children’s section while I did my thing at the booksigning table. And my mates came by to say hello, some of them with their own children, so there were always several people around to chat with.
I tried something new this time, which was to print up some sheets of A5 with very a short excerpt from the novel on them. The theory is, that people find it a little bit awkward to look at a book with the author standing right there, because they’d feel rude if they decided not to buy. And as an author, it’s a little uncomfortable to stand there being judged, as if you’re slightly over-ripe fruit. But if you have an excerpt to give out, people can read them at leisure and then come back if they’re interested.
In this case, Biddy was my own personal publicist, and she went round the cafe in the book shop a couple of times giving out the sheets and my postcards. Which seemed to work quite well. (She also brought me coffee, ministering angel that she is.) Quite a few of the books we sold were as gifts for other people, which was also nice. I think a signed book is a lovely gift.
I also had Arval, the stuffed bat, with me, and he attracted a bit of attention, too. A couple of friends took photos, though I didn’t (doh!).
Then, after it was done, the Fecklet fell fast asleep in his push chair and he napped while the Rock God, Biddy and I had a bit of a celebratory drink in the pub. Then it was back to my house for dinner, more wine, and quite a bit of drooling over hero-pictures.
A very enjoyable day all round, and a nice time to be An Author.
March 25, 2010 | about me
I don’t often get to the pub. But every now and then, my writers’ group Reading Writers finishes a bit early and we pop into the pub next door for a swift pint and a chat about writing and books.
So tonight, I’m standing at the bar ordering my second glass of wine, having spent all evening talking closely with people at the meeting, when a man addresses me. He’s, to put it mildly, not wildly attractive. He’s probably in his late 30s, has a mac on, a t-shirt, very little hair, and the earpods of a MP3 player sticking out of his collar. I’m sure he has many extraordinary qualities, but they’re not immediately apparent.
“Who’s that?” he says to me out of the blue. Staring at my chest.
I look down, and realise I have my “I love John Cusack” t-shirt on. It’s got a big heart and a picture of John Cusack in Sixteen Candles. “It’s John Cusack,” I say.
“Never heard of him.”
“Oh.” I turn back to the bar, to give my attention to the bartender who is serving me my drink.
“Ohhh wait, did you just say John Cusack?”
“Yes.” He’s looking a bit friendlier, so I continue, “I thought it was strange you’d never heard of him, since he’s in loads of films.”
Charming Man makes a face. “Have you been eating garlic?”
I made rice noodles with vegetables and garlicky peanut sauce earlier.
I say, “Yes.”
I think, You are unbelievably crass. You might know I have garlic breath. But you do not know that I am a writer. And you really do not know that I will, sooner than you think, have my revenge in print.
March 15, 2010 | about me
I have had a really exciting day. First, I got to sleep in, because the Rock God got up with the Fecklet. This isn’t quite as exciting as it sounds, as I only got to sleep in till 7.00 and then I had to get up and wake myself up enough to start writing when Fecklet went to nursery at 8.00, but when you’re a parent, every extra hour of sleep counts. A lot.
Then, I wrote my 2000 daily words like nothing. It zoomed out of me, which was a good thing, because my hands are a little tiny bit shaky at the moment. Nothing to worry about, but enough so that it’s good for me to rest. Anyway, I’d been a bit stuck on this chapter because I wasn’t sure where to go with it, but I decided—hey, let’s have a flashback.
For some reason I find flashbacks really easy to write at the moment. Even though, as I write them, I’m aware that there’s a 75% chance I’ll be cutting them. It’s because my heroine has had quite an interesting childhood, and she’s still feeling the effects of it. So it helps me to write her past, so I can trace the effects of it on her present.
It’s good to know when you’re writing for yourself. Maybe this will end up being for a reader as well, but if I cut it, it’s not the end of the world.
Anyway, THEN I got an email from my editor about the title for my next book. I haven’t talked a lot about this, but we’ve been throwing around a lot of titles for the book, and none of them have quite stuck yet, for various reasons. Some book’s titles are easy (like Nina Jones and the Temple of Gloom) and some take a bit longer. My working title wasn’t commercial enough, and then the title we gave it before I’d delivered a draft didn’t end up fitting the story enough, and then we had two or three other ideas that didn’t fit the list, or didn’t fit the book. And we wanted to have a great title, as it’s my debut book with Headline Review.
But last Thursday my editor came up with something that I loved, and then my agent loved it too, and then my editor ran it past the Headline team and they loved it too, so it looks like this one is going to stick!
Which is a huge relief.
And then, I booked a special night at the SPA next month with my dear girlfriends, as a birthday treat.
And then, the Fecklet and I read not one, not two, but THREE chapters of Winnie the Pooh together.
And now, it’s time for America’s Next Top Model!
I ask you—can this day get any better?!
And tomorrow will be even better, as it’s the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Awards Luncheon. And more about that, tomorrow. In between preening.
March 4, 2010 | about me, parenthood
My apologies to those of you who may visit this blog looking for thought-provoking posts about writing, the universe and cemeteries.
Because this morning I am going to write about shoes.
My Facebook friends may know that I faced a shopping dilemma this week: I needed a dress to wear to the fabulous glitzy Romantic Novelists’ Association’s 50th Anniversary Awards Lunch. I’m not up for an award this year, but several of my friends are (hooray!) and it’s a great occasion and opportunity to meet with fellow writers and many publishing professionals. So, y’know, it deserves a new frock.
I bought myself a scrummy little black dress, quite little and plain with just a tiny bit of lovely embroidery and beading, and so I needed some shoes. And hence the dilemma. There were these gorgeous purple ones which had flowers all over them and also a big ribbon bow at the back, and were comfortable, but slightly too low in the heel and also fairly expensive. Then there were these gorgeous grass-green ones which were high-heeled Mary Janes and cost half as much as the purple ones, but weren’t as comfortable or quite as OTT.
I posted this dilemma on my Facebook page and it is a testament to the excellentness of my friends that many of them actually commented, from the UK, the US and Canada, giving me their advice on which pair to buy. (Consensus was that I should buy both, but the bank account won’t bear up under that strain I’m afraid.) Two guys commented too, something along the lines of their heads exploding and sympathising with my husband, but I forgive them. Men just don’t understand the importance of these things.
Well I debated and debated and it really did distract me quite a bit from my writing yesterday (oh I am so sad) and I did make it a dinner table discussion between me, the Rock God and the Fecklet (I am trying to educate them both to care about shoes despite the Y chromosomes). Fecklet said “The green!” and then five minutes later, mid-bite of noodles, he said “The purple!” I tried to convince the Rock God that this was yet another vote to buy both pairs but he wasn’t having it.
In the end, I decided that the green ones would look better with my dress and also if I bought them for half the money, I would have more to spend on a handbag!
Me? Shallow? Surely not.
Anyway I’m sure you are now positively frothing at the mouth to see these shoes, which were in fact quite a spectacular bargain, and are a teensy bit tight but I am going to stuff them with socks etc to stretch them out. Here they are:
And of course, the Fecklet had to try them on. I think they go rather smashingly with his Lightning McQueen pyjamas:
Now, what does this have to do with Nina Jones and the Temple of Gloom, which is published TODAY!? I’ll be posting later today and revealing all!
Stay tuned, dear readers, to learn all about the tantalising connection, and also have a chance to win a signed copy!
February 17, 2010 | about me
We’ve had a sick couple of days here—my husband the Rock God was struck down with the winter tummy bug, and I’m on antibiotics for a persistent infection. But this morning he woke up feeling much better, and I’m much better too. Antibiotics are miraculous.
On page 281 with the edits. My lovely postcards for Nina Jones and the Temple of Gloom have shown up. I’ve had the proofs of the photos for my new headshot (taken by the washing machine) and I have the pleasurable but rather difficult task of choosing which ones to use. On the weekend the Fecklet and I are going up to Cumbria on the train, and I’ve started planning for that.
So everything is looking up.
February 12, 2010 | about me
I’ve had a very exciting and glamorous morning today. First I had a photographer round to take some new author photos of me. This was actually my second photo shoot in five days (the first was in Reading cemetery with my friend Ruth, and I’ll be putting up some of those pictures soon), so you’d think I was getting a little used to it by now: slap on some makeup, do up my hair, pull on a decent top, and grin. But I still freeze up when someone points a camera in my direction, so I was grateful when the photographer told me, very nicely, how to tilt my chin and position myself, etc. In her quest for the best light in the house, she ended up taking several photos whilst we were both wedged in next to the washing machine!
Then I did a phone interview on BBC Radio Berkshire about the perfect romantic Valentine’s Day in Reading, which to me, is a lazy morning, then a leisurely coffee at Picnic, my favourite cafe in town. Then maybe a walk down the Thames to Sonning, to wander around the churchyard there, and a nice dinner at the London Street Brasserie.
In actual fact, I’ll be spending Valentine’s Day in Cambridgeshire on my own, doing research for my next book. But hey, I never let fact get in the way of a good fantasy.
January 10, 2010 | about me
I’m from Maine, and the current cold weather in the UK has me astonished.
We had about eight inches of snow here in Reading, which is unheard-of. It was great snow, perfect for snowmen (as Mr Hunky attests). This was on Tuesday night; we made Mr Hunky on Wednesday morning, in the road in front of our house.
It’s now Sunday, five days later. Our road is still covered in half a foot of snow. We shoveled out the pavement on our road on Wednesday, along with our neighbours, but we don’t have any grit so it’s still slippery. The pavements on the main road haven’t been cleared at all; they’re packed ice, again with no grit (on a steep hill). The main roads in town have been cleared, but again, the pavements are packed ice, and incredibly slippery. People are, with good reason, staying indoors, for fear of falling down.
Mr Hunky still stands in the road. Most of our neighbours’ cars haven’t been unburied yet. Our road is a cul-de-sac, shorter than lots of driveways in Maine.
It’s insane. There are enough resources to make main roads passable, but the rest of the country is left to fend for itself. The policy about snow here in the UK is, “Wait until it melts.”
There is, believe it or not, a shortage of salt. It’s a national crisis. On the evening news.
Being from Maine, I take it for granted that snow will be cleared, roads will be gritted, people will drive carefully, that everything will continue as normal very soon, even after a big snowstorm. But there isn’t the infrastructure here, and everything just grinds to a halt.
Obviously we need a few good Mainers with some snow shovels to sort us out. (A snow blower would not go awry, either.)
On the other hand, people here in the south of England are really not used to snow at all, and it’s a special event. There are snowmen everywhere—and snow dogs, lions, rockets, etc etc. British people love to talk about the weather, so there’s lots of good conversation (that is, if you can leave the house to meet up with another human being). And I’ve observed some very inventive ways of moving cars and people.
January 4, 2010 | about me
I’m very nearly recovered from Christmas so I can finally write a catch-up post about our trip to the USA. Rock God’s virus abated enough to allow us to get on a plane to Boston. Fecklet’s excitement knew no bounds. He was jumping around all over the place as we packed and couldn’t wait to get on a plane. Our Christmas crackers were confiscated at the airport (explosives, apparently) and then Fecklet was so hyped up about flying that he couldn’t get to sleep the entire night flight and so we arrived in Boston distinctly bleary-eyed.
But Boston was fun. We went to the aquarium and the science museum. Fecklet took over the replica space capsule there and whenever anyone else came in, he gave them guided tours: “These are the buttons that you press, and this is a TV, and this is where you sleep!” We did some shopping and some eating out, and on the Saturday a blizzard struck the east coast and we got something like a foot of snow overnight. (It might have been more, I didn’t measure it.) We were just settling down for a nice cosy evening in our hotel room (on the 15th floor) when the fire alarm went off. We pulled on our winter clothes over our pyjamas and debated whether to evacuate down the stairs with toddler in arms, or stay put in our room and wait. The front desk advised us to wait, but I found it a long tense time before the fire department arrived and checked out all the alarms before shutting them off so we could go to bed.
Then the alarm went off again.
Anyway, morning came without us being burnt to toast in our beds. We’d already booked business class seats on the Downeaster, which is the train that runs up the coast of New England from Boston to Portland, Maine. The Rock God, used to the British transport system, noted the rather large drifts of snow outside and asked the concierge if the trains would be running. The concierge merely snorted at his doubt. Trains in Massachusetts are not little wimpy things like British trains. They are behemoths and they cut through snow as if it were a very small pat of butter.
The ride on the Downeaster was great—in cushy seats, quietly through coastal towns and forests filling up with snow, the engine blowing its whistle whenever we crossed one of the many roads.
And then to snowy Maine for Christmas. We went sliding, built a snowman, and of course then I got sick and had to spend three days in bed, so I missed seeing many of the friends I’d hoped to meet with. Despite my mother’s wonderful cooking, I think I am possibly the only person I know who hasn’t gained weight over Christmas because I spent three days with my throat too swollen to swallow much of anything except for iced orange juice. Fecklet spent happy days playing with Grandma and Grandpa and chasing their shy cat all over the house.
And then we flew back home and I got to open all the Christmas cards that had come while we were gone!
