Raising Stories and Editing Children

Today I waved my baby off to independence.

I've fed it, tended to it and watched it gain weight with relief. I've fiddled and fussed, re-dressed and polished, stood back and, sometimes, admired. I've pulled out foreign bodies with a fine tooth comb. I've had sleepless nights and early mornings, eschewed friends when it was ailing or in need of attention. I've enjoyed gold-dust criticism and selfless help (thank you dutiful readers, truly, thank you) and even accepted the odd prize on its behalf. I've had days when I've wondered what it's all about, this unending, thankless task, and asked whether I was cut out for the job. I've wittered about whether I've done enough to prepare it, if I've sought enough advice, read enough books, been on enough courses. I've dressed it up, packed it off, hailed it back, waved it off again and stayed up fretting—

But I've always enjoyed the ride.

This is the last time I will see my story like this. This is the last pdf version, the closest representation of it in book form, the last chance to raise an eyebrow, question its appearance, because the next time I see my baby, it will be a fully grown book.

And so, in every parent's life there comes a point when we have to let our books go; give them wings and let them fly. It's gone, it's flown and I can do no more. On the 9^th June Glass Houses will make its official public appearance and now that my baby is finally out of my grasp I can't help feeling just a little bit ridiculously excited.

Glass Houses will be published on June 9^th and is available to pre-order from Amazon and Urbane Publications.

Wonderful readers, join me for the official launch of Glass Houses at the beginning of July? Further details coming very soon.

A Week in Publication

Monday morning started on Sunday night, just as a reminder if I needed one that writers can often be found at their PC at midnight and, admittedly, relishing it. Although nothing as exciting as writing for me, I was catching up on admin from the day job.

No matter. My late night typing meant that I would watch the calendar flick from Sunday 22^nd to Monday 23^rd November, the day of Tea & Chemo's publication, and witness the Amazon Page flip from 'pre-order' to, Yes! Absolutely! Buy it now!

At one minute past midnight I clicked the link. I shrugged my shoulders: no change. Of course not. The day doesn't really start at 12.01 but at 9am. I'd check again in the real morning. I did. Having already checked at 12.30, and every few minutes thereafter, you know, just to be sure, until I finally wandered off to bed.

The next morning, publication day morning, I had a quick hospital appointment. It was no more cancer related than those pesky, potentially life-saving drugs giving me annoying side effects. Nonetheless, the irony of being back in hospital on my publication day wasn't lost on me.

And it transpired that I was to spend slightly longer there than anticipated. As I waited to be called, I heard the fairly earnest voice of a doctor directing a patient to, 'Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth, that's it, well done.' I didn't like it. Nobody likes to hear other people unwell. But, ever the diligent writer, I forced myself to focus on tomorrow's talk which needed editing down from about three days in length to the requisite ten minutes.

More voices sounded and all of a sudden, a nurse rushed past, picked up the phone and called for the registrar to come immediately to the unit. I was worried for the patient now and also felt that I shouldn't be there, that I was intruding as the voices were just on the other side of a curtain.

Shuffling further back in my seat, I continued with my scribbles as inconspicuously as possible. And it was useful having no mobile or Wi-Fi signal at the hospital so that my page on Amazon had a break from my clicking for news.

A nurse explained that my appointment would be delayed. Of course. The other woman was much more in need of the staff than I was and besides, I was doing quite well with the rampant deletion of my drivel.

The same nurse ran past again. This time she called for the Crash Team. Now I was really worried for the patient. Moreover, other people arriving for appointments were being turned away. A doctor came to speak to me, asked if I wouldn't mind going to get a coffee and coming back in half an hour. Mind?  I took the stairs two at a time.

Ninety minutes after my appointment slot, I returned to the unit to the altogether softer sound of the same doctor's voice saying to the patient that if she ever came back to the unit, would she call first so that he could make sure he was on holiday, and with this I suspected the situation had taken a less sinister turn. The lady, excruciatingly apologetic, was discharged having recovered from her panic attack whilst having a cup of tea after her appointment.

I left the hospital two hours later than intended, happy I wasn't prone to panic attacks and slightly more confident that my talk might be over before tomorrow's bedtime.

My dentist's appointment followed suit, taking forty minutes instead of ten because my sparkly new mouth guard to stop me grinding my teeth at night (it's a long story) didn’t fit correctly and needed some re-moulding. By this time I was due to pick up my car from the garage. I'd taken it in for a new exhaust and it had emerged with a brand new set of ball bearings and four new tyres instead. Wholly necessary but more expensive. And the half an hour walk back to the garage was looking particularly uninviting through the pouring icicles.

Several times during the day I'd looked down at myself from above: oh, the glamorous lifestyle of a freshly published writer! And Tea & Chemo was still only showing as available to 'pre-order'.

Then came Monday evening.

Friends had organised a celebration in my local pub. With these people, in that pub, with the Tea & Chemo bunting, the Tea & Chemo cake and biscuits, my box of books (and people buying them) the cards and presents and excitement and abject giddiness, right there, in that moment, all the late night, early morning typing and the slap in the face rejections, were worth it.

Tuesday and D Day for the ten minute talk I mentioned. My brief was to inspire two hundred 14 and 15 year old students and their parents with my story of having a dream and going for it. Except these students were all award winners and I couldn’t help thinking that really, they should have been talking to me about hard work and achievement. The best, and only award I remember getting at school was for hockey: my half colours, note, not even the full ones…

It would be an accurate account to say I did a ridiculous amount of preparation for this talk. Engage a hundred teenagers for ten minutes, you say? The hours spent were directly proportionate to my fear. 'It's ok,' somebody consoled a few panicky days before, 'They'll all be on their phones.' That was what I was worried about. Actually, I had a ball. Nobody was on their phone and everybody gave me the courtesy of listening and many thanked me afterwards. Teenagers constantly, and usually, buck the stereotype I find.

Let's fast forward over a couple of days when Amazon still wasn't admitting to Tea & Chemo being published. Meanwhile, I was cursing webmail for not sending any of my e-mails over the previous two days, tantalising me with the first line of every incoming message yet refusing to show me anything else. And let's forget the hours, (was it days? It felt like days) spent in phone calls to the EE helpline, in the vain hope of cajoling 21^st century speed Wi-Fi into our house as opposed to the dribble reminiscent of the nineties. Let's gloss over these days because then it was Friday. Joy of joys, finally Tea & Chemo was leaving Amazon's grasp and so many wonderful people were posting on Facebook that their copies had arrived. 

And then this:

Tea & Chemo ranked 10^th in Amazon for Health and Fitness? From this point forward, I've been doing what I vowed I wouldn't do: checking Tea & Chemo's ranking every few minutes.

You know, it hasn’t been all tiaras and red carpets but, after a frustrating labour, Tea & Chemo has made it out into the world and yes, it feels every bit as sweet as I'd hoped.

Working With Other People

Today, I’m Celebrating The Small Things, very softly and quietly in fact, creeping in the side door, hoping if I can just sneak onto a pew at the back with the merest of small waves only to interested parties, the rest of the congregation won’t notice that it’s Saturday and I’m a day late.

But I just had to share the love, the love of working with other people. This is not an everyday occurrence when you’ve made the dubious career choice of writing cocooned in the empty study of an even emptier house while the rest of the world is either out playing or thinks you’re actually out playing.

Ok, I realise that the rest of the world isn’t playing, rather working, albeit in grinning teams of people all patting each other on the back – oh, there I go again – but it was better for my story to paint a desolate picture.

I love to write slightly more than I dislike not being with other people so any chance to work with others I snatch up. That’s probably why I love teaching and my editing work so much.

Recently I found out that I’d had my short story, A Life with Additives accepted for publication in the anthology, Stories for Homes which intends to raise money for Shelter, the charity for the homeless. This is a charity which is close to my heart as my parents worked tirelessly for Shelter when I was growing up. So I was double delighted.

The anthology is the brain child of Sally Swingewood and Debi Alper who also came up with the inspired strategy of pairing short story contributors together to help edit each other’s stories. It was a pleasure working with my writing team mate. Thus far, he's managed to stay away from all forms of social media (what IS his secret?) so to protect his privacy, we’ll call him Bob. His story is hysterical. I can’t divulge more at the moment but suffice it to say, after stifling giggles in my favourite writing place, a well-known coffee shop in Harrogate with my extra hot cappuccino on hand, one paragraph had me laughing out loud (my children would tell me I can’t use LOL and I tend to agree) like the archetypal deranged writer in the corner.

Aside from the joys of working in a team, the process reminded me how much I relish feedback. No, really, I do. Of course it would be wonderful if your partner came back with a gasp and a scratch of their head as to how they could possibly help you to make this ground-breaking story of exquisite excellent-ness any better and by the way, had you thought of entering it for the Bridport Prize? But that isn’t going to happen. No two people will ever see the same in a piece of writing. No two people would ever write a story in exactly the same way. And that’s a good thing. That fresh eye showing exactly how the words have bounced off the page on first viewing - let’s not forget that readers of books don’t actually have the time nor inclination to pore over our missives in the same way we do - always throws up howlers and confusions. I’m so happy that I’ve received feedback on my personal howlers and confusions, if a little embarrassed on occasion.

So, I’m celebrating lots of things this *Friday*:

- that my story is to be published
- that the anthology will raise money for a vital charity
- that I was assigned to Bob and his brilliant story and for him pointing out before any readers got to it that the repetition of the musical flute and the fluted of the bowl looked like the main character had a mixing bowl hanging from her lips
- that I’ve had the joy of working with real people this week
- that, although I must work this weekend, the sun is shining so I'm off to do some in the garden.

I hope you're celebrating large and small - please, come share the love...

Keeping on… and on

That’s it. You’ve researched and written and re-written and edited and re-written and proofed and, oh damn it, re-written again until you realise that your re-writes and edits have become changes  rather than improvements and you realise it’s time to stop. It’s time to submit.

Trawling through the internet and the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook is actually more exciting than it sounds; so many of those agencies have your name all over them. General fiction they cry? Yes! With a thoughtful edge, a bit of Maggie O’Farrell thrown in? Yes! Open to submissions, looking for debut authors. Yes, oh yes.

And then it starts. The wait. The constant ‘just checking’ the in-box, the racing to the letter box which you know is counter-productive because anything sent by the post these days is only going to be a rejection so why make the moment come any quicker? The ‘no news’ starts to ache but it’s tinged with just a frisson of expectation. There is the smallest of chances that it’s your book being read and discussed at that moment. Why not? you ask, when you’ve just poured yourself that umpteenth glass of self-belief, every writer starts somewhere.

Then comes the right hook, square in the centre of your self-confidence. It’s back to business as usual; more hours spent submitting when you really should be focussing on the day job, or helping your children with their homework, taking the dog outside for his ablutions, spending time with the person who does actually earn some money for the daily bread, seeing friends...

It’s time to pour another cup of self-belief. I do this with a glance at my list of authors who achieved double figure rejections. It’s a salubrious list. I remember RJ Ellory at the York Writers’ Festival who said that the difference between a published and unpublished author was that the unpublished author gave up. I remember how I feel when I’m writing, that there are parts of my novel which make me smile, characters I love and that the ending always makes me cry. And then I think about how I’d feel if I didn’t write, if I wasn’t trying to get a book published. And the answer is that I’d feel bereft, that nothing makes me feel alive like committing a story to paper or that response from an editor, even when it’s a rejection.

I’m addicted to writing. Resistance is futile. I’m trapped and I love it. I’m writing my second book.

I wrote this in response to a question on Twitter about our strategies for coping with rejection and holding on to a semblance of a positive attitude. Currently I'm just waiting... and waiting... which, personally, I find even harder! So, what about you, what keeps you going? I'd love to know your strategies.

And to my non-writer readers out there with *proper jobs*, thanks for holding our hands on this roller coaster of a ride.

Baghdatis, the race is on!

Sometimes we’re lucky enough to experience a day which we know we’ll remember forever. Yesterday, with my centre court ticket for Wimbledon in my hot little hand, this was that day for me.

After hitting a ball relentlessly against our tin garage door before progressing, much to the delight of the neighbourhood I’m sure, to the pitted, gravel courts near my grandparents and the instant game of doubles which was me and my three sisters, my love for tennis was cemented around my twelfth birthday. This was when I finally procured a racquet of my own. It was a white Slazenger with a purple handle and was Juvery of-the-moment compared to the wooden racquets loaned out at school. There wasn’t a speck of steel or graphite and the head was only the size of a large tea plate.

I should point out here that, although an enthusiastic amateur, I don’t recall ever winning anything more significant than a hearty handshake. Even if I’d had the skill, which I didn’t, I certainly didn’t have the head for it.  ‘Don’t throw it all away now,’ the little voices would say. ‘Just don’t do a double fault for goodness sake, don’t do a double…’ Oh dear.

It didn’t matter. Tennis for me was more about meeting my friend, Rachel, at the town club (it wasn’t as grand as it sounds) and bashing the ball back and forwards over the net as we discussed our burgeoning love lives, our fast deteriorating school and the general trials and hairspray which accompanied teenagehood in The Eighties.

Lack of skill, height and hunger for the game were major contributory factors as to why my tennis never went any further but it didn’t stop me following Wimbledon on BBC2 every year, in the days when McEnroe still had the anger and the headband and Connors wasn’t stopped from jumping over the barrier to sit with the crowd while the slightly befuddled umpire attempted to sort out whatever battle of wits he’d generally started.

Yesterday, the first two matches went pretty much as the winner would have planned.  Caroline Wozniacki, the number one seed, finished off her opponent’s Wimbledon in an hour.  And Roger Federer showed us why he has won quite so many tournaments to date. Both were incredibly impressive. But it was a little like viewing a painting from an undoubtedly talented painter which you wouldn’t hang in your home; you can appreciate the skill but you’re seeing it with your eyes and not your heart.

Then came Novak Djokovic and Marcos Baghdatis. Although a fan of Djokovic (largely, and I apologise to tennis purists, because he always signs autographs and smiles when his opponent hits an unassailable winner), I found myself cheering for another seemingly nice guy, Baghdatis. Djokovic had won the first set and I didn’t want my day at Wimbledon to end any sooner than it had to.

When Baghdatis won the second, I flung my arms in the air like it was my child out there. I’d lived that second set with him, my heart pumping harder, willing the stunning rallies to continue and for Baghdatis to finally outwit Djokovic. I found myself thinking positive thoughts on his behalf.  Ranked 30 places behind Djokovic, I willed Baghdatis to tell himself that he was his equal.

And when they sat down at the end of the third set and Baghdatis was trailing two sets to one, I thought to myself that winning tennis matches at this level is a little like the battle to publication. It’s understood that tennis players have talent, it’s also true that without the self-belief and determination to go with it, they will not succeed. Assuming a writing competence, this is the same of writers who are not yet published.

‘What’s the difference between a published and an unpublished writer?’, thriller writer and witty man, JR Ellory, asked us at a writers’ conference. ‘The unpublished author gave up,’ he said.

Djokovic crashed out of Wimbledon in 2010 and vowed he’d come back better.  He changed his diet and the way he trained and an amazing year followed. I’m not sure all writers will get published who continue to submit the same rejected material - but have a re-read, act on some new feedback and chances must surely be higher.

It is hard to receive that stinging slap to the face when your baby is rejected, without rubbing the sore patch for a while. But tennis players don’t take months off.  They take a day, perhaps, but then they’re back out training, tweaking their game.

Baghdatis’ submission for the ultimate prize in tennis was rejected yesterday. He’s never yet won a Grand Slam. Many, even some close to him, will think he never will.  But nobody can influence the outcome more than Baghdatis and come the next major tournament, I know he’ll be back out there trying again.

Will Baghdatis win a Grand Slam tennis tournament? Will I get published? Marcos, the race is on.