Asleep On The Job

My tiny village is unusually awash with teenagers this week as they slip out of their houses for a breath of fresh air before returning to their rooms for another long stint of Exam Leave Revision.

I don’t envy them.

Although I do entertain the fleeting desire to re-take my Biology O-level occasionally (yes, I'm so old that GCSEs were the stuff of Tomorrow’s World), persuading myself that this time I really would find it interesting, I have had too many exam catastrophes in my past to ensure the rosy-coloured spectacles of school-induced nostalgia slip off my nose as quickly as I put them there.

There was, for example, my music O-level paper where the three hour written exam demanding four essays on Schumann and friends, turned out in effect to be a 90 minute paper in its entirety, a fact my fellow classmates and I first discovered when the examiner rang the ten minute warning bell after only 80 minutes. When we expressed our dismay to our music teacher he shrugged his stereotypically eccentric music teacher shoulders and said, ‘So, how do you think you got on?’

My most catastrophic mishap however, has to be the one involving the Sleeping French Professor.

I admit to choosing my university entirely on its location. I’d been brought up in Northumberland and moved away to the Midlands at a wistful age 10. I was always going to return to Newcastle to study. I never seriously considered going anywhere else. I do remember being relieved that there was a vaguely suitable course in German with French at the university but am ashamed to say that’s about as far as the research into my future went.

So I deserve no sympathy when I say that I had a love/ hate relationship with my course. The heavily language based German part I loved, the predominantly literature based French portion? Well, perhaps I’d have enjoyed it more if I’d understood the words.

I should also explain that I was studying German just at the time when the Berlin Wall was on its way down and our language assistant was a fascinatingly hip twenty-something year old with a dodgy leg (hence her being allowed to come to the UK in the first place, she’d explained) from the former East Germany, with many a mind-blowing story to tell – France’s Molière and Balzac didn’t really stand a chance, I’m afraid.

Our Finals approached. We had to do a twenty minute presentation on a subject of our choice. ‘There are no restrictions,’ the head of the French department explained, ‘but students tend to find a fresh angle to discuss on one of their favourite authors from the course.’

Not me!

I’d spent six months living in Paris and I thought it would be much more pertinent to talk about the differences in French and English diet, focussing heavily on eating disorders in both countries and the role of the media in them.

I know. I know.

Facing me were three terrifying members of the French department. The first was an ‘assistante’ from Toulouse who said, ‘oui, oui’ specifically two words before the end of all my sentences. The second was a professor known to me only by sight in the department, a portly gentleman with a thick, grey, curly beard which I remember as being an exact copy of the hair on his head. It’s perhaps a little unfair to claim that the third examiner was terrifying. He gave a sympathetic smile as I entered which only moved once during the conversation to perform a little ‘O’ shape when he read what my talk was to focus on, before it was firmly returned and remained intact to the end of my talk.

I remember very little of my presentation, only tearing up my notes in a fit of pique when I finally secured an exit from the stifling exam room. However I will never forget the professor, his upside down face contorting in his desperation not to fall asleep, his eyelids stretching and retracting, his mouth following their shape as he did his utmost to fight the all-conquering pull of sleep that I knew so well from many a stuffy lecture hall filled with soliloquys from Voltaire.

Mme Oui Oui from Toulouse did try to rouse him now and again with a brusque knock from her elbow but, as anyone who’s every suffered from bored-induced narcolepsy will testify, when that urge comes, it takes more than a jab to return the head to upright.

Needless to say, I didn’t do very well in my spoken French assessment and only marginally better in literature. Thank goodness I’d been captivated by every word spoken by our endearingly Communist German visitor.

At least I emerged with a story to tell and I do wonder if the Sleeping French Professor has ever told the tale from his position behind the desk.

So, over to you! Please share your exam nightmares with us. I know you have some tales to make us laugh and cry and cringe. Go on! We won’t tell…

We Won!

Do you remember the caramel slices, the will-power required to resist and the crumbly, sticky, creamy yumminess when I finally caved in and launched into my daughter's pile of biscuits, baked to perfection?

Well... we won!

I say, 'we'. I provided the flour, the kitchen and other essentials, and performed a slight detour on the way home following a desperate text message to buy some emergency condensed milk, but, otherwise, my role in their creation wasn't huge. Nonetheless, the deal was that if I entered the competition on Scottish Mum's blog, then the £100 prize money - in the very unlikely event it should come our way, I was keen to stress - would be shared between us.

But, my youngest looked a little disconsolate, I do cook tea every Wednesday, she pointed out. She does and she does it very well. She also bakes tremendous cakes. So then we decided we'd split the fictitious prize money three ways. I'm not sure where poor Dad was during this conversation but he did enjoy the caramel slices and some would say, helped himself to more than his fair share.

The conversation moved on and we talked of doing something special together as a family, at which point I performed one of those annoying mother's painfully obvious tactical manoeuvres of changing the conversation; the fear of their disappointment weighing heavy.

But, we won! So, now we have to decide for real. I was rather hoping for a new iron, having dropped mine on the quarry tiled floor once too often. I think my children have designs on (a contribution to) Alton Towers.

I'm sure that in the ensuing conversation they will remind me that memories do last longer.

Many thanks to Appliances Online http://tinyurl.com/c5ggols and to Scottish Mum for hosting the competition. Scottish Mum's blog is a great mix of foodie recipes and insight, as well as a number of other family related topics - well worth a look http://tinyurl.com/89brpaw. 

Lucky Seven

Jane Rusbridge, author of the beautifully crafted, The Devil’s Music, who’s looking forward to the publication of her second novel, Rook, this August, (pre-ordered, of course) has kindly included me in her Lucky Seven list. You can find Jane on Twitter @JaneRusbridge and see her over at her gorgeous website http://www.janerusbridge.co.uk.


Lucky Seven is a bit of blogging fun where we extract seven lines from page seven or 77 of our Work In Progress and pray that at least one section will standalone as a piece of text. Then we challenge seven other writers to do the same.


The instructions for Lucky 7 are:

• Go to page 7 or 77 in your current manuscript
• Go to line 7
• Post on your blog the next 7 lines, or sentences, as they are – no cheating!
• Tag 7 other authors to do the same

My extract is taken from Glass Houses, my first completed manuscript which, after too many re-writes to count, is now in Submissionville again. Sprinkles of fairy dust are always much appreciated.

Line 7, page 77 of Glass Houses

Glass Houses is a novel about unlikely heroine, Tori Williams, whose life implodes after sending a text from the M62 motorway. Emerging a notorious public figure, Tori fights her way to a bold and improved existence. It’s just a shame her devoted husband isn’t on board... 

After weeks spent recovering from the injuries sustained in the crash, there are rumours that Tori is soon to leave hospital and interest in her has piqued again. The press attention is frenzied and security has been stepped up. Carly is Tori’s loyal daughter and she’s upset by what she’s just overheard staff on the ward saying about her mother’s plight; even they think she should be wheeled straight out of hospital and into the arms of the prison service.

The third security guard, tub-shaped and with the faintest whiff of blonde hair on his head, the remainder on his chin, stood pressed against the closed door to Tori’s room.

He smiled. “Hello you!” Carly felt his eyes settle on her sunken shoulders and her tatty bag which trailed on the floor, hanging on the tips of her fingers by the long strap. “Hot topic,” he said, inclining his ear towards the rest of the ward. “It’ll pass, always does.”

 Carly knew what people were saying, of course she did. She read the papers like everybody else. She leapfrogged photographers in her parents’ garden and turned on the radio to find phone-in debates handing out prison sentences like interest-free credit cards.

I was delighted to be given a second Lucky Seven tag by the talented Jan Marshall who I met on Twitter @Jan_Marshall and not only writes but produces cover art for fellow writers. You can learn more about her writing and see some of her designs here: www.designrelated.com.  

This time I looked at my second Work In Progress, Misguidance. I will hold my hands up here and admit that I had to cheat as the sections on both page seven and seventy-seven were nothing more than a bunch of notes. The exercise was a reminder that Misguidance is very much a first draft and when I say I’m three-quarters of the way through my second manuscript, I am mindful that ‘manuscript’ is somewhat over-stating it and that ‘scribbles’ might be more accurate.

Still, I’m having great fun. I love this stage where the story is falling on to the page as fast as I can type and rather than break the flow, I quickly write a note to myself that should be ignored at peril – Check! What IS that word? Duplication! Plot hole! I think I must be tired! – and so the list goes on.  

So, I hope you’ll forgive the slight deviation from the rules to allow me to jump to line seventeen as the first significant place (with seven in the title, of course) from page seventy-seven of Misguidance where I could find seven concurrent sentences.

Line 17, page 77 of Misguidance

Misguidance is about Evelyn Leonard and her disastrous life. Evelyn has made some big mistakes but was dealt a bad hand and when stranger, Sarah Bentley puts together the full picture, she is able to sympathise. Eventually Sarah creates the perfect opportunity for Evelyn to start to put the record straight. 

Sarah and Cari, friend-cum-fellow-amateur-sleuth, are engaged in an awkward conversation with Bill, who has been working at Evelyn’s house following her largely unnoticed death, and who is extremely perturbed to have spotted Sarah ‘trespassing’ in the late Evelyn Leonard’s house.

 “I mean it you know,” Sarah said pushing the biscuit tin under Bill’s nose and giving it a shake, “a building career. My parents would have a fit but I’d love a physical job; whistling at men as they walked by, an all year tan...”

“…muscle-bound, perfectly toned body,” Cari interjected, casting her eyes over Bill’s beer induced paunch. She dunked her biscuit into her tea, retrieved it moments before it dissolved.

Bill took another chocolate chip cookie, smiled in place of a thank you and explained that Cari might get a tan building villas in Spain but in this country, was more likely to get piss-wet-through. “Anyway,” he said, leaning back on his chair, hands clasped behind his head and giving his intertwined knuckles a good crack, “I’m not a builder, I’m a joiner and you girls can prattle on all you like about my line of work but I won’t leave this house until I know what you took from Mrs Leonard’s place.”

He leaned back across the table, planted his elbows firmly on top, slurped his tea.

Thanks again to Jane and Jan for thinking of me.

The Next Seven:
The seven writers I have chosen are:

• Gillian Smellie @GillianSmellie http://skybluepinkish.wordpress.com
• Gerry McCullough @Gerry1098 http://www.gerrymccullough.com
• Kelly Byrne @KL_Byrne http://kellybyrne.wordpress.com
• Catherine MacLeod (AKA Diana!) @silentnovelist http@//daisychainsofsilence.wordpress.com
• Kay B @1_Lovelife http://Ilovelife.blogspot.com
• Jane Alexander @exmoorjane http://exmoor.blogspot.com
• Martha Williams @Martha_Williams http://marthawilliams.org

Can’t wait to read your extracts ...

How much will-power?

Please excuse the departure from the usual rough and tumble of this blog as I attempt to earn myself a nice little prize for my daughter’s to-die-for caramel slices. Ok, we’ll share the prize…
 
The story goes that my eldest, age 13, is always pipped to the cooking post by her younger sister who, somehow, has got into the habit of cooking a meal for the entire family of four, every Wednesday night. No, there was absolutely no bribery involved and yes, I have offered to be her sous-chef on several occasions and she never takes me up on it.

On this occasion, the house was otherwise empty, the coast clear and my eldest set about making these caramel slices. I should add here that I am not a big sweets person, would much rather have a sandwich than a cake, much to my three sisters’ annoyance. But these slices were creamy and gooey and crumbly and well, frankly, very hard to resist.

Instead of straightening her hair before school the next morning, my daughter set about assembling the slices on a plate. 8am came quicker than expected, as it has a habit of doing, and she shot out of the door, her wavy hair flailing behind her, asking that I cover up the caramel slices and put them away for tea. “Don’t eat any,” she called. “I’ve counted them.”

I have to ask at this point, just how much will-power does she think I have?

Tell me, what foods do you find impossible to resist?

So, this is my entry for the Bosch dishwasher competition and many thanks to Scottish Mum for posting the competition. I’ve just stumbled across her blog and it’s wonderful (saying that doesn't help me win, honest), it's full of serious and not so serious topics. You can find her at http://scottishmum.com. Fancy entering? Just follow the link but hurry, the closing date is 6 April. 

A Writing Place

On the back of a postcard of the Yorkshire Dales, I wrote a few sentences about my favourite ‘Writing Place’. This was for a competition hosted by Arvon who run top quality writing courses. http://www.arvonfoundation.org/ It was here that I wrote the first 5,000 words of Glass Houses, met my friend and writing buddy, Author, Jane Rusbridge, and was so inspired by the need to take this writing lark seriously that I came home and handed in my notice forthwith.  

I say I wrote my missives, ‘on the back of a postcard’, thankfully I’d had the foresight to buy five from my local post office which is probably why, when I was tidying up my study earlier – for tidying read, filing old scribbles which should be re-cycled and re-ordering my To Be Read pile- I stumbled across one of the four rejected cards. Establishing my experimental piece of flash fiction hadn’t taken obscenely long, I’d written it in my head while I was running. Producing a legible, flawless script, however, proved to be one of life’s little challenges; the ones which beat you around the head just at a time when your deadline dictates you need to sit very calmly and still.

Lumb Bank, one of four Arvon centres

My entry didn’t win, nor was it a runner up, so forgive me for ignoring the loud hint to bury this copy in the back of a forgotten drawer somewhere. But I like it because it reminds me of why I must always find time to put on my trainers, and explains how somebody who misses the company of people from previous employment, could be as equally addicted to the solitary sport of running, as writing.

Trip, trap, trip, trap, my feet bounce from the roots and branches covering the wooded track. My woolly hat, with its thick, blue bobble, is pulled down over my ears. My fingers are numb and my cheeks are burning in the cold wind. But my core is warm, my calves are pumping and my heart has found its steady beat. I drift to that place of creative thought where tricky passages are unravelled, blog posts devised and novel plots wondered. There is little interruption; a diving Red Kite adds to my description and a chance conversation only helps with characterisation. Running is my new page. This is why my feet are my favourite writing place.

Where’s your favourite place to write, to read, to be? Where do you go to think?

Sensible Shoes Required

I don’t like shopping for children’s shoes. I lose patience and it costs too much money. In fact, I think I shall remove personal shopper from my list of things-to-do-when-Spielberg-gets-his-hands-on-my-novel and replace it with a professional shoe fitter who will whisk my children away and return them to me only when their feet are adorned in perfectly fitting shoes; a modern day Elves and the Shoemaker.

My children aren’t too keen either. I was reading my youngest’s homework on her likes and dislikes. She said that the last time she went shoe shopping was the worst day of her life and I have to say, I probably concur.

I shall cut us both a little slack here. In general terms, the good old British shoe is not made for my daughter’s feet. She has unfeasibly high insteps and weak ankles. Unusually wide at the front, they taper into normal proportions at the back which means that a shoe which fits the toes, inevitably falls off at the heel.

The particular shopping trip in question is engrained in my brain too, except I remember it as three separate trips, each lasting hours longer than planned. The paediatrician had sent us off with a sort of ‘shoe prescription’.  I’d agreed with her, in a sheepish, seriously wanting-mother type of way, ‘But it’s just so hard to find a shoe which does all that,’ I’d whispered. Or one which a twelve year old will wear.

It began well. ‘Yes,’ my daughter agreed, ‘I understand I’ll have to compromise to find shoes which support my feet.’ So willing was she to comply, she even deigned to try on a pair or two. Hours and hours later, even her older sister - dragged there as moral support, in the attempt to convince a mother who couldn’t possibly understand the importance of ‘cool’ over mobility (she writes, curling up her toes and denying the pain in her bunions) - was manhandling her feet into the only non-pump type pair of shoes and expressing with an exaggerated shake of the head that these would just have to do and she could remove the bows before anyone else saw them.

Compromises made by every party, we bought a pair of shoes. My daughter suffered them until, in great delight, she announced that they’d worn out. So hated were these shoes that she obviously thought the pain involved in potentially finding a better pair, was marginally better than being forced to wear them a day longer than necessary.

This time my eldest also needed new shoes. Her feet are not so problematical but her taste range is a little on the narrow side. Pleeeease, can I have pumps this time, pleeeease. Absolutely everybody else has…

Pumps for school? They’re so 2011. It would appear that they have been jettisoned to the stock room of shoe fashion heaven.

So, this is where I say thank you. Thank you to the powers-that-be that decide what shall be fashionable. To the god who oversees, I offer a prayer to ask that this particular fashion stays around until my children leave school.

The only potential black spot of the whole shopping experience, which lasted, oh, almost half an hour, was the concern that both girls would fall in love with the same pair of sensible, strong leather, lace up and perfectly fitting brogues. However, the fashion gods had kindly decreed that there would be a good ten variations in all sizes of this type of shoe.

Once home, my husband eye-balled both pairs of shiny, toughened shoes with surprised curiosity. Had his daughters really chosen these shoes for themselves?

‘Dad,’ the raised eyebrows answered him, not unsympathetically, ‘You haven’t got a clue, have you?’   

Thanks to my marketeers

Many thanks to my budding marketeers both here and on Facebook and Twitter, for helping me come to a conclusion regarding the turbulent future of my book title, Glass Houses. My, very unscientific, survey would suggest that Glass Houses must remain the title for now, even if this isn’t the most charismatic of names.

Your responses have suggested it is a little one-dimensional and the idea of a sub-heading is a good one. I need to play with the idea of a life being prone to shattering in an instant and, although its re-building can be painful and the end result will never be the same, the journey to re-building can be fun; the re-built ‘glass house’ can be even better than before, even in the most unlikely of circumstances. This is the case for my main character, who also, for the record, receives her fair share of stone throwing, from those who can least afford to throw them.

As you can see, this could do with being a little snappier but you can leave that particular conundrum with me.

However, I would love you to tell me about your titles and how you came up with them - and crucially, whether you’re happy with what you’ve chosen.  We could have an Agenthood and Submissionville title workshop right here!

And to my lovely readers, far too sensible to ever get mixed up in this writing escapade, what would your title be, just for fun? What’s the best title you’ve ever seen and did the book delight or disappoint? I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks for reading!

To Change or Not To Change

I need your help. I’ve been ego-googling, or rather, naval gazing à la internet; checking out what happens when I enter my name in Google, or that of my novel, Glass Houses. This shameful pursuit, talked only of in hushed voices, is in truth, generally accepted as a necessary tool to assessing a writer’s ‘profile’. If I am to persuade a publisher of my potential to move from dedicated writer to published author, I have to show that I have the profile and the ability to help promote and ultimately sell my books. After all, it doesn’t matter how big the book could be, if nobody knows it’s available to buy.

Jackie Buxton is doing OK, thank you. I can’t claim the swimming prowess of JB from the South Axholme Sharks nor the brain of Professor JB specialising in Post-modernism but Jackie Buxton - the writer is out there vying for the Google top spot.

Not so, Glass Houses, however. My completed manuscript is buried, it would appear, in the deepest inner core of planet Google. It’s way behind independent companies offering our plants a lifeline and boasting generous discounts, as well as a primary school with only 67 pupils. I can’t tell you exactly where my Glass Houses appears, having called a halt to the search after the 26^th page of results.

It didn’t fare any better when I searched for Glass Houses, the book. Although the time wasn’t entirely wasted as I felt compelled to buy Glass Houses by Rachel Caine after clicking through so many recommendations and promotions - even though it’s really a book for teenagers and I can’t attest to being one of those, and I’m not knowingly a fan of vampire stories either.

There is no need to panic. Why would my book be a top response when it isn’t even available to purchase yet? We’re also advised not to be too precious about our manuscript’s title as it’s bound to be changed by the publisher under the advice of their marketing arm. But the publishing world is undoubtedly tough and part of me can’t help thinking that a title which would intrigue in the book shops, and which wasn’t a potentially tired repeat of a name already used, might keep a publisher’s interest a moment longer – and who knows, perhaps that’s the moment when the publisher decides that this book isn’t going in the rejection pile.

Changing the name of my book does have its drawbacks.  Glass Houses has enjoyed small success in competitions and would be recognisable to some loyal souls from Authonomy and Litopia, some of the writer’s sites in which I’ve been involved, as well as my reader friends in real life and on Twitter. I wouldn’t suggest it has a fan base but Glass Houses is certainly known to some.

Perhaps it’s foolish to essentially start again.  But if there already is a very successful Glass Houses out there, we’re going to have to start again at some point anyway, so why not now?

My original title for Glass Houses was ‘Knock for Knock’. I felt that Glass Houses was catchier and although only superficially giving an idea of the theme of the book, the theme was definitely less obvious in the name, Knock for Knock. Familiarity can breed contempt however, and I’m left wondering if Knock for Knock has more clout.

How many other books called Knock for Knock appear in a Google search? None.

I’m desperate to tell you why I chose Knock for Knock as a title but that wouldn’t be fair. Searching on-line or in a book shop, you wouldn’t be privy to this information and this is where I’d like to ask you to mentally put yourselves now. You’ve been given a book voucher for your birthday. The deal is: you have to buy a book from a new author. Glass Houses and Knock for Knock are side by side on display. Fixing only on the title, which would you pick up first? Perhaps you wouldn’t pick up either? I’d love to know why not.

Regardless of the choices on offer, you may feel it would be too risky to change a book title at this stage.

Whatever your reaction, I’d love to know. It will help me make my decision and I’ll report back next time.

Thank you!    

Bridget Stan Laurel Jones

Last week my fairy godmother fluttered in my direction, preened her wings and winked before tapping my typing fingers with the wand brought out especially for Dream Jobs. Would I like my own double page spread of book reviews? Now, we’re not talking a glossy national here, more a regional bi-monthly, but it’s already very professional and is undergoing a re-vamp so who says we can’t persuade it to punch above its weight?

Would I like a double page spread?

Reviews ready to go, I set about writing the requested 300 word biography. I looked through a couple of previous ‘About Me’ pieces with a squint and a squirm.

I needed to start from scratch and when the page still remained blank after ten minutes I did what any dedicated home-worker does, I put on my trainers and went for a run. It was cold. Excellent! It meant I could choose the ‘boggy route’ and trot over the peaks of frozen mud. Not so. The whole of Yorkshire was in the grip of ice and thick frost, it would appear, except for this particular path which I can only assume was in its own ozone-destroyed, micro-climate. I slid from edge to edge, sometimes gliding like a cross country skier, three times falling flat on my face. But I was quite happy, doubly so because I was also thinking about my piece: just what am I like?

Splattered in mud by this point, I came across a five-barred gate wedged into a bank of sludge and, rather than try to prise the gate open, decided it would be easier to go over the top.  My foot slipped on a rung, however, and sent me somersaulting over the highest bar. Thankfully the other foot got caught on the way over and stopped me nose-diving into the bog below. Hanging vertically from the top, staring down at the mud, I knew that whatever happened, I was not falling into that. Knowing me, the mud would probably be masking a six foot bunker and I’d die a most embarrassing death, with the added disappointment of never being able to recount my story.

Eventually extricated from the gate, having winched myself hand by hand back up to the top, much to the bemusement of a seemingly enormous herd of cows, I dusted myself down and thanked my fairy godmother for staying around long enough to ensure I emerged from another little scrape relatively unscathed.

That’s when I had my answer. What am I like? I am cross between Bridget Jones and Stan Laurel (the little half who was away with the fairies). Other people seem to manage to leave the house and come back looking remarkably similar to when they left. Not me! If I’m not sporting blood or mud, it’s an embarrassed hue.

Only a few days previously, there was the parking ticket incident. I saw the yellow sticker in disbelief and peered through the windscreen to find my parking disk lying in the footwell, the victim of an over-zealous door slamming.

‘Hello,’ I cried, ‘please can you help?’ The parking inspector wandered over, a small man with an engaging smile wearing a black uniform which was slightly more relaxed than I’d have expected, but still with the familiar peaked cap. I told him I was aware that everyone must say this kind of thing but asked if I could just point out the parking disk on the floor and demonstrate that the door was still locked. I showed him my key by way of authentication.

 ‘That’s most unfortunate,’ the man concurred with an Eastern European lilt to his accent, ‘I wish I could help you ma’am,’ he added, notably pointing his electronic gismo in the direction of the parking ticket, and staring intently at the orange package affixed to my windscreen as if he was trying to read it.

‘But I’m just the delivery man’.

So there you have it. That’s me. Bridget Stan Laurel Jones, happy to be alive and grateful to fairy godmothers for all sorts of reasons.

Have a great week – be careful out there…

Resolutely not making Resolutions

September is my new year. I celebrate New Year’s Eve with the rest of them, or with those who like to party. However, for me, apart from forgetting to write the new year on cheques for at least the month of January, little changes when that date flips over. It’s still winter and the children’s school year continues much the same aside from a slight dip in enthusiasm from the heady heights of September. Far from being enthused by new year’s resolutions to make the changes I know I must make, the best I can muster is a determination to get all the jobs abandoned in the pre-Christmas frenzy, done before Easter. 

Eat less in January? What, pray, will we do with the Christmas Cake? Drink water not wine? But warm red wine is really so much more appealing in front of the glowing coals of the fire, isn’t it? Chilled water with a slice of lemon has its place, of course, as a pre-requisite for health or to be sipped in sunshine.

Then there’s the January Gym New Membership. I love my sport. It’s harder to motivate myself not to do it, than to fit it into my schedule but I say, don’t resolve to join a gym in January unless you want to make it particularly difficult for yourself! I’m a member of a sports centre, nothing fancy, but even that’s expanded over Christmas. Yesterday, I took one look in the door, turned on my heel and drove home for a warm wine in front of the fire. Buy an exercise DVD, spend three months’ membership on a wii or take up Zumba in the local hall; resolve to get fit, certainly, but save your gym resolution until March. The joining fee will be erased if you ask nicely and you’ll have room to swing your firming butt. The only pressure to step off the running machine will be your aching limbs and there’ll be no sour looks from the regular class member whose place you’ve taken in aerobics.

My new year is September. It’s a new school year, new uniform, new timetable, bed times returned to somewhere near acceptable. And there’s this energy. Where does it come from? I write, I blog, I submit, I even earn some money. I have my birthday and far from depression at the concrete verification that the lines on my face really are increasing so fast that they will soon all meet in the middle in a spaghetti-like confusion, I am buoyed with enthusiasm for this fantastically promising year and what it will have in store for me.

You may know that I am not the world’s most enthusiastic cleaner. I do the necessary to prevent disease and shame, I hasten to add, but with little satisfaction. It’s a thankless task to be got behind me so that I can sit down and write a little more guilt –free. Come September, however, and I don’t just want to clean the house, no, give me a spade and a skip and I’d happily re-build the whole thing. Windows? What’s the point in having them if we can’t see through them? They’ll only take a day and the girls are back at school. How did those skirting boards get so mucky without me even noticing, tusk, tusk, hand me the damp cloth. And so it goes on until the Christmas list kicks in and normal, essential-service-only is resumed.

I did make a resolution last year, but it was in June. It was one of those few decisions we make which was life-changing. This was when I launched into Larkism and it’s achieved the supposed impossible: more sleep yet more productivity. I am happy to say that this was a resolution I not only kept but would find difficult to un-do. Sometimes, I admit, I creep into late night scribbling which drifts into Facebook surfing and binge tweeting and I’m quite happy. But the next day, when that old befuddled haze hasn’t lifted until 8pm, I am reminded that I am better when I turn off the light before midnight.

So, whilst I have a healthy respect for anybody resolving to change something for the better in January, I am resolutely not making any resolutions before March. Maybe having experienced 43 new years, I know my limitations. But I’d love to know if you are a January resolution achiever. And if not, when should new year start for you?

The Novel in your Hand

Sun setting, men tending to the early summer barbecue, children playing sweetly together in the vast fields attached to the camp site and the scene is set for a much loved relative and I to have a glass of wine together. I ask about the novel in her hand and she talks enthusiastically about the brilliance of this book, how she doesn't want it to finish and how she’d feel differently about a friend who didn’t enjoy it, such was the impact the book has had on her own life.

I understand this level of passion for a novel. However I’d defy anybody who’s played any part in a book club to feel like this, nothing being less predictable in a group of people than who will like and dislike your chosen story. Our conversation came to a natural close but nonetheless left me with a slight uneasiness and the hope that this relative wouldn’t buy me the book in question. 

Three months later, the book arrived. I bet you’ll love this, she wrote inside. I do hope so, I thought to myself.

To make matters worse, this same relative, whose opinion I do respect, had bought me a novel for a previous birthday which I really didn’t enjoy, despite it being tremendously popular and a film having come from it. I decided to be honest when we discussed it later, although choosing to focus on the parts I liked, or perhaps should say, could bear, rather than those which had me squirming with nausea. Yes, the nostalgic scenes were great, I said, with a fixed smile. I wrestled with myself even back then about not admitting my true feelings about a book. It wasn’t as if my friend had written it, or even that a friend of a friend of hers had written it. But somehow, it just seemed a little ungrateful to talk about not enjoying a present.

So, imagine how I felt when I finally picked up this now infamous book during the Christmas holidays and struggled to get started. Reading under pressure to enjoy something, I’ve discovered, is a little like being asked to ‘walk normally’ as a consultant asked me to do, recently. How hard can it be to put one foot in front of the other? Try it! I nearly fell over, such was my determination to produce an even tread.

I re-started this book three times – each time, thinking that I mustn’t have been in the mood or was too tired to concentrate. On the third, I made a pact with myself. I would treat this book like any other; if it wasn’t working for me by the 100^th page, I would cut my losses and turn to the next in my To Be Read pile which is reminiscent of a publisher’s slush pile of reads from wannabe first-time novelists. 

Besides, hopefully the conversation would never come up.

I saw the book-giver over Christmas and she said how much she’d really enjoyed Glasshopper by Isabel Ashdown which I’d given her for her birthday. She spoke so fondly of the adorable main character, Jake, that I had no doubt her praise was real. I’ve just started yours, I said, the blurb looks great.

It wasn’t going well. By page 30 I was tempted to skim read. For the record, my problem is with the introduction of the main characters and their stories, without enough happening elsewhere. I reminded myself that I felt similarly about Atonement by Ian McEwan up to around 50 pages and that went on to become one of my all-time favourite reads.

This novel was now under about the same amount of pressure to be enjoyable as David Cameron is to sort out the debt crisis. It wasn’t fair to heap so much responsibility on one story, to put it under such close scrutiny.

I started the novel for the fourth time, knowing I had a good unbroken couple of hours ahead of me to ‘get into this book’, such had become the nature of the challenge. There was a flicker, around page 45, when I found a character I thought I might care about but other than that, I’m afraid, at page 114, I gave up for the last time and went to bed.

And that’s where my story ends. I can’t bring myself to pretend I’ve read this book but I also don't relish seeing the disappointment in the relative’s face if I reveal I can't even finish it. What would you do in this situation? And if you’ve been in a similar place before, please do tell us here!

Happy New Year everyone and happy reading, whatever you choose!

Present Peekers

My daughter asked if she could open the Christmas present just given to her by her piano teacher. No, I said, Of course not. Why? she asked. Because it isn’t Christmas yet! (It wasn’t our most profound conversation.) I looked at her with a certain amount of incredulity. Why on earth would you want to open your present in advance? She returned the look with a, Why wouldn’t you?

I like surprises so have absolutely no desire to know what’s under wraps until the special day. I’ve always been like this. I never wanted to be hoisted onto a sister’s shoulders to peep over the top shelf in the kitchen cupboard to uncover next month’s stash of Christmas presents, unlike the other three – eh girls? If I do ever stumble across an unwrapped present, the disappointment can hang around for days. So, unless under extreme pressure to do so –a hand-made present from Auntie Ethel, donated with great excitement only moments before emigrating to The Bermuda Triangle, for example- I never open presents in advance.

There’s a superstitious side of me, too, which ensures the Sellotape remains firmly fixed. It’s like turning the page to the next month on the calendar before you’re actually there. I just can’t bring myself to do it. I understand the logic of turning the page; it’s the night before and it would be much more useful to see what was planned next week rather than what we’ve already done. But this tiny part of me just doesn’t want to tempt fate, to be presumptuous that the powers-that-be will decree that we should reach the next day. And it’s the same for me with presents.

I know people who offer a very polite, yet unprompted, request for their inevitable gift. I’m happy to oblige but it is, nonetheless, a slightly alien concept for me, somehow detracting from the joy of giving and receiving, even though I know it stems from not wanting to waste money which is only to be commended.

So, I’ve decided there are peekers and non-peekers, surprise and non-surprise junkies. Just like there are those who’ll read the final page of a book to decide whether it’s going to be worth reading and those who grimace at the thought of even catching the blurb. I think you can guess where I stand on that one. Are you a present-peeker?Were you a present-peeker? And if you read the last page of a novel before the first, do you also sneak to the tree when nobody’s looking to have a peep through a loosely wrapped corner? Come on, you can tell us!

To all my lovely readers, I haven't written my Christmas cards yet so please feel very honoured to receive my first official Christmas wish. Thanks so much for sharing this blog with me this year, it makes me very happy to know people are reading my scribbles. I wish you all a wonderful Christmas and a 2012 full of happy times and publishing deals for those who’d like them.

My Word Sins

I noticed a 'word cloud', a graphic illustration of your most frequently used words, on my very talented writer friend’s blog, thanks Sandie, http://sandiezand.blogspot.com  and couldn’t resist having a play around myself. First, I looked at my blog and the result was interesting. I loved the layout and was pleased that writing related words achieved greatest prominence - or should I say, I was relieved that writing achieved any prominence at all; I do aim to talk about writing related subjects here, even if I have been known to get a little distracted. 

But I winced when I saw an entry which would have had my English teacher racing for her red pen. ‘Get,’ had crept in at the sidelines. I quickly deleted it but then decided that this wasn’t really in the spirit of things so put my scissors away before I got to ‘however’.

This took me to my ‘completed’ novel, Glass Houses. Did I dare to do the word cloud for that? I have already edited it so many times and checked for recurrences of the words on Jackie’s Danger List, pinned to my pc. These are words I know would offend the eye in their quantity if left unchecked, such as, ‘just’, ‘finally’, ‘now’ and ‘look’, plus my very worst offender,  ‘really’. But I wondered if the word cloud would suggest some others, such as ‘but’ (already causing me a little uneasiness in this post.) From a twenty page snapshot, the result was that, ‘get’ was a little too large for comfort, ‘really’ was still hanging around and I couldn’t understand why ‘back’ was as frequently used as some character names. ‘Like’ also still taunted me, even though I’ve spent hours analysing each and every occurrence of ‘like’ in the book and feel I’ve deleted or changed them wherever humanly possible.

I wasn’t surprised that the main characters were large but it took me to a question I ask myself constantly: do I use the character names too often when they could be substituted for a pronoun? Getting the balance right on this is tricky, particularly with two characters of the same sex in one scene – too many ‘she’ and you’re left with a character with four hands able to perform fascinating contortion, together with instant variations in hair length with two interchanging colours. You see my difficulty?

I looked at my current work-in-process, Misguidance. Would the characters’ names be as large and would there be a higher incidence of ‘bad’ words as I haven’t even thought about editing this yet?

Again, the main characters are unsurprisingly large but ‘Sarah’ is huge so I need to keep a check on my over-naming tendencies. ‘like’ has slipped itself in again and we have ‘back’ rearing its ugly head. ‘Back’ troubles me the most, it wasn’t a word I was aware I used plentifully at all.

So, thanks to Sandie, and a five minute diversion, I’m trawling through Glass Houses again and writing a check-list for Misguidance. Thankfully, I enjoy editing and love finding something new to look at because that nugget might just be the element which changes a potential publisher’s ‘no’ to a ‘yes’.

What are your most oft used words and phrases? If you write, have a go yourself at: http://www.wordle.net Just copy and paste your text and then share the results with us, simple. Thanks for reading!

Touching with my Fingertips

T’is a cruel world, sometimes. This dropped into my in-box yesterday.

Dear Ms Buxton

Thank you for the opportunity to read 'Glass Houses'. It is a beautifully written novel and an absolute pleasure to read. Your characters are alive - exquisitely so - and the story driving the novel pulses. Tori's situation is touching and current; it evokes empathy and concern in the reader yet somehow shies away from dominating the emotional appeal of other characters.

I have discussed this work at length with my colleagues and although we are undisputedly impressed with the strength of the writing, and though we do believe there is a market for the work, we do not feel it will sit comfortably on our lists going forward. In recent years we have been forced to reduce our lists and as a result we are becoming increasingly selective – and sometimes harsh – about the acquisition of new titles. 

I’m sorry this isn’t the response you were hoping for, but thank you for thinking of [Publisher].  We wish you luck in finding a home for your work elsewhere and may I offer my congratulations for your literary successes thus far.

Kind regards,[Publisher]

Generally, I’d sooner eat strawberry jelly with pips in than post my failings but I do realise that when my first submission passed over the post office counter, with its heavy dose of longing and anticipation and a sprinkling of fairy dust, I’d have been ecstatic to have got this response. I am buoyed by the fact that a publisher sees a market for it and that the characters had the desired effect. I've had some great feedback in response to a reading of the full manuscript before but none where I was quite so close to touching a 'yes' with my fingertips.  I will submit Glass Houses again today. I have the small matter of approximately 30,000 words of the first draft of my second novel to write before my self-imposed deadline of February 2012 so have absolutely no time for wallowing. This publishing lark may oscillate between cruel and uplifting but at least it’s never, ever dull. 

That Synopsis Thing

I’m a bit of a fan of the decidedly non-crabby Crabbit Old Bat, AKA, Nicola Morgan, and her brilliant blog full of tips for wannabe writers. http://helpineedapublisher.blogspot.com I first came across Nicola’s writing when I read, ‘Blame My Brain,’ a book about that fascinating, sometimes unfathomable phenomenon that is a teenager’s mind. If you have anything like a, ‘normal’ adolescent in your house and ever feel that you should scrap everything you learnt in the first twelve years of parenting, I urge you to take a read – then hand it to your child.

Nicola has written over 90 other fiction and non-fiction books and her next is to be on the dreaded art of synopsis writing. When I saw that she was looking for guinea pigs to offer up their fledgling synopsis for the scrutiny of her and fellow blog readers, I was tempted. Why would I wish to expose the inadequacies of my synopsis to the red pen of an expert and hundreds of eagle-eyed writers? Because of its importance. Get the synopsis wrong and agents and publishers don’t read your manuscript. That’s it.

And so for that reason, wincing, my finger hovering, I eventually pressed ‘send’.

The fairy story writer inside me would love to say that Nicola responded with an apology that she would not be able to use my synopsis as an example as it was far too perfect already. Unsurprisingly, this was not the case but no matter, the feedback opened my eyes to the fact that my synopsis committed an obvious sin: it did not tell the story of my book. Simple.

I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to redress this issue and have just sent it back to Nicola for ‘marking’. Of course my fear is that she reads the new version with her head in her hands, swaying from side to side, pausing only to sigh with disappointment. But in my more rational moments, I will admit to this version being better. I shall wait to hear back from Nicola before deciding if I’ve achieved my objective of writing a synopsis which reflects the plot and style of Glass Houses as I’d like it to read - but I already feel confident that I know what I need to do, even if it takes a few more attempts.

I won’t include either version here, you’ll have to buy Nicola’s book, Write a Great Synopsis (working title) for yourself, but I thought it might be useful to share with you what I’ve learnt:

1.      Tell the story
This is at the crux of the mission. By all means write your synopsis well, showing that you have the tools for the job, but make sure your story joins up.  It doesn’t matter how nicely the synopsis is written, your submission will be rejected if your novel doesn’t sound like it would sell. Fact first, then style.

2.      Be accurate; don’t be ambiguous
I realised that my previous synopsis had lead readers to believe that x, y and z would happen when really it was a, b and c. This was quite terrifying! I needed to go right back to the beginning and think about everything along the route to the end of the novel, choosing more carefully what events I included and more crucially, what I chose to leave out.

3.      Cut to the chase
When I took out the superfluous words and detail as suggested, I realised how short on content the synopsis really was and exactly why the plot would come across as ‘thin’ for a 100,000 word novel. I’d included too many examples to show the same point and needed to show more events, writing less detail about each one.

4.      Show a stranger
I’ve asked long-suffering friends and fellow writers to look over my synopsis in the past but these people have all read some, or all, of Glass Houses. They would be able to fill in the blanks as I can, meaning that they, too, wouldn’t be in a position to fairly judge how accurately the synopsis tells the story.  Next time I will show my synopsis to a total stranger (of course hoping that they are compelled to jot down the title for future purchase, so intrigued are they by the plot).

I’m indebted to Nicola and all the fellow writers who took the time to feedback their thoughts and suggestions. I’m not claiming my synopsis is perfect but it’s certainly closer to selling my book than it was. Thank you.

Happy scribbling!

Jackie

BTW…not wishing to depress anyone with my list, I should add that I have submitted Glass Houses to 18 agents and publishers and been asked to send the full manuscript to five of them. (It’s currently with a publisher, donations of fairy dust very gratefully received.) So, I don’t think an inadequate synopsis is an absolute show stopper. But it could be so why take that chance?