I have a dilemma

Hearing that a publisher or agent would have taken you on a few years ago when publishing was a different place, is much better than hearing that they wouldn’t have taken you on then and certainly wouldn’t give you so much as a fleeting consideration now. However, after a few times of hearing this poisoned chalice of a sentence, the voices which knock on the side of my head and ask if anyone is home, are getting louder, even in my ears, known to be a little hearing-challenged.

We are having to be more choosy, cry the publishers which means the agents are too. When book lists are being slashed, a polished copy is going to fare better than something with promise. There are publishers out there who are desperate to take on and nurture a first time author, just as in the old days. I am holding out for a response from one such publisher who sounds so devoted to people like me, and so professional in a tremendously 'tactile' way, that the waiting is painful. But nonetheless, the voices are suggesting that generally, a professional edit could be the difference between my first novel being published, and thus read by a few more people than simply me and my trusted readers, and languishing in the, At least-I-Had-Fun-Writing-It pile. 

I always suggest that we keep moving when playing the submission game because waiting around will only lead to a depressed state of rigor mortis. Just as a watched kettle never boils, neither does the email land if you click send/receive more than ten times in an hour. Although, I admit to continued, extensive investigation into this one.

So, heeding my own advice, off I trot to do some research into professional editing. The company which I decide is the most impressive, is, of course, one of the most expensive options. However, this is a group who use only published authors and who have answered all my questions personally and in great detail which would bode well for the service to come. 


I have the money for the editing in my piggy bank but my head has been turned by a course-cum-retreat.


The last time I went on a week long course I wrote 5,000 words of a book that was not even a gem of an idea before my arrival; that book became Glass Houses. There I met my fantastic writing buddy who has become a friend as well as a mentor. Oh, and as soon as I got home, I handed in my notice for a job I really enjoyed but which left me no time to write.

The course in question would fall a few weeks before I started my job teaching creative writing and couldn’t fail to fill me with ideas for that. Apart from attending pertinent talks and workshops and spending time with other writing devotees, I would actually write. This is something I don’t do too much of when my children are home for the summer holidays and it would mean that I had an outside chance of finishing the first draft of my second book while I was there. Without the course, the first draft would drift into September and September, as I’ve opined in a previous post, is my New Year. Once my children were back at school I’d love to be on stage two, making a story from the set of scenes dropped onto the pages a few weeks earlier.

My dilemma is this: I don’t have the finances or the time to do both the editing and the course. I have to decide whether the editing is essential to selling my first book. Would it open my eyes to its failings and give renewed vigour to making changes? I am not one for giving up and whatever an editor advised, I would consider it carefully and then act upon it.

Or, should I focus on book two, crack on with its first draft, have something else to show a potential publisher and learn something new in the process? 


Whether you’re a booky type, published or wannabe writer or one of my trusted followers, your opinions are all equally valid. Somebody not in this crazily infuriating, yet fizzy and exciting world of publishing, may just see the answer really clearly. Can I ask, what would you do? 

Very Inspiring Blog Award

I was really touched to receive a Very Inspiring Blog Award from the wonderful, Smirkpretty, AKA Shannon, whose own blog is, quite frankly, inspiring. If my writing can ever be deemed inspirational, then it really is worth every moment of the sweat and toil. Thank you, Shannon. You can visit Shannon's blog at http://smirkpretty.wordpress.com/.

As I’ve been writing this blog for a couple of years now and already had the dubious honour of dredging up seven things you wouldn’t know about me, this time, I’m going to have to dive a little deeper. Goggles on, we’re going in.

1. I was the unwitting guest at the wake of a decapitated man. It was almost twenty years ago and I had about tuppence-ha’penny to spend on rent.  After weeks of fruitless searching however, I’d reluctantly upped the amount I was prepared to pay by £5 per week. I was with my now-husband and as we drove up the crunchy gravel drive, we commented on what amazing house you could find for that relatively small increase in budget. I do recall it being a little dark, though. Eventually the door was answered by a tiny Asian lady who simply looked and beckoned us in. She directed us over to a couple of wooden chairs, the last in a line of eight resting against the lounge wall. We sat down. Other people nodded acknowledgement without taking their gaze away from the rolled up carpet in the middle of the floor. Nobody spoke. ‘It’s like waiting at a bus stop,’ I whispered to my boyfriend. ‘But what are we waiting for?’ he whispered back.

It transpired we were waiting for the landlord to come and take us to the actual house for rental. It was the landlord’s son who appeared in his place. I rejected the room which was opposite the graveyard and two miles away from where the advert had described. It wasn’t just because of the broken light hanging from the centre of the room with shards of faulty light bulb hanging threateningly from it and a muffled explanation as to why the light didn’t work; something about a fight between two tenants. Nor was it particularly the fault of the bed which had clearly collapsed on one side, so badly that the putrefying mattress had half slumped down on to the floor. No, it was the notes in the tiny kitchen assigned to 12 people which put me off. They made it quite clear, with a rather excessive brutal directness, exactly which item of food belonged to which person and woe betide anybody who dared to pick from somebody else’s shelf.

The next day we read in the paper that a landlord who had been ripping off his tenants had had a dispute with one of them. In the process he’d lost his head which explains why the alarmingly human like form rolled up in the carpet in the living room, seemed a little short for a fully grown man.

2. I’m learning Slovakian. I can say this in three tenses, can add in an adverb or colourful adjective, if required, and even tell you that my dog is also learning Slovakian (and add that I don’t actually have a dog, or a cat). But learning to tell the time has driven me to real tears on not one, but two, occasions. I suppose, with no other distractions and an interlocutor with the patience of Job, I could just about spit out the answer nowadays but by the time I’ve worked out that it’s, ‘five minutes before the first quarter of the tenth hour’ (ten past nine), it will already by eleven minutes past nine and I’ll have to start all over again.  If a Slovakian ever has the misfortune to ask me for the time, I shall say, ‘neviem’ and hide my watch.

3. I cycled the Pyrenees in a week last September and it was the best sporting experience I’ve ever had. I’m not sure I could really muster the energy, or time, to train again but I’m so glad I did it once in my lifetime. My husband and I raised £2,500 for the Stroke Association, a charity close to our hearts because our twelve year old daughter suffered a stroke when she was one. She’s made an amazing recovery. Pre- national health and research done by the Stroke Association, I’m not so sure she would have done. We will always be grateful to them.

4. I have arthritis in the third finger of my right hand which I have found out, only today, is not inflammatory arthritis but the other type which means that my degeneration may not be quite as fast as I’d feared. Please raise your glass of olive oil and share a toast to the longevity of joints.

5. I have bunions, hearing aids, glasses and the odd protesting joint but as I explain to my concerned-cum-amused husband, I feel it’s only my peripheries that are broadcasting my advancing years. The women in my family live for near-centuries and I intend to give them a run for their money. By then, they’ll have invented a pill to sort out feet, eyes and ears and a gadget to turn the pages on a Kindle, so I’ll be fine.

6. I ran the midnight marathon in Norway and got my pace so badly wrong that I was reduced to a lollop after the first half. I spent so long at one feed station, stuffing myself with bananas, cheese sandwiches, flap jack, jelly babies and energy drink - this is the girl who can’t normally eat within two hours of running - and chatting with the officials, that fellow runners thought I was a marshal and asked me to hand them a drink. At that stage, I have to say, I was tempted to jump ship.

7. I was a tour guide but I have no sense of direction. If you put me in a field and spun me around, I would die searching for the exit. Now my children are older, it is they who take me to the toilet in a restaurant to ensure I make it back before the end of the meal.

I did a season of bus and walking tours based in countries I knew but in places I hadn’t always been to myself. The idea was that we crammed up on the history of the ones we didn’t know and memorised maps so that we could guide our guests around.

Oh dear.

I used all the means at my disposal to get myself, and the holiday makers, around these foreign cities. The bus drivers would quietly point out landmarks before we arrived. The hoteliers would suggest a seemingly obvious building for me to aim for so that if all else failed, I could find the way there, sneak out the map and do everything in my power to recall the way back to the hotel. But the rest of the time I used to make it up.

Whilst I may not be able to remember which way to turn out of a car park, tell me a story and I’ll remember it for ever. Hence my oft-used line, ‘I’ve brought you this way because I just have to tell you about…’ I almost pulled it off. Almost. One wonderful American gentleman who kindly took it upon himself to give a little cough on the off chance I was about to walk past a turning on several occasions, wrote on his feedback form, ‘I’ve never had so much fun in my life. This lovely lady couldn’t find her way out of a square box but I could listen to her talking all day.’ I say, thank the lord for the American love of a northern English accent.

 
So, to my list of my 15 blogs which inspire and make me smile. Congratulations on your well-deserved awards! To this list I add my usual proviso, if your name is missing and you feel it should be there, it should. It’s my brain cells. I forgot to mention, they’re on the decline too.

http://annalisacrawford.blogspot.co.uk by Annalisa Crawford

http://alongthewritelines.blogspot.co.uk by Derek Thompson

http://www.standingnakedatabusstop.com  by Lesley Richardson

http://www.whoatemybrain.com by Nick Cross

http://skybluepinkish.wordpress.com by Gillian Smellie (hoping this will inspire you back to blogging, Gillian!)

http://isabelcostello.wordpress.com  by Isabel Costello

http://chicklittings.blogspot.co.uk  by Debs Riccio

http://authorhollyrobinson.blogspot.co.uk by Holly Robinson

http://spiesliesandpies.blogspot.co.uk by Charlie Wade

http://www.iamjakebarton.com  by Jake Barton

http://theelephantinthewritingroom.blogspot.co.uk by Sally Zigmond

http://cassam-isanyonethere.blogspot.co.uk by Anne Mackle

Kay’s http://1lovelife.blogspot.co.uk

Tash’s http://talesofstepford.wordpress.com

http://www.racheljlewis.com by Rachel J Lewis

In accepting your award, please:
 
1. Display the award logo somewhere on the blog.
2. Link back to the blog of the person who nominated you.
3. State seven things about yourself.
4. Nominate 15 other bloggers for the award and provide links to their blogs.
5. Notify those bloggers that they have been nominated and of the award’s requirements.

I look forward to your posts :) 

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.

Changing Paces

When my children were younger and I used to see the Mum’s Taxi sign hanging disconsolately in the back of, well, a Mum’s Taxi, it struck a not insignificant amount of fear into my exhausted body. From where would I find any extra time to transport my children three times around the county on any given day, the way it appeared mothers and fathers of teenage children quite happily seemed to do? When did those parents find time to cook and clean and read and play and work and clear away the Happy Street?

What I couldn’t imagine when the teeny tots were scuttling everywhere, me and various house-hold items in their wake, was that these babies would grow into individuals who didn’t actually need, nor want, to spend every moment attached to my left foot. Indeed, once fed and watered after a hard day at school, they would drift off to friends’, to the garden or to a varying assortment of pitches and screens, and even sometimes to their homework.

Thus, I discovered, that far from not minding this extra draw on my time, I actually relish it. It’s the chance to be alone and chat with my children without all the other demands on our time and attention that exude from the four distracting walls of home.

There’s more. With Mum’s Taxi comes the humble café stop. Yes! I exclaim a little too readily, Of course I’ll pick you up. No rush. Quickly I sort through my mental map of Harrogate, searching for the nearest, yet least frequently visited, coffee shop (lest the owners should think I have nothing better to do) in which to meet. I do all in my power to arrive early, and hope that my daughters arrive late, so that I can order my cappuccino, place myself next to the window and People Watch.

All in the name of writing, of course.

Today, I’m fascinated by speed and the different pace people use to walk up and down the main shopping street. It says so much about them and their lives - real or imaginary. There are the loving strollers, not simply moving slowly because they are in no hurry to part, but because their foot intercepts the other person’s and at this speed, their brains can automatically prevent them from getting in a tangle.

There are the bouncing teenagers who gallop one by one up to the quickly forming group of friends which will soon amount to eight. Each issues a hug and two kisses to the existing members, the next to arrive repeating the operation, like an affectionate version of I Went To Market And Bought…’. If you look really closely, you can see which of the 14 year olds is comfortable with this. I’ll use that, I think, and realise that although both my novels span three generations, I’ve never yet featured a teenager.

Then come the mothers, fathers and grandparents, each with a child at the end of their fingers-tips, walk-running behind, seemingly unfazed by this most uneconomical stop-start method of travel.

A minority of people scurry, darting in and out of the other shoppers, barely looking up to do so, perceiving their presence like a bat making full use of its sonar system.

Some people have very large, determined strides, I notice, their back straight, shoulders down, one arm swinging army-like at their side, the other clutching at the purchases which have made them late for wherever they’re going. And it’s one such man who walks purposefully, but without haste, to the front entrance of Marks and Spencer, stops, looks once right and left, then to his watch and the clock diagonally above his head. He gives an unnecessary cough into his fist, tugs at the hem of his cord jacket. He doesn’t stand still, rocks a little instead, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He’s getting cold, stuffs his hands into his pockets, removing the right only to compare the time on his watch to the large clock advertising H. Samuel, thinking that checking both will make the time pass twice as quickly.

Does he know her well? I ask myself, wondering if it’s really possible to work out whether this shuffle of a dance is born out of excitement, irritation or the cold. And why have I assumed he’s expecting a woman?

Still he waits, more people flow past with their varying stride length and extensive assortment of arm movements, until eventually he stops his marching, offers one final glance to the clock and another more pointedly to his watch and forces a smile. You’re late! I know he says, because he puts his hand on the female’s back and pushes her in the direction they clearly need to go as he speaks. It’s a teenager for whom he's been waiting - his daughter. It’s clear because when he goes to place a kiss on top of her head, she wafts it away, no doubt with a scrunch of her nose. With matching long strides, heads held high, they walk faster than everyone else. I lose sight of them.

I have another sip of my coffee. He needs to discover coffee shops, I think to myself, and I start to write.

Happiness is an Ironing Basket

I remember Kirsty Young talking to Chris Evans about happiness, how she’d been misquoted in the press and what she was really saying was that her ambition for her children wasn’t simply for them to be ‘happy’ per se. Life brings its challenges and striving simply to be ‘happy’ through everything, though an appealing goal, was one destined to fail. Kirsty said that to ‘know’ those fleeting moments of happiness, those moments when you just want to sigh and say, yeah, this is GREAT, to hold on to them and appreciate them, makes for more contentment. Hallelujah! I’ve been saying for years that you ‘have to be down to be up,’ and Kirsty’s given me a much more eloquent way to express it. So, that’s what I bring you this week: three fleeting, and not so fleeting, moments of happiness which made me stop and smile.

Bluebells. I turned a corner, and there they were. I stop for time or no man when I run, not, I hasten to add, because I’m incredibly fast, dedicated or even sticking to a training plan (try as I might to bring some discipline into my running, after ten years of the darned thing, I haven’t managed it yet). No, generally I’m on a tight schedule, have given myself a certain time slot which leaves five minutes at the end to get back into the house, make a cup of tea, shower, stretch, look at the post, chat to the neighbour…and be back at my desk. But, on this glorious Tuesday morning, I was compelled to pause, to recognise the almost artificially bluey-purple scene, appreciate how lucky I am to have this on my doorstep, and take a photo for posterity.

The second moment was the unveiling of the bottom of my ironing basket. In truth, this moment actually preceded the bluebells - I had to achieve the empty basket before I could allow myself the run - but I thought if I started with the ironing, those of you as keen as I am on the fetters of domesticity, might wander off.

Apart from that heady day over two decades ago when purchasing the wretched thing, I cannot remember every seeing this ironing basket empty. Most days I iron. I can’t bear to do it in one shift. But I always leave a few items languishing at the bottom of the basket, just to deny me the satisfaction of crossing the ironing off the to-do list. Not this day! It’s a simple thing, but it made me smile enough to reach for my camera again, even if it was the most transitory of my wafts of happiness, only lasting until the next instalment of misshapen clothes had been peeled from the radiator.

And now the third. This has given me more than a moment of satisfaction although the subsequent wait is bordering on torture, grateful as I, unequivocally, am.  From the general junk of my in-box trying to convince me that a 50% discount on false nails would make my life complete, as would a cut price holiday to somewhere very hot leaving tomorrow, together with the news that an EBay item has been re-listed and a company with far too much time on their hands are still harbouring the misapprehension that anyone other than my wonderful mother makes my curtains, the words, ‘Both your entries have been shortlisted’, greeted me one fine morning,

The First Chapter Competition is run by the Oxford Editors http://www.theoxfordeditors.co.uk, an international literary consultancy and agency, and I entered samples from Glass Houses and my current Work In Progress, Misguidance. The constant clicking on the website boasting no further news has caused me some distress, as well as a touch of arthritis in the clicking finger, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. Shortlisting is great, a win would be a champagne moment and until the Fat Lady Sings, I can still dream, can’t I?

So, distract me! What are your fleeting moments of happiness? Please share!

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!