from under the compost heap

hot water

2012-01-29T16:15:00.000-08:00

So it's been a month. No hot water from tap. A whole month. The plumber came, it was a Saturday, and what a comedian. Really. No sweat. Perhaps if it had been a hot day and my water was running hot etc there might have been a few trickles. But no. The other plumber removed the wrong bit. It was white and rubbery. He should have removed the solid metal thingy. The one pointed out to me, twice, by the comedian. So he's coming back. With his mate. To do this two man job of removing a thing which is not white and rubbery (new one on order) but the metal thingy. Oh, and they're bringing a bag of sand and cement to fill in the hole. Not that they're meant to, but, hey, we've been without hot water for a month, so plumber says we've been mucked about enough.
You think??????
Be nice. Make tea. With sugar. They all take sugar.
Hey ho once more.

If I could only have some hot water

2012-01-21T02:51:00.000-08:00

My kitchen is FULL of amps, guitars and drums, coils of wire and tangles of wire, as we try to re-organise the music room, the rehearsal room, the room with so many years of dust, beer stains and coffee spills. Notice the beer never gets spilled... Great vats of soup for the workers (i.e various band members from various bands who can turn their hand to carpentry and heaving heavy equipment) and various drop ins, long haired drummer, round guitarists etc friendly birds of prey ready to rescue anything we're chucking out, and our lovely Alan doing the electrics, all delighted at soup and bread and freebies. Pandeflippymonium!

And, the water heater by sink has been broken for weeks. Had engineer in twice. He’s coming back today. He’s never seen one of these machines before… He gets the hot water going and it runs really well. He turns off the tap, I sign a thingy and out he goes. Ten minutes later I turn on the tap and no hot water…
Today I’ll lead him through the maze of musical/sound stuff and MAKE HIM HAVE A CUP OF TEA (white, lots of sugar, no doubt) and then try the tap again. To prove that it's not the way I do it. Is it?
Hey ho.

Got a bouzouki to try out. It's sitting on the kitchen table and now and then I get it out have a strum and put it back. Words and airs keep floating through my head. And just now, I read a poem written by a Padre, during the war. It's not a famous poem, it's possibly even twee, but I tell you what... it made me cry.

Off to the gym.

Alice and

2012-01-02T04:15:00.000-08:00

My friend Alice has just eaten a chocolate covered ant. How's about that for bravery above and beyond the call! Surely deserving of an 'I've eaten a chocolate covered ant, bet you haven't' medal. She is the bravest person I know. Apart from Colin, but then he's eaten half a sheep head in a restaurant in Cyprus; tripe soup which smelt like sewage at a pow-wow in Manitoba and maggot in barbecue sauce (part of this rather odd present we were given - Christmas creepy crawlies encrusted in chocolate or salt or something) given us by a friend who is now definitely not a friend, I'll see to that...
When I discovered what I was eating, thinking it a chocolate covered coffee bean and wondering if I'd ever sleep again, I spat the whole lot out and was picking pieces of ant legs from between my teeth for what seemed like hours. At least I'm convinced they were ant legs. Crispy ones. Someone out there, who will claim to know better, is sure to tell me otherwise but I won't believe that it was just a sugar casing, which only looked like ant legs.
I told Alice my story and still she thought it would be good to try it.
Mind you, we did have ready a glass of wine, just in case it was too horrible for words, a willing hand to waft her face in case she fainted and some resuscitation equipment (erm... more wine...) because, well, you just never know do you?
As it happens, Alice did have a mouthful of wine straight after eating the ant, so perhaps it wasn't the most wonderful experience, but there was no shrieking or spitting out, no hysterics, nothing to suggest she hated the idea. So yes, pin that medal on her chest.
Not sure if she just swallowed it or crunched it though.
Hmmm.
Let's hold that medal until this has been thoroughly investigated.

jingle jangle bell time

2011-12-17T10:01:00.000-08:00

Is it that time already? Christmas upon us once more and only just hanging witch catchers or preventers or whatever they're called on the tree. (Baubles to those who aren't in the know.) Does anyone out there really know anything about the witch and the bauble thing? Let me know ASAP. Anyway, the tree is now full of glitz and smells of forests and stands like a rather large green brush which has just cleaned out a bottle full of light and colour and pine wood sap. It's in the corner by the fire. A Victorian Christmas card scene. Actually it's hiding the mess that sits on the shelves and which suffers an occasional dusting, an occasional sorting and culling, but never looks any different How is that? Answers please.
Well, it seems that at least with Alice and me, Franco-English relations are fine and dandy, no matter what David C. tries to do to stymie it things. In answer to Alice's question (see post -oh how wonderful that feels to be able to write that. Take note everyone who might be toying with the idea of saying hello...all is forgiven...) my manuscript has already done the Frankfurt thing, I believe. What actually happens there is mystery to me, but it's been there done that and if books can get T shirts then it has one of those too, and will be published in Berlin apparently. So brushing up on the few words I have in teh lingo, just in case. So there it is. Maybe soon we'll have a book cover to show everyone. We have a title but until the cover is sorted I'm keeping it to myself. Who knows what might happen if I give the game away too early. Happy Christmas to you all. And to the person who will no doubt come to my door selling yellow dusting cloths and gadgets to clean the inside and outside of my windows both at the same time. Which is remarkable.

poppies

2011-11-11T03:07:00.000-08:00

Yes. I know. It's been weeks. Months. I almost forgot that I was a blogger. Well it's not as if anyone out there is reminding me... and I've been away and busy and all sorts of darned excuses. Researching book number two now, but please look out for book number one which will be coming in your direction in 2013. Lord that seems a world away. And I must brush up on my German. Hah now that's got you interested. I'll give you the title and the reason why, if you're very good and say hello to me before then. Put it in your diaries. Diary. Hi Alice, how's it going? Sole friend. You know why already.
11.11.11 I took my cup of coffee to the local Cenotaph and gathered myself there along with a pit bull terrier (or some such dog) and its owner, the local parking ticket man, complete with high viz jacket, and a whole bunch of others who just melted out of the street and cars and shops and landed around the monument. It wasn't an official thing, that's on Sunday, and there was no-one to lead us in a service, so we just did our own, taking the cue from the local private school which hauled out all of its pupils, gowned up all of its teachers and rustled up a very fine cornet player. The Last Post drifted over the school, enough to catch most of it, and use as a timing device. Then silence.
Silence is an interesting thing. You hear all sorts. Like the scrape of leaves across the paving stones, and the trees breathing in the wind. Oh and the cars, still moving, not stopping for a couple of minutes, which is a pity. What's two minutes out of 356 days worth?
No, I don't know anyone on that monument, I don't know their families. I read the names anyway, as a list poem, and when you've only one face of the monument to read, you get to the bottom of the list and start again. You can go on and on. Not just for two minutes but for two days. More. The same names repeating so that maybe you almost get to know them. Remembrance Day services always remind me of my dad, who, if he was alive today, would still sit and cry as the poppies tumble down and the bands march. Big tough Royal Marine, battle-scarred inside and out. He could so easily have been a name on a monument. I'm so glad that he wasn't. But maybe we all have someone, somewhere, whose name could be on a monument. I suppose that's why I gathered myself and my coffee, and though not properly dressed, (writing gear, sloppy, slobbing around gear, I hope nobody minded) stood in a biting wind and heard the leaves and the wonderful cornet player, just a boy, probably in a school uniform.
That's it. I'm done now.

check, check and check again

2011-09-06T01:50:00.001-07:00

You see, trying to be a smart alec and publish my posts without checking enough, so stray words get in. Slap my hands. Apologies all round. Annoyed it is, I am though, (just fancied a bit of Star Wars there) because my replies seems to have gone nowhere. How is that? Tried to answer Alice, my faithful follower, and she didn't get it. So who did? That's what I want to know. And if anyone else out there is hanging onto Alice's reply then... then... then... well don't know what I'll do really. Just enjoy, I suppose and think of poor Alice. So Alice, you will have your reply in the body of my blog for now. As you're the only one actually responding. Not that I feel friendless and unloved. No siree. Not me. Though the milk on my doorstep keeps going off pretty d. quick and I keep getting litter through my letter box i.e. stuff I really don't want to know about, such as offers on planet sized pizzas and armies of painters and decorators just begging to gloss my woodwork. You know the thing.

healthy food, healthy living

2011-09-01T08:53:00.000-07:00

This week I found myself researching a few final details for Megan's story. And off I popped to the city hospital and sat with my skinny latte and notebook, in what could double as a French pavement cafe area (serving any amount of any kind of food available possible) and watched so many people down so much junk! How can that be? Why are they serving any junk food when we're about to suffer an obesity explosion which will cost the health service millions. Do hospital get paid a kind of bums-on-seats (or rather bods in beds) commission, so the surest way to get new patients is to feed them heart trouble in a bun? I'm bewitched, bothered and bewildered.

Obviously, I could have had a muffin, or a brownie, or a packet of biscuits with my latte but didn't. Later, waiting to see someone I had a cup of soup and a pineapple pot. OK so neither is anywhere near as nice as a double choc chip muffin or full butter shortbread and self congratulation doesn't take the edge off plain greed, emotional necessity or habit, but still I managed it. But why tempt people? It's... a.... hospital... Duh!
Bet they don't sell cigarettes in hospitals!
Hmmm.
Maybe I ought to check that one out.

try though I might

2011-08-12T11:19:00.000-07:00

Just a worrying little thought. Being an absolute Luddite at all things technical, and I've said this before, you may remember, I'm not entirely sure what happens to my replies when someone comments. I write them and try to send them and then can't seem to find them anywhere. Alice, help me out here. Did you get my reply re: Chameane?

my kingdom

2011-08-12T10:54:00.000-07:00

Now then, here's a to do. What to call the book. What title to give it. What a weight on the shoulders. Not mine exactly (my publisher's), but even so. All important stuff because no-one's going to buy a book with a naff title. Here's the question. What makes a naff title? Anyone out there care to get involved? Is it, too many words? Is it, too sugary? Is it, too dull? Is it, what is it exactly, that makes a title so bad you don't even want to use the book as a door stop. I'll leave that question hanging out there like one of those non-biodegradable carrier bags, those strange fruit which hang on our winter trees. We have one in our garden. It's blue. No name. No title. So I can't blame a particular superstore, though I'd like to blame the lot of them for putting my butcher, baker and candlestick maker out of business. But that's another story. This blue bag emerges like some very confused animal out of summer hibernation and dangles, or is battered by our salty winds, and still it hangs on, every single atom of its make-up, intact and ready to face another decade. The tree is too high to climb. I can't get it down. The bag, that is. I can plot the seasons with this one blue carrier. But it has me thinking. Maybe my title needs to be non-biodegradable. Anyway, I'll keep you posted. Hiya Alice. Bonjour. How're doing? Can't remember that in French, such a bad linguist am I. Fancy some German translation?
OK. So... now I'm going to click on PUBLISH POST and see what happens. Anything can, apparently, in the next few minutes.

Harumph

2011-08-05T13:27:00.000-07:00

Guess what? You won't so I'll tell you. I have found a number of unpublished posts. A number!How has that happened when I've completed and clicked on the publish button? And I've been assured that all has gone ahead. I was fond of those posts. They took seconds to compose, seconds out of my life. Can someone out there, who is wiser than me, explain this? If I want to publish them I can, apparently, but they'll be completely out of synch. How festeringly maddening is that! I might be forced to complain. And would, if I could be certain it wasn't my fault.

happy

2011-08-05T09:42:00.001-07:00

Alice, Alice, Alice. You have restored my faith in blogging.

thud on the mat?

2011-07-22T03:17:00.000-07:00

Contracts are weird and wonderful things. It came, so I know these things. Full of words from another century, but isn't that the way of the legal world? Lots of clauses and one, very simply written, at the end: Bloomsbury, welcoming me to their list. It was worth reading just to get to that bit! And so I can come clean. That's who are publishing Megan and Jackson (title yet to be confirmed) and my agent is the wonderful James Catchpole. I still find it hard to believe that people out there actually like my work. It's a miracle. But I'm perfectly happy to accept it and move on. And here beginneth the work. A synopsis of novel number two by December. Best get a move on. If anyone out there feels like breathing a sigh of relief on my behalf, then do. Sigh away.

Some day my contract will come

2011-07-10T02:47:00.001-07:00

Whilst waiting for the contract to thud onto my doormat (these things take time I've realised) I have been busy. Oh yes. Never let it be said that I wallow. Busy with young people at a school and producing a publication of their best work. Now, I'm about to crow with no apologies. I hate people who crow, however, I actually managed a fifteen page booklet complete with page numbers and illustrations. OK there's a bit of show-through which is a technical term for thin paper. I think. Anyway the final product will have more dense paper, so that it feels substantial, and a stiffish cover. Now aren't I clever? Anyone? Yoo hoo! Harrumph. Well I think I'm clever. It's taken years to get this far. So I'm patting myself on the back. Crowing into the silence that is the Internet. My blog, at any rate. Meanwhile, back at computer, still trying to decide on novel number two which has to follow a year after Megan and Jackson's story. So what to do. What to do. I have stories coming out of my ears. So that's not the problem. It's choosing the right one and if there was anyone out the with an iota of compassion (harrumph again) then you'd be showering me with pearls of wisdom. Waiting. Waiting... On Friday, troubled by this lack of focus on book two, I went to see Lanterns on the Lake and Kathryn Williams who were on as part of our local summer festival which, as ever, this is summer time after all, was rained upon and struck with lighting, and thunder rolled out of nowhere, and people scuttled about wearing umbrellas and shorts. As it was a bolt out of the blue decision to go to this concert we hadn't timetabled in food so picked up a chip supper (how Scottish does that sound!) from a fab chippy and ate them on a bench under a spreading chestnut tree (....or something...). Ended up with mushy peas and various flakes of fish all over the place (Colin...no change there, then...) and dollops of mince and gravy from an absolutely lush pie, all over me. (Not so usual. But, anyone who wants to argue that point, please feel free; then I'll know someone's reading this) You see, it's not that we're tramps as such. It's these wee plastic forks they give you. They pick up one pea at a time, and that's at a push, or one grain of mince, and they'll only spear one chip at a time. So, daintily eaten i.e small amounts going in rather than shovels full, but delicate, no. Not with all the splashes. So went to the theatre looking something like tramps. Mind you, nobody seemed to notice. Too busy with the show. I like that theatre. I'd like to sing there one day.

Megan is going places

2011-06-10T04:54:00.000-07:00

It seems like forever since I said anything and I'm sorry, but life has been so full of twists, turns and surprises recently... you have no idea. Well some of you might. Anyway, Megan's story is going to be published, by a very notable company, I am delighted and excited to tell you, but the contract's not signed yet, so just in case there's an earthquake or a flood or something to get in the way of things, I'm not going to reveal names or details, except those of my sheer delight, of course. Which you can possibly imagine all by yourselves, but think of lots of fizz and bubbles, whizzing around inside and never stopping. That's how good it feels. Plenty of the drinkable fizz too, to celebrate, but now that I've come back down to earth, the nitty-gritty begins, the little bits of re-writing here and there, and the plans for book two, which is all part of the deal and which should come out a year after Megan. So those of you who are reading this, just keep dropping by and I'll keep you posted, as and when I can. This is a very happy me!

hopes

2011-04-29T06:32:00.001-07:00

Speaking of hopes. I do have some, but didn't want to climb all over W & C's special day. My hopes. Well, world peace and harmony, of course; jobs for all with decent pay; and a debt free, housed, society which has the time and energy to enjoy life and all who sail in it. And I haven't written a poem because this isn't Miss World. Then there are the hopes that the people I love can have the health and the riches they deserve (and I don't just mean money but you know, in for a penny...). And for me some scarlet ribbons. No chance. OK then... that Megan and Jackson will stop spinning and settle in that far off galaxy, which is the publishing world, with some star who loves them and who wants more, and who will twinkle on their behalf. I know. Too much to ask. Pie. Sky. Bridge. Far. River. Deep. But you know, if there were no hopes and no dreams, where would we be? I am capable of simpler hopes, by the way. That a cake will rise (Ha! As if); that I can manage my targets at the gym (ditto); that I can stop the rats eating the blackbird's eggs (and that's not going to happen any time soon). OK. Maybe not so simple. Easier to go for the biggies, I think, and just dream that they'll all come true one day, and leave the cake making etc to someone else. Going away now. To dream. To hope.
I may be some time.

A right royal I do

2011-04-29T06:01:00.000-07:00

What is it about pomp and circumstance? Don't know, but it does for me every time. It's the music, the voices, the height of that abbey, it's how little people look in its immensity. And that makes me think they're just two human beings getting married. We've all dressed up and found fascinators to look silly in and ties to look strangled in. So come on, you cynics. This is their fascinator and tie. Anyway I like the royal razzmatazz, the red-flocked carriages, the trumpets and horses; I like the flounces and feathers, the bridle, bit and brasses. Even the avenue of trees. Em. Not so sure about those, but hey. Why not? I loved it. Unashamedly. And you want to know why? It's to do with hope. You just hope, basically, don't you? For the greater things and the smaller.

just a song

2011-04-15T10:52:00.000-07:00

So I've been holed up in our friends' cottage (swanky, I know) just a stone's throw from Bamborough Castle and how lucky am I? Very. Not a holiday, but a rather feverish week of song writing and snatched meals. Well, sort of snatched. In fact not snatched at all. I'm just trying to sound like a consumptive poet in a garret. We had very nice meals in fact, cooked in the main by Colin, who can turn his hand to most tasks - even whilst fading one thing, sliding another, balancing this and thumping that (sound-engineering and percussion, in case you're wondering). He rustled up Thai curry, fish soup, and something with rice, not sure what, but it was gorgeous. As for me, my famous ham and lentil soup and a rather dodgy looking but tasty sausage, bean and black pudding mess, with enough left over to have on toast next day at lunchtime. Odd combination, but hey! If all else fails I could market that. We didn't attempt the belly buster breakfast in Seahouses. In fact, who does? Half a pig, a plantation of tomatoes, a mile of sausage and anything else you want to try, all thrown into a stotty the size of Kielder. Who can eat all that? The mind boggles. We had the mini version, which was just fab and it made a change from brekkie at 'home'. Great place, by the way, the cottage. Guinea fowl in the garden, peacocks on the lawn (well, not our lawn, exactly)with that weird call of theirs, and just over the dunes, the sea with a deserted beach. Bit cold for a plodge, mind you, but an early morning canter over the sands and an early dusk amble across the fields to the pub (rather more of the latter admittedly) was just about enough to keep us together over the days. My friends wouldn't have recognised their neat little cottage in the dunes after we'd festooned it with leads, trailed it with wires, plastered it with blank pages and turned it into a recording studio. Never worked so hard! Nonetheless exhilarating. And years of lyrics collecting like cobwebs on my desk and in my computer swept out and put to use with the excellent tunes of Tony S. Now though, back home, I feel like my brains have been scrambled. The next step is mixing down ( I know the terms, get a load of that!). Hmm. Is it mixing up...? Anyway that's going to take someone a very long time to do. So be patient, dear reader. (You are out there, aren't you?) And if I ask you to become a 'dear listener', if we can persuade ourselves to UTube some of this, would you do me the honour and give us marks out of ten? No. On second thoughts, just listen. I wouldn't want any of that Simon Scowl judgementalism aimed at our songs. No siree.

too much

2011-03-13T12:40:00.000-07:00

It feels like these months have whizzed by. Too much work, not enough writing time, too much waiting for things to happen, not enough writing time, too many emotional family moments, not enough writing time, too much of this, that, and the other. And so it goes on. Life, you may say. Just a few more weeks at the university to go but have started a ten week stint at a school, and about to start a four week stint with elders of the city. You know, that's the politically correct term but to me elders are trees, but there you go. Meanwhile, so as not to appear totally inadequate and paralysed by the stuff of life, I have been writing short stories, selling a few, rewriting rejected ones and sending them back out. Hey, I like these stories and refuse to just bin them and plodding on is a major part of my character. Anyone important out there, just remember that. Which brings me to the vague worry that there isn't anyone out there, not at all. You could prove me wrong, of course. And yet why worry? There's a whole world of worry out there all crammed into one country, and a minute's silence at a rugby match just shows you. House of card, paper, bamboo, home of the Haiku, I salute you. Worry too.

technology technology

2011-02-06T01:57:00.000-08:00

So I've just set up my songwriting computer package, designed for Luddites like me, apparently, only judging by the tutorial video, they don't know what a Luddite is. Whizz whizz, click click, move the mouse and Bob's your uncle. No. No. No. Take me through the switching on, the finding of the actual switch, the actual clicking, flicking glory of making it go. I mean it guys, I can write a story and I can write a song, but sometimes I can't find the switch to turn things on, and you know I'm not the only one, so just tell me where the button is first. Is that too much to ask? Take it slowly, monosyllabically, through to the next teensy weensy step and so on. Don't care how long it takes. Just get me there, toe by toe.

like a dog at a bone

2011-01-30T12:19:00.001-08:00

It seems to me that if you really like a story, just hammer away at it till it's the shape they want. They meaning the editors. There's a poem about that somewhere. John Donne I think. Only he was referring to something entirely different and probably more important. Yet, my elephants were important to me, and now they've been accepted. Let's hear it for the baggy skinned, bun eating, feet the size of tyres (and some) favourite animal of mine. I have a mantle-piece full of them, as those who follow my every word will know. Ha! As if! Anyway, they were marching up to the manger last Christmas, now they're walking down a village street in post-war England, ready to wow an audience which hasn't seen a circus for a very long time and isn't sure it wants to. Third time lucky. The first rejection was to do with it being unrealistic. OK it was told through the eyes of a donkey (where'd that come from, you might ask; read the story when it comes out and you'll see), so I stopped donkey thinking and made man think instead... and some who know me know my thoughts on that... talk about a reality check... but then his actions seemed unrealistic. Second rejection, tempered with -but we liked it - so I changed his actions too. Anyway, acceptance at last. So hey ho. Off to the bank I go. By the way, there are some sniffers out there who rail at the very idea of (me) writing for money. I nursed for money. I stacked shelves for money, once upon a teen time, and I sing for money. Does that make me a bad person? Answers on a post card please. Or here would do. Can of worms time, perhaps.

clarinet

2011-01-12T02:18:00.000-08:00

So, because once I played the soprano sax, I now have a clarinet. Christmas present. Those who claim to know all, and in fact don't, told me -the fingering's the same, babe. A doddle. You can do it. Well, it's not, as it happens. And up till now I can get a very nice tone on the lower register but murdering cats on the upper and it's a mind warp thing, cos the register shift key doesn't rack you up to another octave, at least not the one you're expecting. So. Not the same. Not nearly the same. And so many blinking levers. You could drive a plane with all those levers. Not to worry. Perseverance is my middle name. My writerly friends can tell you that I stick like dog do to any project till Ive seen it through. However long it takes. Though not a button accordion. I gave that up. After a year. Is there a Clarinet and Accordion Shelter anywhere? Ebay probably. Back to the easier task of shaping Megan so that they love her to bits and can't wait to put her in a book and shelve her. Shelve her? That can't be right. Isn't the English language a marvellous puzzle!

the ghost is dead

2011-01-10T13:48:00.000-08:00

So this is how it goes. Major storyline now surgically removed from Megan's story. Not quite as painful or traumatic as I thought and after three weeks agonising over it just sat down and did the darned things cos that's what you have to do. Less is more. And I think it is more.
Meanwhile off to uni to teach a semester in creative writing, off to school to teach eight year olds creative writing and tell some stories to little munchkins in first and second year primary. Also just talked myself into taking a week and recording some new material with ace guitarist Tony. At least, that's the plan as long as our friends who own that nice cottage near the sea can spare it for five days. Crikey, can't believe I've initiated this! But I can feel songs just ready to go, having been buried catacomb-like. If you want to know about the ghost well maybe that's Megan, book 2. But let's just get this one sorted first. Time to spell check. Hiya France. How're you doing? You OK? Happy new everything to you all, where ever you are. And my resolutions come tumbling down cos, well they were built on shifting sand. As always.

spellings

2010-12-27T10:19:00.000-08:00

Did a spell check by the way and yes, I know. Inspecified. How did that slip through? I'll tell you how. Easy peasily.

yule blog

2010-12-27T10:06:00.000-08:00

Happy Christmas to all who may be reading. I can hear the echoes. Which means empty chambers and cavernous rooms with no-one inside. Ah well. I'm patience personified, I will not swallow an easterly wind but will just plod on regardless. As is the habit of a lifetime. Someone out there will say hello. Apropos that, been getting some very weird email messages via my website, thank you, weirdos, but I just delete them, and have you no life whatsoever?
Meanwhile, doing the math, doing the puzzle, getting the pieces in the right order so that I can send Megan back to the agent. Doing my head in is an understatement and Christmas cometh in the middle of all things to get in the way. Ah well. I did get a very nice piece of handmade pottery, a clarinet and some enormous knitting needles (not that I knit) amongst all the other fab pressies. So in exchange did turducken, had day-after and boxing day walks to digest the calories and slumped in front of new DVDs. Spending eleven weeks teaching at uni, some inspecified time at a school and what with the rest of life and all that sails in it, so going to be busy busy come New Year. But New Year it is and I must make myself some promises. They won't involve chocolate or wine. Apparently these things are good for me. I'll say.

Let's hear it for the French

2010-12-09T08:54:00.000-08:00

A big thank you to Alice who's blogging away over in France while I blog away over here but has taken a bit of time to say hello. Not sure how I answer her, mind you, that is, where my answer goes etc though I have written it and it involves lots of snow, such is my understanding of the cyber world.

Having a conference with my agent this evening over Megan's refit. Heck. I don't know if that means he loves it or hates it, wants to applaud me or tick me off for being too hasty, fight me or hug me. So this is necessarily short, but hey I've written so many in the last few days you must all think I've got nothing whatsoever to do. I have. Nail biting takes a lot of time and effort.

bag lady

2010-12-07T02:34:00.000-08:00

Don't. Don't say a word . Hah, as if! You're a pretty silent lot.
Anyway I am sitting in my bay window, which in conditions like this is shear madness, and encrusted in layers, from base to outer and a few more in between. I am surrounded by supermarket bags-for-life which are great for heaving around project work. But winter's shadowy fingers (thanks Alan) have a way of caressing without permission and when you think you've got every conceivable place covered, somehow they get in. So stick on another layer. OK I do have my desk and chair in the coldest place in the house, bar the back toilet. Madness I know. It's the bay window in the room that is laughingly called the office. I have tidied myself into that space to lessen the impact of the rest of me, those bits which will not be denied, the towers and turrets, of important things which can't be chucked, though Colin would possibly disagree on that. He has his own towers and turrets mind you, so let's not pretend he's mister tidy or anything. The only thing different is that they're smaller and alphabetised....we still have to step lightly over and around things. CD cases are the main casualties if we don't step lightly enough.
I need a secretary. I need someone to tell me to answer letters and rearrange shelves, so that the contents can actually be seen; to sift through and file (into the bin if necessary) those things from five years ago, that school project from three months ago, the stuff from a course I went on a hundred years ago, and a thousand words from a thousand songs which lie like plates on the floor. I need someone to tell me that what I do is worthwhile. That all these other things I do to keep the wolf from my door whilst waiting for a break which may never come, are indeed worthwhile. Pah! Put on another layer and stop moaning, woman. It's the cold talking. My day will come. My break. Wag wag, thump thump. I have a dog who is loyal and faithful and loves me unconditionally, loves my work, hangs on my every word and knows that one day, one day...
OK I haven't got a dog. He's just this Labrador that I once took out walking and wished he was mine. He snuffed it some time ago, actually. But if he was, if that dog was mine, that's what he'd say, because, of course I would understand everything and we'd commune over a skinny latte in the kitchen which I believe I am envied for (it has a different colour on each wall and a red fridge and oven.) I think I'm losing it now. Another layer on. And hey, another snowflake twirling down
Don't you just love all this? Answers on a post card. In your own time. Of course. But Christmas is just around the corner. A big pressie for me would be a little hello from you.

Megan has gone

2010-12-07T01:55:00.000-08:00

A turn up for the books this, I know, two blogs in as many days. However, for those who are vaguely interested in the trials and tribs of a would-be children's writer, Megan has been sent to my agent. Finished the redraft quickly (which may or may not be a good idea) because it was bugging me and I needed to know if it's on the right track. That is, will she-who-shall-not-be-named like this version, having been so positive about the previous incarnation even with the ghost strand? Just got to suck it and see, I suppose, but Lord, it's like jumping off a cliff and expecting a bouncy castle at the bottom. Anyway, the ghost has gone, which I'm growing to accept and the end result with some additions, some subtractions and some hinkypinky stuff... the final length is 5 thou. shorter than it was. Will this get any easier I wonder?

blue moon?

2010-12-05T11:46:00.000-08:00

So I've checked the moon every night and on no occasion did it look blue. Icy yes. But then everything has been looking a tad icy. Just the weather to hole up and re draft though, next to an open fire heaped up to sweltering. Two more publishers now sniffing around with some suggestions. Biggies. They know what they're doing. Won't mention names for fear of jinxing. Anyway, Megan's not going to know herself once I've finished this draft and what I take out will be the bones of another novel. For sure. I hope. So I haven't been idle though this blog may suggest otherwise. Halted the research for the new book to finish Megan and hopefully can send it to agent quicky-quick and he'll love it, and so will she-who-must-not-be-named and roll, roll, roll. Have a wonderful winter season whoever you support. Gods. Football. Cricket. Just keep warm and healthy, keep peaceful, and keep your fingers crossed for Megan and hope she gets through the next very tight hoop. Croquet has nothing on this. Feel free to contact me guys and gals. It's a lonely old world.

not waving

2010-10-18T02:01:00.000-07:00

Just to say, to avoid confusion, I am still here. Life's busy, full of spinning circles and things that go bump when you least expect it, and oh that blue moon's calling to me. But as with all things, I must be patient. And there seems to be a publishing person who likes my writing a bit and who wants more. So Agent and I mulling over pits and falls. Meanwhile drowning in research for novel number three. Oh I love getting my teeth into a new subject. Brilliant. Clip clop and hey ho. And only a week or so to go before I take out my songs and feed them to the masses in Porter's. Let's hope they're kind. Let's hope they appreciate how hard it is. Let's hope they turn up.

waiting is a test of patience

2010-09-02T03:41:00.000-07:00

August is now just a sigh in the wind. Hello September. I'm looking forward to a blue moon in November (they don't happen very often, next one's in 2013) and so there it is. Still publisherless. But not worrying. Not counting seconds minutes or days. Not at all. Never. Who me? Just, well, you know, I'm here. Trying to write, trying not to get a case of the blanks.

Did a writing session on the moon yesterday. Well not actually on moon (just shows you how careful we need to be when we claim things!) though it would have been nice, I'm sure. Nothing like getting into the subject, researching thoroughly. Anyway, it was with a lovely group of people who don't normally write and who gather together in a fab Day Centre which is so up for the arts it's heaven. And I've been delighted with the results of our weekly efforts so far. Thought I'd share yesterday with the ether and you. Whoever you are. Wherever you are. So it goes: 'Sweeping slowly across the sky, the moon, the moon, like a silvery eye, gazes as we kiss and sigh.' I like that. Romance was not in the air at the beginning of the session, but hey, what with the moon and all and pics and discussion and moonshine and moon dust and you saw me standing alone, blue moon, well it sort of drifted. Nothing wrong in it. Writing's like that.

So here I am drifting once again.

old guitars and

2010-08-23T03:35:00.000-07:00

For no reason at all, it was old guitars yesterday. Now, those who know me will realise that I mean something from Woolworth's or some body's garage, rather than anything notable or priceless, like a Stradivarius equivalent. We were having breakfast with my friend and fellow singer and guitarist, Michael, and spun back to when we were young (took a lot of spinning) and remembered our very first guitars. Mine was donated to me by some well-wisher with a sense of humour, a friend of one of my brothers, who may (no may about it) have used it for cricket practice at one time. A battered twelve string, it was, with only six strings, which, if I'd known anything about guitars or had any money (more to the point) I might have replaced. But they weren't rusty, they didn't jangle too much, they seemed to be in the right place and tuned up OK, so they stayed with that guitar for some time. It didn't have a case. I constructed one out of a black plastic bag which was easy, you just bung the thing in and throttle the neck with an elastic band so that it doesn't let in the rain. It didn't protect it from the bus journey to practices, of course, the thrusts and jolts, the wheelies round corners, nor did it protect from the slings and arrows, the mockery from fellow passengers. But when the rain fell, boy, that plastic bag was something else. That guitar saw me through years of songs. It was the colour of dog-do which probably matched my playing, so it suited me down to the ground.

all to pot

2010-08-16T08:51:00.000-07:00

You know sometimes I amaze myself. My last post wasn't in July at all. Grief! This month is being peppered with posts. If there's a chance that you are reading any of this, then it would be good to hear from you.

Anyone.

So here's the thing

2010-08-16T03:30:00.000-07:00

Yes, I realise mid-August and my last post was whenever ago in July. But, I'm the only one reading this so, hey, gimme a break...know what I'm saying? This august month is when, rumour has it, I may get a publisher. Not from my horoscope, by the way (which I'm sure if I read it in a certain way would tell me exactly that, and in any other way, that my dog was about to die) but from my agent, who is as keen as I am to get Megan published, to get her out there on a shelf for a week or so in some well known bookshop. If that ever happens, by the way, then I want you all to promise to at least have a look at it. Buy it even. Move it about on the shelf so it looks as if people are intrigued by it. That sort of thing. If it ever gets on a shelf, I'll be doing that...or should I really stoop that low?

Yes. Low as it takes.

The twinlets are bursting out of their minuscule-tot baby wear I'm happy to say, so now I want them on a bus with their suitcases to come down for a visit. Is that too much to ask? Oh right. Feeding tubes. Well. maybe next month. Come on girls, you can do it!

Done the spell check, but if it's missed any, sorry.

twinlets

2010-08-03T04:49:00.000-07:00

So now I have pictures of the twinlets from when they were all tubes and beating-machines to the twin cot they now inhabit, with only the basic equipment to keep them from harm, like doll sized hats and mitts and a nice warm quilt. Their limbs look less like pink pipe-cleaners than they did and more like the real thing. I trust that the wide-eyed, tube-clutching twinlet is the aforementioned Jessica, who seems to seize everything she can and give it a tug, so watch out everyone...hope there are no cats in the place...and the sleepy one is Ailsa who seems to doze through everything, storing up her energy for later, I imagine, for when they're scrapping over a fluffy dinosaur, or the computer, because, of course, they'll be utter whizzes at absolutely everything, though Jessica may simply want to pull the plugs out or something, to see how it works, rather like someone else I know... Anyway, can't wait to see them. There you go! How happy I was just to want to see the pics. Now it's gimme the real thing!! Never satisfied.

All this makes the rejection of a story seem like nothing at all. And it really is nothing at all, in the scheme of such wonders as twinlets and parents and things that go lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, all on their own. However, I shall diagnose this story's faults. I shall tube feed it, monitor it and then send it back. Besides, the pennies could come in handy, what with dinosaurs to buy. Not without a struggle will I bin this one. I like it. So, stethoscope on...
If I had that editing eye I was rabbitting on about, earlier, I could just whizz it over this and publish. As it is, Ihave only my own, limited version. So pelase exusce eerros.

drowning in froglets

2010-07-21T08:35:00.000-07:00

Just come in from the garden. It's hopping with frogs. After all the rain fall, which has filled trays full of herb pots, and weighed down the sweet peas, I've been rescuing plants in that ham-fisted way of mine, i.e tipping out the water from the trays, moving one or other from here to there whilst a thousand more freckles emerge on my pale but interesting skin. Yes. The sun is out again, as is the washing. And five minutes later it's cloudy. Ah well. That's England. Maybe it wasn't just rain yesterday. Maybe it was plague of frogs. Maybe I should be worried that next it'll be locusts. Mind you, they're lovely little things. Frogs. Not locusts. And if baby toads are lumpy then maybe these aren't all froglets. Which makes me think, I don't know why, about Jessica (the tube puller) and Ailsa (the forgiver of all things done to her). Why aren't they called twinlets? Like triplets and quadruplets etc? In fact they're more twinlets than anything. They were born at exactly the same time, in the same lift-out. No 'I'm the oldest', or 'I'm the youngest' tousle here. Twinlets. Yes. I like that name. Or twoplets. Tuplets even. That would do. Twins is so...what is it? Dated? I don't know what's got into me. Yesterday I was grumping about this and that and today I'm championing froglets and twinlets. if there's anyone out there remotely interested, I need diagnosing I think.

editorial

2010-07-20T12:25:00.000-07:00

Look at this! Two posts in one day! Unheard of. Wouldn't it be nice to have an editorial eye secreted about the desk which you can plug in, switch on and say, fix that? I think it would. Imagine time saved, the angst avoided, the...well just imagine! Mind you, my desk wouldn't be the safest place for it, nontheless, what an addition to my tiny writing world, which no-one in particular is interested in, unless, of course, I get a publishing deal and everyone and their granny (at least those who write) might flicker a little and those who don't might mutter something about how long it all takes, and do real writers take so very long to get established...?It's a funny old thing. If I was a stone wall builder would it be any different? Or a chef? Or still a nurse. Who knows? Are we all just nothings in the scheme of things. Writers, I mean. No matter what we do or write. We might change a few things along the way, along a tiny thread-like path, but does anybody actually use that path? When people ask, how's the writing going, I wonder if they really want to hear or if it's just something they think they ought to ask, because well, that's what I do. Write. And maybe once the question's asked they can move on to what they really want to talk about. Grump, grump. I know. But then. Do I ask them about their work? No. So why am I complaining? It must be the rain. It must be wanting to get going on another big thing and I can't, a publisher might want me to go in a certain direction. Apparently. So hang fire for now. And all that. Anyway, that editorial eye. I wonder what colour it should be.

busy busy busy

2010-07-20T03:29:00.000-07:00

So I'm now related to twins, not just married into a family of them. Jessica and Ailsa, weighing as much as a bag of sugar and a white loaf each, according to my brother, who likes to work things out. He once prised open his leather football (Christmas present, only hours old) to see how it functioned, delivering it of its bladder and wrecking it, basically. Rather like a C. section without the gore. I sincerely hope he doesn't try to work out how breathing tubes, feeding tubes, incubators and respirators tick because those girls need them right now.

I seem to remember that football Christmas being a fractious one, once it was discovered that you can't get the bladder back in...

Fingers crossed that the girls don't need the tubes for long, and they lay down lots of lovely protective fat pearls to keep them warm and safe and allow their mother to hold them.

Bursting with hope, can't wait to see the pictures and to meet them.
Go girls, go!

oh woe, woe, woe, woe

2010-07-02T10:28:00.000-07:00

So I have been glued to my yearly accounts, the tennis (well it is June), some rather benign football, and my computer, and find that it's weeks, nay almost a month since I updated. That's a disgrace. But my accounts are finished, a fat envelope consisting of an aga-saga of receipts for outgoings and a slim volume of incomings, which is always the way. England were truly terrible - no surprises there. Why do people continue to be surprised by the ineptitude of our footballers? Murray's out, doing a Henman on us. Again, why are we surprised? And I haven't got a publisher yet. But then I have learned not to expect things, merely just to hope. And if I do get a surprise, great, be it tennis, football, publishing contract. That way, the disappointment can be controlled, embraced even, used for the betterment of my soul and other weary parts, though I don't have to haul in a red and white flag, cos I didn't hang one out in the first place. Instead I've been scattering myself about, in schools, youth groups and day centres, either singing at people or writing with them, and have started a story for young readers, while I wait for news from my agent re: publishers. Plenty of other material for him to look at in the meantime. I#d hate him to be twiddling thumbs on my account. Hopefully he's not been too fixated on bad football to forget to read it, but not wishing to be idle myself, I've just got on with writing. No point in brooding about what might be, might have been or will be. We'd all be in a sorry state, wouldn't we?

Is is a sackable offence

2010-06-07T05:04:00.000-07:00

So this morning, I did my usual Monday thing which is leading a group of ladies in song, me and my guitar. I left my car, as usual, on the street outside where an awful lot of work seemed to be going on. Wagons everywhere, from graffiti busters to tree fellers and everything in between, or so it seemed. Towards the end of the session a man came in looking worried. 'Whose is the silver car, parked outside?' Well that would be mine. 'The tree people have left it in a bit of a mess.' I imagined a great oak or something languishing on my bonnet and prepared myself. 'I've got to go,' he said, 'but I can give it a clean if you want.' He sounded quite doleful, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders, and my car, but, I was hopeful, not a badly felled tree. 'I'll come out and see if it's mine, but...' I couldn't finish before he was out the door. So off I toddled after him. 'You see...' I tried again, 'I park my car under trees at home and it's probably that...' His hand shot to his mouth in dismay and apologies. 'So it's probably just my car,' I said, trying to ease the man's embarrassment. 'Well I can spray it anyway, if you want. Will I?' he said
'...lovely...thanks...' Singing over, and back at my car, what a shining, beautiful, specimen, as if a team of people had been at it, instead of one graffiti buster. Someone then said I should have given him the keys to do the inside too. I'm not sure what she was referring to. The inside of my car is as tidy as my office and desk. But I must thank the guy for his worry and kindness, though I daren't say who he worked for, he might be sacked for being nice. Hope he's there next week...

too hot

2010-06-04T09:16:00.001-07:00

So, I'm not a sun worshipper and this weather drives me crazy, but I realise it drives everyone else to the beach and BBQ pits and wearing clothes they should take advice on. That bit is me by the way. Only, I don't trust advisers. Either they're shop assistants wanting to make a fast buck or kindly friends and relations who want to make the world and everyone in it feel good. Which isn't a bad philosophy, granted, but hopeless when you want the truth and all its carbuncles.

Anyway, it feels like I'm addressing an empty universe, but hello, just in case you're the one star twinkling up there in some nearby galaxy. And if you are twinkling, you might like to know that I have a number of stories with the agent (see how quickly he just becomes the agent and not My Agent or even He) who's very kindly going to trawl through them and find where the next novel might be itching to get out. I've come to the conclusion that running ideas past him might be the best way forward, so though lots of research already done, I may well end up developing something entirely different. So there's a thing!

Meanwhile (still waiting to hear something on the publisher front) I'm writing and sending out to the commercial end of the market, to keep my eye in and to keep the pennies rolling in too and with the aforementioned projects (see last post) life is becoming busy. Like buses, these things all come at once and you can't turn them down.

And don't get me on about gigging! I'm singing so much I've probably got vocal chords like Popeye's biceps.

So excuse the gaps.
I haven't any right now
Good luck to you and to me in all our merry ventures.

the new novel

2010-05-16T00:56:00.000-07:00

So He says, time to go round the publishers with Megan (real title's a secret, so keep your eyes peeled). Anyway, with a hey and a ho, the first one fell off her bike and is still recovering, though, I hasten to add, she wasn't reading Megan at the time, and in deference to her health He may have thought better of it, as half the book is set in hospital... So one down, and however many to go. Let' s hope they all don't have mishaps. In the meantime, He says, because it's a bit of a waiting game, I should get going on the next, trickier novel. Which in fact could be a new one if he doesn't go for the second, which is probably sitting under a pile of other attachments. And what about the picture book I hear you ask (as if there's anyone actually reading this and remembers...) Well, who knows. I do know that the injured publisher covers a whole range of age groups so maybe if she gets to know and love me (hm mm) she'll be kind enough to read about P&F. So here I am, at the research point for book number three, which was in fact a radio play of mine which I've always thought could be just bigger. So I'm looking for areas to make it bigger, hence the research. Obviously not right now. Right now I'm writing this because I've been SO busy. Won't bore you with details. And will be getting busier. Got a few extra things to do over the next couple of weeks, two new writing workshops, a school visit to have a nice time with fairy tales, storytelling and songs, and a lecture to give on Singing for the Brain. That's the 57 varieties of me. I'll have to brush up on the old anatomy and at least give an impression that I know something about the brain. I do know about singing, and how it's better than chocolate, which is a start anyway. So lots to do. People to see. Time's money, and all that. Where do these sayings come from?

up to date

2010-04-28T01:53:00.000-07:00

Answered all comments. So now that I know how to do this, please, all of you out there, say hello, and I promise it won't take months to respond. And if you post a comment to my most recent blog, I'm more likely to find it.

You younger folk might be interested to know that there's a writing competition out there. The age categories are: 5-7, 8-10, 11-13, and 14-16; and a separate one for 16-25. Now I know some of you will fit into these categories, you know who you are, I've read your work, and it's worth having a go! Closing date July 23. So have a look at www.wickedyoungwriters.com for more details. Michael Murpurgo, who we all know is just a great writer, has launched it. I read about it yesterday and had to share the news with you, just in case your school doesn't know about it yet. Perhaps you can show the website address to your teacher...

Happy writing.

the mist clears

2010-04-28T00:44:00.000-07:00

I will never claim to know about computers. I will never claim that I can help other people know about computers, but I have made a discovery, and it's only taken since...well...since September, possibly October...It means that when someone posts a comment, I can actually post one back. No it isn't rocket science; it's probably a no brainer (I hate these hackneyed phrases) and a three year old could have told me this. Yes, well a three year old didn't. OK?

So those of you who've commented (you're a small, select group, right now, and can always say that you were one of the first) can look forward to a posting of mine to answers yours and though a few months late, remember patience is a virtue and greatness, or something, comes to those who wait, and well you must know what I mean.
What I haven't yet ascertained, is this: when I post a return comment, does it show up anywhere else, other than my blog. That's still a mystery. Yet life would be boring if such mysteries didn't exist.

By the by, Megan is about to be trawled around the publishers. He-who-shall-not-be-named quite-yet asked me if I had any preferences. Silly man. Preferences! Well of course I have preferences! Six to be exact. I gave him the list (one that's been prepared for some time now, rather like the funeral arrangements for a Royal), all highly reputed publishing houses, with reasons why I like them (I won't bore you with names, anyone who knows anything will know who I mean ) and I expect he's out there right now. I also added that, probably, my preference would lie with the publisher who agrees to take me on, but it was in small letters, he'd hardly have noticed it. Think big, think wild, in these circumstances, and imagine that it's their loss, not mine, when they say no. That's my motto. Though if that was in Latin it might not flow so well.
Any translators out there, please feel free.

And now, back to answering comments.

redrafts

2010-04-26T09:48:00.000-07:00

So at last, down to one paragraph needing attention in Megan's story. Consider it attended to, and on its way back to... My Agent. As you can see the gloss of actually having an agent still hasn't worn off, but I promise it's the last time I use that epithet.

The thrill of working with someone who has a fine editing brain will never rub off, I reckon. It's just too important. I can't be all things to my writing. A second pair of eyes, an objective examination, someone who can think outside the box I'm writing in, is so important to me. To those out there who know they're good editors of their own work, stand up and be counted. I'd like to meet you and learn how to do that.

Now, I'm on hope's knife edge, waiting to see if he (who-shall-not-be-named-till-he's-sold-the idea) engages a publisher, and does what is required with rights and contracts, (longing to find out!) so that at last I can reveal the name, and figure on the website, and other exciting things like that. Small pearls, but pearls none the less, to me.

I'll keep you posted on developments.

I ought to be thinking about the next project. There's still the seal novel, but as it's sitting between two stools, i.e. nine year olds and young adults, then there's a lot to do to make it fit one or the other. There's also the picture book. Both are being pondered upon by you know who, and here's hoping that his fine editing brain can come up with some ideas I can agree with!

typo apology

2010-04-21T04:21:00.000-07:00

They're the bane of everyone's life, I know. Typos. So, sorry. But as I've said before you could write a book in typo-speak, because I'm sure the smae ones turn up allthe time.

See what I eman?

I won't insult by translating. You can guess what I mean. But isn't that part of the problem? We can read typos, and get the gist of things anyway. So why bother correcting?

Beucas it looks wrong. Desn't it?

Discuss.

rewrites

2010-04-20T04:03:00.000-07:00

So here I am, with My Agent (it'll wear off this need to call him that, but while it's still aglow, allow me, please) almost as happy with Megan's story as he can be. Just sent him the redraft, the little quick fixes, the slightly larger fixes, all done, hopefully to his satisfaction. And you know, it still makes me cry just a bit, after this long time slogging away at it.
So what does that mean exactly? That I'm an emotionally hopeless baggage, and let's face it Bambi still make me cry, or that I haven't lost my abiity to feel inte the editorial cut and thrust? Who knows.

Thinking of other projects now. So many stories to tell. And apparently the picture
book market is breathing again. The phoenix has risen, the resuscitation was successful. At least that's the rumour. I'm watching the space, thinking in pictures and rewrites.

agents

2010-04-08T05:15:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. It's been some time. I have in fact been busy, busy, busy, and away again, and writing like mad and well any number of excuses. Here I am, though, and the happy client of an agent. I can almost say My Agent, only my acceptance hasn't actually gone into the post (as soon as I'm done here, it's in the box), so I'm holding back until I'm sure they've got me filed into their system.

So we're working on Megan's story which is enticingly close to being almost finished, possibly, that is the agent seems to be happy with the last piece I sent him, so it's on to the next and frustratingly my computer isplaying up, as if it just knows I want to get finished. So this is my breathing time, my winding down time after the wind-up that computer jargon always manages to achieve in my brain.

Computer playing up again. I'm dodging out before it blows.

what's in a title?

2010-03-01T01:26:00.000-08:00

So my cold's better, thanks for asking... and I've been beavering away at Megan's story which used to have a very long title and now I've cut it down to size. The agent (who I so long to call My Agent but as I haven't signed anything, I won't, so he will remain nameless) thought the working title was a bit long and he's right, so I've sent him the new title which is only two words. Waiting to hear.

He seems happy, dare I say excited, about the new ideas he's managed to winkle out of me. He's such a good winkler and he's achieved this by asking umpteen questions, via email, which are mainly about what I'm trying to say in the novel - do you mean this, do you mean that, and if you do won't this happens? kind of thingy. He's had me reaching much further into my head, (which is so full of stories, that sometimes I'm slightly flaky and don't care if the world stops turning) and work it out. And I think I have.

The result is a radical restructuring, and it's so much better. It really is. And the good thing is the story itself hasn't changed. I've just changed around a few bits. I've sent Libby the first three chapters and asked her to be brutally honest and tell me what she thinks. On this blog. So watch this space folks and if you're interested in getting involved, you can reach me through my website, details to the left of the blogs.

If you want to read reviews on the beginning of the second novel, then see the comments under Jan 20. My faithful reviewers have worked hard to do this and it's been so useful.

So I'm back to work. Snappily.

full of cold

2010-02-17T05:04:00.000-08:00

So here I am full of cold, my head ready to explode and all I want to do is sleep. Let's hear some suitable noises of sympathy, folks...come on...Hmmm. No takers.

Never mind, I'll sympathise with myself. So there. A couple of paracetamol, cup of tea and a bit of shut eye, now that I can, now that the competition work is completed. Off to a spa on Friday, with Lucy and Kate. A full day of massage, sauna, swimming, pampering etc. Can't wait. Christmas present from Colin, good man that he is. Obviously knows how to keep us sweet. Obviously also knows that I need to get back into the swing of the novel rewrite after a whole month of reading and writing critiques of other people's writing, and a spa day is the answer. Equally I could just lie in the bath for a bit, after a spell at the gym and walk along the beach. Only that's not half so exotic or flamboyant.

Speaking of flamboyant, my office is a tip. Must try to clear a space on the floor so that I can actually get to my desk to do the rewrite. Being freelance is a true joy, but it does mean a different bag or box for each thing I do, and I'm always doing something. Naturally they have to be stowed somewhere accessible, and that place is the floor. Everything sits like stepping stones, but somehow I can't get to my desk. Actually I can. How could I be writing this otherwise? Yes, sir. It's a classic case of writerly procrastination. The rewrite has to be done. I have to do it. Simple equation. So here I go. Right now. When my headache subsides, that is, and after another cup of tea. Or should that be coffee?

Thanks to Libby, by the way, who sent me some comments on novel number two. I've asked her to put them on this blog, so hopefully that's going to happen soon.

writing in pencil

2010-02-04T07:48:00.000-08:00

You can write anywhere with a pencil it's true and I'm never without one, somewhere about my person or in my bag. Great for travelling. They never run out, but of course you do need a sharpener and they irritate me. Cheap pencil sharpeners suck. They sharpen the pencil OK, sometimes, but so often they break off the lead (yes, I know it's not real lead any more) and hang on to it, so then it's stuck inside, and you have to get something to gouge it out with, so that you can try to sharpen the pencil again without decapitating it, and then you've lost the will to live, let alone write, and so today I ordered myself an un-cheap sharpener, grey metal, one with a handle you turn, one you can clamp to the desk if you want to, one you could press flowers with, one you could use as a paper weight, or something to stop you flying away in the wind, and I bought a little plastic version, to take in my bag, a blue miniature of the grey one, with little suckers so you can stick it anywhere, in any room, in any street, any city, any country. I've just tried it. And I want to sharpen everything in sight, it's so good. Oh, I am so happy. It's a treat actually, to myself. I've finished reading all the competition stories; I've chosen those to go though to the next round, and I'll soon be getting back to my own writing. Can't wait. The pencils are all ready, sharpened, beautiful.

Great young reviewers and critics

2010-02-02T12:04:00.000-08:00

And thanks to Jenny, for her comments. A bit of confusion over names and who people are. That's such a good point. If the reader isn't sure who's who then they aren't going to be too bothered about what happens to them, I suppose. Though, happily, Jenny does want to know what's happened to Luke. Hmmm, so do I, and I wrote it!

Anyway, I'll check that out. If anyone else wants to read reviews by Hollie and Jenny then just look for comments under my most recent postings and if you want to join in, just let me know. Find me on my website.

More mystery?

2010-01-25T06:27:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Hollie for being the first to write down her thoughts on the beginning chapters of my novel, and for posting them. Hollie would like more mystery (and you can see the rest of her thoughts by clicking on the comments under my last post).

For those of you reading it too, perhaps you can suggest how to inject more mystery into it. Or maybe there's enough in it for you. Let me know. I'd be really delighted to know what you think.

Hollie also mentioned that some of the words were a bit hard. Probably they are. Maybe that's a good thing, maybe they make the reader have to think. On the other hand they might get in the way of the story. I hope not.

Getting the balance right is key to this, but the reading group holds the answer I'm sure, so keep posting, keep letting me know.

And if after reading and commenting on these chapters you want to read something completely different then let me know and I'll send it out to you.

other people writing

2010-01-20T05:49:00.000-08:00

I'm buried in stories, not snow (for a change) but it feels much the same. Holed up for the winter, sifting through hundreds for a competition. So other stuff on hold for now, including redraft of novel. Not long to go. Boggle eyed, boggle brained. Hanging on in.

Sent out to another bunch of young readers and writers the first few chapters of novel number two, encouraging a kind of virtual reading group. Might take off. Might not. Same initiative in local high school under negotiation. Watch this space.

Chatted with someone who knows about radio. Feel more than enthused to get back in the saddle. More on that later. I can feel an adaptation coming on.

the sky at night

2010-01-06T07:10:00.000-08:00

Don't know why I should spend hour upon hour awake when I'd rather be asleep, but I have noticed that while the snow lies on the ground the night sky glows yellow. Has anyone else seen that? Is the snow reflecting off the sky, or the sky reflecting off the snow? Either way, it's yellow. Come the dawn, blue sky nudges its way through, just normal everyday blue sky, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I haven't seen a dark night in weeks.

And soon a very brave school-based readers group are about to take on the first three chapters of both novels and report back on this blog. Young reviewers, who, I have no doubt, will be brutally honest, I applaud you and await my fate.

Happy twenty ten

2010-01-03T13:14:00.000-08:00

So here it is, a new year and a crisp new calendar on the wall. I'm going to wish everyone good luck in their ventures over this next year, and if I'm allowed to wish myself good luck then consider it done. Two novels and a picture book text now sitting with an agent who, after he's finished eating leftovers, might give them a look. Good luck, little old me.

Just had a thought, if we didn't correct typos, what sort of new language would develop. I'm pretty certain that many of the same errors crop up with everyone who types.

What say you?

elephants

2009-12-24T06:15:00.000-08:00

So this is Christmas and I have a herd of elephants on their way to the manger. There's a small one who's already there and calling to the others. There's an old dame of an elephant, big and slow, bringing up the rear and a youngster keeping her company. Perhaps they're singing.

This is my mantelpiece, my Fenwick's Christmas Window, my nativity scene.
People think I'm mad. But I love elephants and I love Christmas, so why not?

I'm surrounded by twinkle lights and wrapping paper and soon I'll be singing carols. And gazing at elephants of course. A perfect Christmas Eve.

Christmas greetings to all those who've posted me (now that the problem's fixed, I hope that more of you will join in). To Sammy (and any other young writer) my advice is just to keep it up, keep enjoying, it's one of the best things.

To those of you who want to read the first three chapters then email me at my website: www.celiabryce.co.uk or www.celiabryce.com . Perhaps I'll put them up there for all to see.

Happy Christmas.

agent kidding all along

2009-12-16T13:49:00.001-08:00

Seismic rewrite not required. Perhaps it was a test. Granddad in teen novel does not have to change to Grandma. Which is a relief. She'd be a pipe smoking, laddette at 97, drinking with the old fishermen and swapping tall stories in the back of a hardware store. Grandmas don't do that sort of thing, do they?

Meanwhile, responses are trickling in from my young readers who've been condemned to commenting on the first three chapters of novel number two. So far I've had: it's good (in a surprised sort of tone) but... ah here it is... some of the words are difficult.

OK. Not so bad. Good to know. I'll take a look and fix it.

Thank you, young readers. LOL

PF&L

2009-12-15T13:23:00.000-08:00

It was Christmas lunch with the writing group today. Everyone threw in their last pound and stood me a turkey dinner at the Customs House. Thank you, thank you. In return as a sort of reward (double edged, perhaps like an old Gillette razor) I read them PF&L, and forgot to tell them which animals they were (this is a picture book text with no pics), so it was possibly a pointless exercise. Nonetheless they seemed to enjoy it (or they're very good actors) and besides there were a few empty minutes between ordering and receiving Christmas pud, so why not listen to my pointless ramblings? If there's anyone out there actually reading these pointless ramblings, then maybe you're in a similar void between courses. Or don't get out much.

Tomorrow I wear tinkling bell earrings, courtesy of my sisters, and lead the singing group in a rousing chorus of Rudolph rocking around the manger on a starry night in a winter wonderland while mummy's kissing Santa Claus. Or something. All for a good cause.

Soon the spindles will be painted. May be painted. There are 118. Stair carpet comes Friday. But that's another blog.

agents

2009-12-15T13:06:00.000-08:00

This is how it goes. So, rather prestigious agent likes teen novel ...and life is a rose garden...but suggests rewrite...ah, well...of course. Life is more a weed patch, on further investigation. It's to be expected. Agents are like that. Aren't they? Rather like the medicine for something unmentionable, it has to be swallowed.

Actually, it's not just a rewrite, more a seismic shift. Say it quickly and it doesn't sound so bad.

Here's the thing. Do I go with my instincts and aim for the the slight tremor of a rewrite and risk being ditched before I even get there, or go the whole world shaking way of the agent and risk being ditched cos it's not quite right?

Is there anyone out there who cares an iota?

I have three things floating around. Two novels and a picture book text. I must be barking.

Get your postcards out folks, and give me your answer, do.

new computer

2009-12-11T09:53:00.000-08:00

Blogging from my new, snowy keyboard, tiny white computer. There's more room than I know what to do with on my desk. I feel rich. Lee, my computer guru, is just Mr Magic. Thank you.

picture books

2009-12-10T10:12:00.000-08:00

Rumour has it that the picture book world is in a sorry state. Publishers aren't taking new people on. They're not selling books. They're even shelving their authors. The credit crunch is biting into everything, even diddy little books for diddy little people. It's a shocker. Those poor wee folk. And yet I've posted my manuscript. Apparently it's good and ready. So off it goes. No hanging about. Price of a stamp. Hey ho.

Plain mad?
Grasping at straws?
Fantastically hopeful?
All three?
Immune to rumour
None of the above?

Answers on a post-card please.

testing the water

2009-12-05T03:13:00.001-08:00

Well I've produced the first three chapters of the new novel in a small book. I'm hoping to convince a bunch of young people to read it and give me a critique. Glutton for punishment? Yes, but they're my target audience (especially boys) and if it doesn't work for them, then there'll have to be a rethink. Wish me luck.

disaster averted

2009-12-01T12:30:00.001-08:00

All is not lost. The wonderful Lee has sorted my ailing computer. Let's hear it for him!

OK so I need a new computer, but my hard disk is safe, so the work is safe. One big thank you to Lee, who, incidently, used to play in the same band as me.

Meanwhile, I have it on good authority that some people want to add comments etc to my blog but are having problems doing so. Keep trying you people. Keep trying.

It's lonely out here

crashed

2009-11-27T10:46:00.000-08:00

so today my computer crashed. That's all.

picture books

2009-11-26T09:06:00.000-08:00

Well, my P&F picture book text appears to have met with approval and I've tweaked the areas that needed more attention, so I'm sending it back out. No messing. The thing is, if I sit around waiting for great things to happen, they just won't.

Well, actually, I've sat around quite a bit recently, and I'm now minus a wall, so that's pretty big. When I say a wall, obviously I don't mean that I'm now living in a doll's house (full of floors and an attic with secret doors and spaces) but what I've lost is some very damp, bubbling plaster, some very old lats, and I can see where the rain's been coming in for the last couple of decades. Our truly wonderful builder sawed up some of the wooden frame that supported the lats and smelled new wood in wood which is over 160 years old. Isn't that amazing! Well I think it is. And this is my blog. So let me be amazed at the lasting quality of wood aroma.

I'm also the proud owner of a fireplace, by the way, which was hidden behind all that bubbly plaster, so that's another pretty big thing which happened while I was sitting. It's lovely. I'd like to give it a sweep and use it, but I'm sure some health and safety person (or perhaps Colin) will tell me I'm daft, especially as most of the bricks around it are slightly saggy, the chimney breast is just a badly put together jigsaw, and the thing probably leaks.

So back to the safer (hah) ground of picture books and once again I wish I could draw properly and that P&F could just magically appear on paper and be so delicious that no self respecting agent or publisher could possibly resist them, and demand more stories about them and of course being the true professionally that I am, I'd be able to say, there is more. And there is, as it happens. Oh, I can't wait for that conversation.

Just noticed the date. Must get round to Christmas soon.

2009-11-18T03:22:00.000-08:00

I have a cough and the sniffs and everything in my house is dusty. Yes, we're having work done. I can't think or write. And soon we're to have visitors to stay from the other side of the pond. Help. They're coming tonight instead of Friday. Ah well, they'll have to live with what they find. They're musicians, so they'll be used to slumming it.

waiting

2009-11-16T01:57:00.000-08:00

Well I now have three followers, which is great. From small beginnings, erm, like little acorns, grow big sturdy oaks, with lots of branches and leaves and twigs and everything. So I'm waiting patiently for it all to get going. Thank you, acorns. Without you there is no oak. Sturdy or otherwise.

About waiting. Now then. Out there, is an agent who loves me. I'm sure of it. It's like knowing that behind the bright bit there's the dark side of the moon. We can't see it but it's there. So is my agent. Agent, show yourself. I can love you.

And another thing. My picture book text went out a whole month ago and I was promised (or did I just dream that?) it would be back with me within three or four weeks. It's like being at school, getting back the work you've spent so long on it just has to be right.

There used to be this joke played on young student nurses. They'd be set down to the operating theatre for a Long Stand. They'd be directed to a corner, out of the way, and told to wait. And so they did. And did. And did. And so did I.

So hey, waiting...it's nothing.

wolves

2009-11-08T03:28:00.000-08:00

Just back from mid west Spain, having tried, and failed, to find wolves. Standing for two hours till sun up and two hours till sun down, for four days, in biting cold, which layer upon layer just couldn't keep out. Full moon. Winter trees. Howling winds. Trails of mist over the hills. Brooding mountains in the distance. Perfect, you would have thought, for a pack to be out hunting for deer. Unless they're well fed, of course, contented with their lot, with not an ache of hunger to nudge them out from under cover. Meanwhile the deer came out to inspect us, morning
and evening, gamboling about in the dew, a more carefree, worry less group you ever did see. Which just about summed it up. I can feel a trip to Transylvania coming on.

towers and turrets

2009-10-28T11:50:00.000-07:00

Today I dismantled the towers and turrets, determined to have, at least for a short while, some order about my desk, even though it unsettles me. Things tend to go missing when I tidy up. Important things. How can that be? On the other hand, things that were once lost are found. A young friend, looking for extra pocket money, came to help. She sifted through years of magazines, pulling out my stories, stapling and filing them, with a steadfastness belying the mind-numbing quality of the task. Later she rearranged books onto shelves in such order they look positively unread, positively decorative. This girl is one organised cookie. Together we completely filled a wheely bin with paper for recycling. Now this wasn't easy. I had to be brutal but could only manage to be almost brutal. A little brutal. Actually, a few things were pulled back out of the wheely bin. Sorry, but it's too much like colonic irrigation to cleanse the place so thoroughly. Unnatural. For me at least. I was probably born untidy. I retrieved Thank You letters from school children, letters from readers, scraps of poems, snatches of prose, all written years ago. They might just come in useful. I piled them to the right of me and to the left. It feels good to have them around me. Like towers and turrets to the besieged.

writing hamsters

2009-10-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

Sock drawers! In answer to Sophie's post, which I've only just discovered, (whoops) everything turns up in sock drawers except matching socks it seems to me. But I'm glad that some bedrooms are as messy as my desk. Never tried to sleep on my desk though. The next thing I write will feature a mess and someone trying to sleep in it. I had a hamster once which did just that. The sleeping bit. Not the writing. I've never met a hamster that can write.

Apparently I have two followers, Julie and Lucy, so what does this make Sophie?
I'm a blog newcomer and it's great to have anyone dropping by, only I can't find anything written by them. Help required.

Hawker...

2009-10-16T03:24:00.000-07:00

Just bought a kneeling mat and gloves for the garden, and some yellow dusters, not for the garden. Those who know me will laugh, perhaps even wonder at this, but you see, there was a Hawker at my door. He interrupted the last blog-posting with a polished, if rather nervous, doorstep routine, featuring feather dusters, podietal cheese graters and a truck load of other things nobody can pretend they want. I felt the need to need at least one of these things, and do, whenever a Hawker arrives at my door. I'm not impressed by my actions, don't feel holier than thou, but did feel a kind of empathy with him, being a hawker myself, of far more useless items i.e my stories. Only my hands aren't blue with cold, I haven't lost the gloves someone kindly bestowed upon me just last night, and I haven't perhaps fifty more routines to perform on fifty more doorsteps. I hope fifty more people need something, and buy from him, and that his day isn't depressing. Because the weather is turning and there are selection boxes and tinsel ribbons in the shops. And soon I'll feel the need to need them.

bull, horns and books

2009-10-16T02:27:00.000-07:00

Taking the bull by the horns, as no-one else will, I'm actively seeking shelf space, other than my own, for 'Headlines and Other Growing Pains'. Why? Because the only mainstream bookshop in England happy to take local talent (which makes us sound like an unwelcome treatment for a terrible ailment) has sold out, or so it appears. The last time I tried to find a copy, to shift to a more prominent place instead of behind a book of Local Recipes, there wasn't one. Perhaps they really have sold out, and not just dusted the shelves recently, binning any unsold barnacles. And if that is the case, why haven't they come hot foot to the door of my publisher (how very grand that sounds) demanding at least twice as many copies as before, to display in front of the doorway as a Must Read, or even Title of the Month? Either would do. I'm not proud.

Haven't quite worked out my strategy on the Shelf Space Issue, but helpful hints and comments gratefully received. A chance for folk out there to add a sparkle to a deserving cause.
For now I have a librarian fighting my corner, in schools. Watch this space.

anniversaries

2009-10-10T06:55:00.000-07:00

Sold another story this week, and they like a second if I could tweak the ending, which must mean they've finally got to the pile I sent - way back when. Obviously there's a lot landing on their doormat. This is my commercial arm: though I write for just one magazine and have done for around ten years, so it's an anniversary, right about now. And it's thirteen years since I started the writing group south of the river.
All these anniversaries.
I can feel a cake coming on.

Writing's hard enough but...

2009-10-06T03:24:00.000-07:00

So there we were, twenty of us, at Northumbria University, the other night, reading from our various pamphlets, novels and collections, which were produced either by Biscuit or Red Squirrel (two independent publishers based in the North East). I have to commend them both for putting on a show, keeping our names alive, so that we don't turn into cobwebs, but of course it's up to us to make it a show. And it's a mine-field.

Take microphones. You love 'em or you hate 'em, and it's to do with technique. There's an art to using a mic, sometimes it's best not to bother, especially if your piece is peppered with Ps and you think that sucking the thing is the best way to be heard. Well you will be heard, if that's your inclination, but it's like listening to popping corn in a hot pan. Not a good sound.

Take the words we've all slaved over. Sadly, there's an art to reading out our work, which most of us (including me) probably haven't quite mastered yet, and perhaps should. If you can perform, rather than just read a piece, then it's got to be better. Apropos that, ten out of ten to Tom Kelly. No popping, great presence. If clapometers were still in use, he'd have won, in this competitive world of ours. Thank God we writers are above that sort of thing...

Anyway, I'm pleased to say that I bought a book (not one of my own...though it was tempting...) and sold a book (which was one of my own) so I came out no poorer, no richer. But you know you're onto a loser when the audience is mainly writers. We're a mean lot. Or maybe just poor. Perhaps we should just swap books at these events and promise not to drop them in the bath or let the dog pee on them, or mark the place with a bit of bacon. It's been done, incidentally, though not by me. What a waste of bacon.

tidy desks

2009-10-03T04:32:00.000-07:00

My desk is growing towers and turrets. Soon it'll be a fortress. I could hide behind it all, dodge the slings and arrows. But I have shopping to do.

About the books

2009-10-01T12:05:00.000-07:00

OK. The books. For those of you out there who are still my friends, after so long. One finished (re-drafted a zillion times and a zillion typos erased) and now in that other world, which dangles like some mobile just out of reach...And I thought writing the thing was hard. No way. That was just trekking the foothills, ambling over a few grassy slopes. Now it's the mountain and all its sharp edges and rock falls. Beyond that, another. Higher still and colder. Agents. Publishers. I'm waiting with the flag tightly furled, the spike sharpened, just ready to drive it home. It's non-biodegradable, it'll survive the wait.

So, the other one, finished but for the next and probably the next draft, lies waiting patiently, and I can't touch it. My head just won't let me. So instead I immerse myself in more research, so that when the time comes and the flag is unfurled, flapping noisily in the breeze, I'll be ready to take up where I left off and add ten thousand words.

And the picture book. Oh how I wish I was an artist. The words are there. On paper. The pictures are in my head.

Everything's just juggling around. All three projects.

Which is where the earrings come in. So simple. Just choose a pair. Like breathing in and breathing out. Easy. Today they are full of sparkles. Just what I need to remind me that there is somewhere, something other than sitting behind a computer.

Earrings

2009-09-27T12:53:00.000-07:00

I have decided on earrrings; to wear them every day without fail. I have so many. They hang from a wooden mushroom, just begging to be worn, and I have ignored them for long enough, (rather like my friends) in the writing of my first novel, in the writing of my second, and a picture book. It's been years. Yes years. Or so it seems. Apologies to friends and earrings, but those of you who can do so, please understand, please forgive and please read this. Those of you who can't or won't, well, there you go. Thank you Isabel Allende who suggested the earrings in the first place, though I can't claim that she meant the advice to come to me only. In fact, it's more than likely she doesn't know who I am. Thanks anyway.