drowning in froglets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?