thud on the mat?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.