like a dog at a bone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.