This Life of Mine

I feel the need to write something here but can't think what, so I thought I might just witter on for a bit and see what happens...

It's all been a bit bitty, my blogging of late. I'm in this strange, very transient, phase of life. The illness is more or less over (yay) but I still get nauseous occasionally (boo) and the main problem is I get really-really tired (double boo) and can't do as much as I want. My body keeps forcing me to down tools, and I have to listen cos, well, you know, there's a baby in my tummy. And even if it's a head-fuck trying to make yourself believe you have another human being squirming around in your middle, it's still there and you have to look after it, in this weird, not-being-able-to-put-your-hands-on-it kind of a way which in fact involves looking after yourself. Which doesn't always work if you also have this mad drive to accomplish the sixty-squillion things on your To-Do list before it pops out. The baby, that is, not the To-Do list. Oh God, how awful if I gave birth to a To-Do list! I don't think I'd appreciate that.

So, yes. Being pregnant is indeed a licence to be selfish. You can bagsy the best seats and get people to run around after you and generally be a fat lazy arse, but it's OK cos you're doing it for the littl'un, not for you. I still feel guilty sometimes though, like when I'm kicking Ally out of bed in the mornings to do the Daddy stuff.

So, the baby kicks loads, and often reminds me of its presence. But it's still mostly a future being, rather than a present one. I think there will be a baby, rather than there is one. And yes, when it wriggles and squirms I lift my top and gaze at my tummy in amazement - the flesh moves around and it's all very Sigourney Weaver. But it's not only there at those moments. It's there all the time. No matter what I'm doing, there is an actual live human being, existing inside me. It's easier to think that it's not alive yet than to get your head around the idea that it already exists, and technically could survive outside the womb from now on, although it would find it difficult and I'd rather it didn't.

I don't normally use "it" to describe it, cos I do know the gender. I've told everyone else, I dunno why I haven't told you lot (at least, I don't think I have - my memory is even worse than normal). But, you know, it's nice to keep back a few surprises. And who knows, maybe the radiologist got it wrong.

So, apart from playing host to a teeny-tiny person, I'm getting myself in a pother over my ginormous To-Do list. I need to stop doing that. It really doesn't matter if the front door catch doesn't get fixed or the baby's room continues to have Soot Dribbling Down The Walls as its main decorous theme. Or indeed if my next novel doesn't get writ (but have you checked out the word counter lately? I'm doing rather well - am proud of that).

And gawd, that whole novel-writing thing. Argh. Even though I have now chosen a plot and style and have jumped in and am determined to finish it... I'm not convinced I'm writing the right book. Or indeed that I can write at all. Despite having two publishing deals behind me, I don't feel like I have the faintest clue what I'm doing, or - more importantly - that I have any talent at all. All those people, writing brilliant books, and then... me.

I've been fretting over this book wot I'm writing and its chatty style. It's quite frothy and won't win any literary awards. As a sop to myself, and to discourage myself from switching genre in the middle of a book, I'm also writing another book on the side; one which is all about the words, the beautiful language, the clever stuff. And which I'll probably never finish (I've only written 350 words so far, and anyway there are only so many hours in the day), but does make me feel slightly better about the whole thing. And is probably going to be a kids' book, even though I haven't made my mind up yet, which is interesting in itself.

Climbing stairs is hard. It's like hauling a hippopotamus up behind me. So far I'm still able to get to my computer, which is up two flights in the attic, but there may come a day when all communication suddenly ceases because I am sprawled, panting, across the bottom few steps and unable to get any further. And it makes my hips hurt.

I have eleven weeks to go. Eleven weeks seems like a long time to wait before my body starts being a bit kinder to me (ha! What am I thinking? Have I forgotten how sore it all is for weeks after childbirth?). But not long to accomplish all the things on The Enormous List whilst getting steadily more hippo-like.

I'm also doing some storytelling - will be doing some this Friday in fact - but it's all strictly amateur and I've reined myself in re plans to become Tip Top Professional Storyteller. There's only so much one woman can achieve, and I'm officially on maternity leave now. I have no clue what or who I will do / be when the baby gets bigger. There are too many imponderables, and for once I've managed to stop myself making obsessive plans for the future. Something'll come along, I guess, although this whole global economy meltdown thing is worrying me slightly. But only slightly. Tranquilising pregnancy hormones. They're ace. And they keep rushing around your system as long as you're breastfeeding, so I'll hopefully live in a little contented bubble for at least the rest of this year. Well, I did after Felix was born. I s'pose I could be in for a shock, but no point worrying about that now.

We're having a home birth, so I don't need to worry about my baby getting swapped for someone else's. No, sorry, that was ambiguous. We're not having a home birth because I'm worried about swapped babies. It's just that, given we are doing the home thing anyway, I should be pretty sure it's my baby I'm bringing up. Unless some absent-minded midwife packs someone else's baby in her boot by accident and gets it out of her bag and puts it down somewhere in my house after my baby's born.

I once had a dream, before I was a mother, that I had a baby. It was a recurring dream theme, back in the childless days. These babies would just appear, and I would think, 'Oh, that's odd, I don't remember being pregnant,' and then I'd forget them or lose them or otherwise fail in my mothering duties. In this one dream, I put it in my pocket and forgot all about it. Then a few days later, I thought, 'Hang on, didn't I have a baby? What did I do with it?' and there it was, at the bottom of a deep coat pocket, covered in ancient boiled sweets and bits of fluff.

Felix loves that story. He listened intently when I told it to someone else the other day, then repeated it back to me out of the blue yesterday morning.

'And you put me in your pocket,' he said.
'Well, it wasn't you I don't think. It was before you were born.'
'It was probably Conor then, from my class at school. He's older than me.'
'I don't think it was Conor either. I didn't know him then.'
'But it could have been Conor. I like to think of it being someone.'
'Oh. OK then.'

Anyway, Emmerdale. Oh sorry, don't you watch it? It's a British soap. They have this brilliant storyline at the moment. First there was a cot death, which I thought was handled unusually well, with a lot of focus on the aftermath, rather than sweeping the whole thing under the carpet and forgetting about it, like soaps normally do with dramatic storylines, until some character makes a brief mention of it years later, and you think, 'Oh yes, you once got tied up and raped in a garage and all your family were massacred, yes, I forgot about that.'

Well, anyway. First there was a cot death, and the announcer made a special warning at the beginning of the episode, so you would know it was going to make you cry, and I had to watch all the same, and it made me cry buckets. But now, just as they're still getting to grips with their grief and all that, now they've discovered it (probably) wasn't even their baby that died! Their babies were swapped at birth! Their baby is alive and kicking and living in a caravan with the next door neighbours! Who don't have a clue what's going on!

When I've told people (people who aren't as addicted to soaps as me) about this wonderful turn of events, they've clicked their tongues and sighed and said how silly. But personally, I think it's brilliant. What a wonderful dramatic twist! Whatever will happen next??!! And why can't I have ideas like that?

Coronation St have got a swapped-baby story going on at the moment, too. I'm similarly impressed by their dramatic ingeniousness. So, there you are, you have one teenage son, an only child, his father is dead, you dote on him. And then you find out he's not your son! Some other child, who lives in a posh house and goes to a posh school on the other side of town, is your son! And he looks just like his dead dad, who you loved terribly and miss awfully! And then there's the whole thing of who thinks what, with the other mother refusing to pay any attention, and the other son desperate to become your son cos he's a spoilt brat and doesn't think his family is good enough, and your original son is getting all jealous, and his real father is desperate to get to know him cos he doesn't like his own son who isn't really his son anyway... wonderful.

It is weird though, how two of the main three British soap operas have come up with the same unlikely plot. This plot-duplication thing happens a lot in soap operas. It's a bit annoying. Do they steal each other's ideas? And if so, why? Surely it only lessens both storylines, and certainly doesn't make you choose one soap over the other, just makes you feel exasperated with both of them? Ally has a much better theory, though, about why it happens. All the soaps are under constant pressure to come up with something amazing, something new, something which hasn't been done before. That in itself will be quite a small pool, as most things have already been done. And, of course, in the same way as people only pay attention to the next door neighbours they amazingly meet in far-flung corners of the earth and never think about all the people they don't bump into, most of the time the stories don't collide. You only notice it when they do. And there was something in the news a couple of years ago about some family somewhere in Eastern Europe or somewhere, who the baby-swap thing happened to. It might have planted seeds in the heads of several independent script writers.

So. Yes. I love soap opera.

Oh, shut up. When the baby gets old enough to express a preference, I'll probably have to give up soap operas, like I did when Felix was little. Let me have my few months of soap-swallowing fun.

And now I s'pose I better get back to that list. I should probably go back and edit this post as well, or at least split it into a few smaller ones. But I can't be arsed. Sorry.


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New Kids' Book: The Secret Cake

I've just published a new children's book, called The Secret Cake.

It's a simple illustrated book for young children, and was a collaboration between me and the illustrator Lynda Mangoro.

It's aimed at children aged 2-5, and would also be a great learning-to-read book for 4-, 5- and 6-yr-olds. This is the blurb:

"Katy's gran is 90 years old today. That's quite old. Katy wants to bake her a cake, but can she keep it a secret?"

You can "try before you buy", so to speak, by viewing a preview here.

Click here if you want to buy (£5 per copy).

I'm also collaborating with some other illustrators on a couple of books for slightly older children... watch this space.


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Word Envy

I'm beginning to understand why some people stop reading books when they're in the midst of writing one.

The writing is going well still, it's flowing and enjoyable, contains some good stuff and should definitely result in a finished 1st draft which will *probably* turn into something publishable further down the line, and may even be good for what it is. So far I've managed to accept that what I'm writing is flippant frippery designed to entertain, and there's nothing wrong with that.

But everything I read by others has me going all jealous and insecure. From books to blog posts, I keep thinking, "oooh, why can't i write more like this" and "oh, I should be writing that kind of a book" and "ow, they're so much more accomplished / serious / lyrical / worthy / talented than I am..."

Grrr. Down with such silly thoughts, that's what I say. Tis a pain though, this damned Word Envy thing!


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Some people...

I've started Novel III v2, and it's going swimmingly. Words and ideas flowing out of me, very easy to write. So of course now I'm thinking...

Well, it's too easy. It must be a load of puerile rubbish if I can do it this fast.

It's juat another variation on the classic self-hating if-this-person-likes-me-then-they're-obviously-stupid-and-worthless thought, isn't it?

I know, I know. What am I like.


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Novel III Mark 2

Well, Novel III got off to a flying start, and then the doubts started creeping in and I slowed down... but then I was given a good talking to, by others and by myself, and reminded myself that first drafts are always rubbish and there's no point doing it if I'm going to fret and not enjoy it...

...but then I had a long think about it in the bath...

...and I realised it's down to a simple binary choice I've wrestled with before: Plot or character?

Not that you can't have novels which focus on plot and character, but when it comes down to it most will favour one over the other. And if you try and do both they can end up fighting with each other, and neither gets covered satisfactorily.

The book I started writing last week was character-based. I'm drawn to that. I'm fascinated by people and the things they do, the way they treat each other, the way they react to big life events.

But... I also love adventure, and action, and stuff happening. And I don't always find it easy to write about people who are not me. And I realised, my biggest objection to the new book was that there wasn't enough stuff happening, and I kept wanting more excitement...

And I think I've come to a conclusion. Just now, for whatever reason, I want to write something energetic, fast-paced, plot-based. Maybe even funny (I'm always terrified of stating outright that I'm trying to write something funny, in case it turns out not to be. At all. But [whispers] i'd like to write something funny).

Or so I decided in the bath yesterday.

So here's the plan: I've come up with a completely new plot outline, for an utterly different book, which was easier this time because I was more focused. Instead of just saying, "I want to write a book," I said, "I want to write a this kind of book, with some that and some t'other and a sprinkling of pepper."

I'm going to start the new one this week. Then at the end of the week, I decide between the two. Maybe the problem isn't plot vs character. Maybe it's just that starting on a new book is terrifying, and I'm getting First Draft Jitters. Maybe I'll find this one just as hard as the other one. In which case I simply have to pick one and Get On With It.

Me and the littl'un are off away next week, and I'm losing a week from this little diversion, so in practice I only have 12 weeks instead of 14 weeks... which means the new target is 96,000 words at 8,000 words per week. Hence the new word counters on the left hand side.

See. Told you I was the mistress of arse-aboutery. Nowt but an about-arsed queen, that's me.


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Word Counter Thingy

I have a new word-counter widget over there on the left, to keep track of progress on Novel III. Bit rough and ready, but it'll do for now...


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That New Title

I thought Asta had cheated, when she made her guess as to the title of my new book... and got it 100% right. And then Mike got it right too... and neither of them cheated!

It was cheatable, you see. If you do the right Googling, you come up with this link, where my agent announces the sale on his blog. So. Yes. It's called Dance Your Way to Psychic Sex, although titles are very fluid so who knows what will end up on the spine.

My favourite guesses were these:

Honey thought Never Look Sad in Serious Sex.

B thought Clare Says Yay in Twisted Sex (yeah right, I've written a book about my own sex life).

Rob thought Never Seek God in Tantric Sex.

And my absolute fave... oe thought Using Your Hex in Psychic Sex (and other stories).

The rest were just filthy. Wash your mouths out, you disgusting bunch of degenerates. Well, OK, they could have been much filthier. But it is about other stuff, apart from sex...

Time to Start

Ooh look, I've started writing another novel! Well, I mean I've joined this wonderful group called Novel Racers and written a post over on their blog, and now I'm writing a post over here on this blog about that post over there on that blog, and then I'm going to update my blog template to include the novel racers, but that counts as writing a book, right?

Yes. Thought so.

I'm going to write 3,250 words today. No really. I am.

(probably)


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Number Three, here we come

Well, I've spent a bit of time in the last fortnight humming and hawing and chewing me nails and generally getting in a bit of a tizzy over what Novel III will be about.

Blimey though, it's not an easy job. I feel like an old hand, but despite having been a novelist for eight years I've only written two books so far, and the subject / style / genre / plot / characters (oh 'eck, getting palpitations already) of the next one are a BIG IMPORTANT DECISION.

It matters. Eek.

I can't guarantee I'll get much writing time after Baby II is born, so I've decided to try and complete a first draft before Due Drop Day, which means I need to get a wriggle on (those Aussies do have some lovely phrases, great galaahs that they are), which means No Arsing About.

I am a champion arser-abouter. I spent a full 18 months faffing around the edges of Novel II before I finally got proper stuck in, and I'm determined not to do the same with this one. I'm going to dive straight in, no excuses. And write 7,500 words a week for fourteen weeks, starting next week. 7,500 words a week, that is, on the subject of... umm...

I don't even have any Lovely Signed Two-Book Deals (yet) with friendly editors whose brains I can pick about what the next book should be like, and I don't have the time to wait for them, but if Novel II does well then it might have an impact on Novel III, and what if people like Novel II but don't like Novel III, and and and...

Well, that's what my brain looked like today and yesterday, until I took a long hot bath and finally made a decision. And I'm NOT CHANGING MY MIND. So there.

So, from next week I'll be holding myself to a weekly word-count deadline. Hopefully the fact that I'll be following Stephen King's advice, and (in a nutshell) just getting on with it will help. I'm not allowed to stop halfway through, change my mind about everything and rewrite it. I'm not allowed to obsess over the quality of what I'm writing. I have to just put my head down and write a book, then put it aside for a few weeks, and then read it back and weep and wail and rewrite the whole damn thing.

Wish me luck.

Oh, and it's currently called P******.


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Getting Where You Want to Be

Practically everything I've done over the last four years or so has been focused on the twin goals of baby and book, and suddenly here I am. Second baby on the way, second book getting published.

It's been longer and difficulter than I anticipated, with quite a few false starts and angst along the way.

But I can now announce that I am, finally, pleased to be where I am. So hurrah for that.

And here's to several more books to come (I'm planning to start work on Novel III in a week's time), but no more babies thank you very much. Books are less painful than babies. It's official.


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Frohliche Weihnachten!

Ooh!

I just sold my second book, Dance Your Way to Psychic Sex, to Random House in Germany!

It will be published in German, so you lot won't be able to read it, so ner. Apart from Mike, who speaks German. And me, who supposedly does. Well, I did German A level, 20 years ago. But I was also a nanny in Germany. 21 years ago. But I have read German books, whole ones, and understood them. So there.

Don't worry. A UK deal, not to mention other parts of the world, should follow soonish. But I have to confess the idea of it only ever being published in German does rather tickle me.

It's Very New News - I only found out today - so I don't yet know when it will be published or what it will be called or anything like that. I'm looking forward to the title. I hope it has some really long words in it, like strassenbahnhaltestelle, or hotzenplotzenkopf. One of my mum's books was published in Germany as Die Geheimnisvolle Fledermaus, which I always thought was lovely.

So! There you go! Published again! Have some more exclamation marks, cos I'm feeling generous!!!!

Only yesterday I was filling in a form to join some online thingy for authors, and giving them the details of my book wot was published all that time ago in 2004 and feeling like a bit of a has-been, but now I am a will-be again. Woohoo. See, look, I am a proper writer, I am resisting the urge to use exclamation marks.

But then again...

Prost! Frohliche weihnachten! Donner und blitzen! Schwachzinnige!

Woohoo!!!!!!!


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Something Else

OK, I'm done writing book reviews now. It's like the dirt under your fingernails. Save it up and then clean it all out in one great satisfying go. Except most people probably don't do that and it's not really fair (or accurate) to compare book reviews to dirt. But apart from that, it's exactly the same.

Problem is, I don't have much else to tell you about. No book news (yet), and I've not been well so I've been sitting about on my rocking chair a lot and not doing much else.

I love my rocking chair. I can't remember what life was like without it.

This Friday I'm doing some more storytelling at the Chopin Bar in Chorlton (Manchester), but tickets were very limited and will almost certainly have all been booked by now. I'm hoping to write a new story for this tomorrow, health permitting.

Then on Saturday me and Felix are doing some, er, thing. Something on the telly. Or maybe it was the radio. At the BBC. Or perhaps it's Granada. Something to do with storytelling. I think we're helping to make a soundtrack. Er. This is what it's like in my brain most of the time. All a bit vague really.

Also, me and a delightful laydee wot I 'ave never met called Lynda Mangoro have created a kids' book together. We're getting the proofs this week, then once we're happy with it all we'll start flogging it. Me and that Ms Pepper are doing one, too. About a dragon. Called Stinky.

Apart from that, I ain't bin doin' nuffink. Well, I went to York. And walked some dogs. And cuddled some kittens, and laughed at their antics (they played Backgammon with us this evening). Nuffink else though.

Maybe tomorrow I'll think of something more interesting to say. Or maybe not.


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It Began With a B

I think I might have posted this before, but if I did it was a long time ago.

I've been going through some old files, making lists. I like making lists. I'm currently making a giant list of all the ideas I've ever had for another novel, as well as ideas I've had for random content and for Clever Devices, and characters, and... oh well, let's just say I love lists.

So far I have 238 items in my List of Ideas For Novel III. I might need to narrow it down a bit.

But anyway, while perousing [eek, that thing's just happened where a word stops seeming like a real word, and I can't for the life of me work out how to spell that, or even whether I don't mean some other word entirely] an old file, I came across this, which as I said up there I may have posted before, but what the hell, it's funny. It's an actual real conversation some actual real elderly people had with each other, when they were in different rooms and couldn't quite hear each other, a few years ago.

Bob: “You mean Simon.”

Betty: “What dear?”

Bob: “Simon.”

Betty: “Oh no dear, that’s not the one.”

Bob: “Yes it is. Simon.”

Betty: “No, it began with a B”

Bob: “What?”

Betty: “A B, dear, it began with a B. I know, because he kept bees.”

Bob: “Bees, did you say?”

Betty: “Yes, bees. Bertie, that was his name.”

Bob: “No dear, Simon didn’t keep bees.”

Betty: “I know he didn’t. Simon was the one from the farm. It wasn’t Simon I was talking about.”

Bob: “No, Simon didn’t keep bees. He was the one from the farm dear, do you remember?”

Betty: “Yes, I know that. I’ve known that all along. I was talking about the one with the bees.”

Bob: “Bertie, that’s what he was called, the one with the bees. Fancy you forgetting Bertie’s name. You always used to remember it because it began with a B. Your memory really is getting bad.”


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Many Stories to Tell

Last year, a good friend introduced me to the storytelling scene, by way of a festival in Shropshire called Festival at the Edge (aka FATE). I've been to plenty of music festivals and this wasn't much different, except that each stage was populated by a storyteller instead of a musician.

It's an ancient tradition, and predates the printed word by a long way. People entertaining each other by gathering round a fire and telling each other tales. Not reading, not writing, just telling. Each story passed on by word of mouth and embellished a little as it goes. Personalised to fit the teller.

I did the "Ooh, I could do that" thing I tend to do. It took me a while to get round to climbing up on a stage, but as soon as I did I realised I was right. And that I never stop telling stories, anyway. They're normally anecdotes about things that have happened to me or people I know, or something I heard on the news or saw on the telly, but long before I came across the oral storytelling scene I've called them stories. "Have I told you the story of when I got run over by a bus?" I say, to a chorus of groans from my long-suffering friends.

I've always loved reading stories out loud too, which is another thing I inflict on drunken gatherings, particularly if it's Dr Seuss. I even wrote a novel after attending dozens of author events when my partner worked at Waterstone's, specifically because I liked the idea of reading sections from my own book on stage. When The Dying of Delight was published, me and Ally spent weeks creating a whole multimedia event around me performing sections from the book. And then there was the performance poetry, which I used to write and present. Being on a stage, using words, it's something I've always enjoyed, right back to when I was an amateur actress, or when I was in a band and writing and performing my own lyrics.

Storytelling doesn't involve the written word. It's not the same as story reading, because you don't memorise stories word for word. You learn the bones of a story, and then you improvise. You tailor the performance for the audience. You interact with them. You use your body.

And it's fucking great.

It fits in with tons of things I've always enjoyed. Writing stories, telling stories, using words, using my voice, performing on stage, interacting with an audience. And it complements the writing. Gives me a greater understanding of the bare bones of story, and instant feedback to go with it. Written stories and told stories are different in many ways, have different requirements, but a lot in common too.

And so the other week I found myself in a stable yard on Hallowe'en, standing on a wooden carriage festooned with cobwebs and performing a collection of stories (some written by me, some by Joseph Jacobs) to an audience of adults and children, with people milling about in the background and cheeky ten-year-olds sitting at my feet and heckling me. It wasn't easy, but it was fun. And very different to the upstairs room of a pub, a couple of days later, where I performed a story I'd written specially for the occasion called Butterfly Soul. It was very personal and I welled up towards the end. That was fine, even planned, but my voice was cracking as I left the stage, and I was worried I might have gone overboard. Except that the faces and the hush in the room told me, like no review ever could, that it was a success. It felt like an old classic, rather than written by me that afternoon.

I wrote this post because somebody asked for a report-back, and I wanted to try and explain storytelling. It's given me a creative boost, and it's got me writing again. There's a lot more where that came from.

So far I've created three stories for telling, two of which have been written down and are available for sale (including the one which made me cry). I've found it doesn't work if I write them first. I have to tell them first, then transfer them to the page afterwards - and one of them hasn't been transcribed yet. It's a lovely new way of doing things.

One of the jobs I have lined up for the next few weeks is to create various materials advertising my services. That'll include storytelling CDs for sale, and sample audio files on t'internet somewhere. But in the meantime, I may as well do some advance publicity: I'm available for weddings, children's birthday parties, schools and nurseries... anywhere you can think of where some stories might go down well. Modern, traditional, for kids, for adults, and I'll write tailor-made stories to fit the occasion. I got a request the other week for a housewarming party, so... well, anywhere really. I'm a storytelling tart. Currently the only audio available is this link here, which is a recording of me performing a story I wrote for Big Blogger. But anyway, you know. I'm available. Hire me.


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Learning How to Wait

If this blog has been light on personal detail lately, it's because I've been scared to talk about the big stuff. Different stuff, different types of scared, but the big things have to be downgraded in my brain to huh, no biggie, and lots of shrugs so I can cope with daily life.

After three years of various kinds of fret and sweat, I'm closer than I've ever been to selling my book, but still it stays dangling, somewhere else. Not here. Not now. But close. Soon. Maybe.

Apparently I could fuck things up if I give too much detail, and My Big Gob has got me into trouble more than once in my life, so that's why I'm scared. As well as just being, well, scared. Because it affects so many things, and would be so tragic if it went badly. But there are publishers, reading and thinking, and there's me, sitting and waiting, and I have no fucking idea what's going to happen. All I can do is wait.

I re-read my agent's blurb for the book last night, the first thing publishers get to see. I read the first two and last three chapters too. I wanted to know if it was the kind of book that might catch people's attention. And it IS a good book, dammit. It's well written, it's funny, it's original and it's attention-grabbing. And when my agent described it as "sizzles with energy and imagination," he wasn't completely off his nut. It bloody ought to sell to someone, and for a decent amount. But what the hell do I know.

In the meantime I'm doing bits and bobs of other work: Reading, critiquing and editing other people's manuscripts (for a fee), touting for more storytelling gigs, some IT work. And. I'm ready to think about Novel III. I'm creating a shortlist of ideas, then I'll fiddle about with each in turn, see which fits me best. Some time soon I'll start writing it, which terrifies and excites me. That's true of a lot of stuff in my life. Terrifying. Exciting. I've learnt so much in the writing of two novels. The next one will be better. The next one will be easier. The next one will be different.

In 60 years' time I'll be 108 98*, and I bet - I hope - I'll be saying the same old things.


*OK OK, I know. I can't add up. Except I can, I knew full well it was 98 really, it's just that originally I wrote 70 years and 108, and then I edited it to 60 years and meant to change it to 98 to match, but I forgot, and I CAN add up, really, I can, and... oh, never mind.


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Butterfly Story

I'm off to do more storytelling tonight, and I've writtten another story for the occasion (Briton's Protection, Manchester City Centre, 8pm). It's called Butterfly Soul. People who've been reading this blog for a while may recognise the reference, but if not try looking here.

As with the last one, copies can be bought from me for £3.50 (including p+p). Email me (remove "spam" from the email address - it's there to stop spam) or indicate in the comments box. It's a sad one, this one.


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How to Beat Procrastination

Some writers can't wait to get to their desk, and once there become so absorbed that only a crow bar will prize them away. They are happy and productive, and don't understand why any true writer, given the opportunity, would do anything other than write.

And then there are the rest of us.

I wrote about this a while ago here and here, and appealed for helpful suggestions - of which I got plenty. I've now written them all up here, including a description of the medley I found worked for me. There are some great, and some funny, suggestions. I recommend to anyone who suffers from this most dreaded of diseases.


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Stuff Happening Next Week

Oops, head, forget, not screwed on (can I get away with using cliches if I rearrange the words and miss a few out? I think I can).

You'd never guess I'm trying to make a living out of this lark - anyone'd think it was a secret. Anyway, I have Things To Announce.

On Wednesday (31st Oct, Hallowe'en) next week I'll be having my Very First Gig as a storyteller - telling a scary story to a bunch of kids at the Farm Centre in Heaton Park (North Manchester) at about 7.30pm. I'll let you know when I know more.

On Friday next week (2nd Nov) I'll be telling a story at Word of Mouth in the Briton's Protection (it's a pub), central Manchester. The evening starts 8pm. Not really a gig, and I'll only be on for ten minutes, but I was asked to do it and am taking it seriously.

On Saturday next week (3rd Nov) I'll be in Liverpool, running a short creative writing workshop as part of the Loved Up In Libraries thingy. I think it's at Picton library, in the afternoon. I'll update this post when I find the info in my deluge of undealt-with emails (sigh).


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Arguments With Myself

I've been trying very hard to foster this new living-in-the-present attitude. It's difficult. But necessary. All my attention is so focused on the future and I'm missing out on all the positive stuff that's happening right now. Instead of noticing the beautiful autumn sunshine as I walk the dogs, for instance, I'm always thinking about what's going to happen next. What will be in my email inbox when I get home? Will I get published? Who by? Etc etc.

But the result of my new efforts is that I'm now possessed by two warring factions. There's "Relax, chill out, have fun" Clare and there's "Get busy! Sort it out! Plan! Panic!" Clare who keeps giving Relaxed Clare big Tickings Off for not paying enough attention to the future. In practice it goes like this:

"Oh help, I feel so stressed out, I don't know what the future holds, I don't know what I'm doing with my life, I can't bear all this waiting, help!"

"Stop worrying. Everything's fine. You've got loads of fun stuff coming up, you don't have to go to work, you have an agent and several potential book deals in the offing, and THIS IS WHAT YOU'VE WANTED FOR AGES. Stop fretting. Enjoy it."

"But what about all these things on my To Do list? And what if I get a full time IT contract starting the week after next and don't have time to do all these things I'm supposed to be doing? And what if I DON'T get an IT contract but I DO get pregnant and then I get ill and then I don't get any publishing deals and we plunge head-first into a big pile of debt?"

"There's nothing you can do about any of that. Let go. Chill out. Have fun."

"But I've got so much to doooooooooooo!"

You get the picture. I've been focusing on a supposed future containing Baby II and Publishing Deal II for so long now (at least three years), God knows what'll happen if either of them arrive. I'll probably implode - pop! - and all that will be left is a little puddle. So. Down with that sort of thing, and up with Clare Here And Now, as long as she can stab Clare Tomorrow firmly in the back.

In other news, this post here got me thinking about the whole people-being-nasty-to-each-other-on-the-internet thing.

The thing is... oh hang on, maybe I better make that a separate post.


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The Inner Critic

Some days everything you put on the page seems crap, and you lose all confidence in your ability to write. It happens to most writers. It happened to one of the Bookarazzi team, and of course we all waded in with advice. But we didn't all agree.

Here is an edited transcript of our conversation, which included the suggestion of recasting yourself as a hobbit...


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Publication Excitation

I spoke to my agent this morning and there are publishers! All over the world! Who like my book!

I'm not allowed to tell you any more until I have concrete news.

I hate when people post teasey posts like this. Unless it's me that's doing it.

[wicked cackle]


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Discombobulation

I've been saying the same thing for months now.

My future is uncertain. I don't know what's going to happen. I'm teetering on the brink of The Rest Of My Life, but although the water is gushing behind and beside me and I can see the drop below, my kayak has got snarled on a twig.

Supposedly recruitment agents are handing my details out to employers who might want me to do short-term IT work and thereby earn some money. Timing-wise, the sooner this starts the better. No word on that so far.

Apparently there are publishers interested in my book, and some time soon I may be receiving concrete details of that. Not yet though.

Rumour has it that romantic weekends in Paris are good for procreation. But not so good if your body refuses to ovulate. Every morning I piss on a stick and wait for a little blue line to tell me to fuck off and make like a rabbit. Not today, apparently.

I know I know, it's old hat. I've been droning on about the same old stuff for months and months, and none of it ever goes anywhere.

Meanwhile there are hooks of the tenter variety firmly lodged in the back of my neck, and my Deluxe Swivel Office Chair is redundant, because I'm dangling from the ceiling as I type.


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Old York, London, Paris, Frankfurt!

This week I have been mostly looking for IT contract work, having eyedrops put in my eyes, Doing Sums, Dreaming About The Future and dreaming about the future.

I've decided the obvious solution to all my money-earning woes is short-term software engineering contracts, and I'm not sure why I didn't think of this before. I guess I was a little bored of software engineering, but you know what they say about absence... after spending a day last week reading this site here, I got all nostalgic for my days of geekery and now I want to be a software engineer again. Just for a little while. Just while I earn a pile of dosh (it's SHOCKING what IT contracters get paid) And then I'll stop and be a novelist again. And that way I'll never get bored of either of them! Hurrah!

And in the meantime I might even get a publishing deal. Did I mention my book is going to Frankfurt? Well, it is. This weekend. Eek!

I had a lovely long telling-bone conversation with another writer-woman the other day, and she was full of praise and plaudits for my literary agent, who is also her literary agent, and apparently he's really rather good at this selling-books business, and blimey maybe he might actually sell my book too. But even if he does it'll take ages for any money to come through so I'll still need to do the short-term IT contract thing but still and all the same... ooh!

Oh, and today an optician put drops in my eyes and dilated my pupils and blinded me for three hours and it was really weird cos it made me feel like I was on drugs and made me realise how hard it is to see proper when your pupils are dilated and he looked at my eyes under a microscope and I have an area of pigmentation called a nevus (sp?) on my left retina and I was ever-so-slightly worried about it but it's OK and really it's just a freckle and I like the idea of having a freckle on my retina.

And that is all.

Oh, and I'm going to Paris! On Friday! To see a Chinese Opera! But I'm barely even aware of it cos I'm too busy being excited about Frankfurt.

And I'm going to York tomorrow. I'm only mentioning that so I can give this post the title it has. But never mind that, my book's going to Frankfurt.

Oh 'eck.


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Insecurity

I seem to remember saying in a previous post that once I've worked on a piece of writing I'm normally pretty confident about its quality.

I take it back! I'm racked with insecurity!

Ahem. And now I'm going to go watch more Coronation St. I love Coronation St.


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Restless

Well, at 3:45 this morning I finally sent off the latest revision of my novel to my agent. And now he's getting all the stuff ready to show it to publishers (UK, US and international) at Frankfurt Book Fair in less than a fortnight's time.

I've focused on little else for the last ten days, and today I simply can't sit still. The thing I'm really struggling with is letting go. This is it now. What I emailed last night, that's what will be shown to publishers. Or will it? Can't I edit it some more? Please? What if it's not good enough?

I've never had an agent sell my work before. I'm used to doing all the legwork myself, but now I have to sit back and leave the job for someone else. But... but... this is not easy for a control freak.

So, what shall I do today? I was at my desk from 8am to 4am yesterday; a 20-hour day with a two-hour break for childcare and dogwalking in the middle. I've earnt some time in lieu. So I could do as my agent suggested, and watch some daytime telly. Or read a book. I'm currently reading Nirvana Bites by Debi Alper and enjoying it enormously. Or I could sort out my tax return. Or write some blog posts. Or answer my emails. Or do some housework. My back is complaining about the amount of time spent at the computer in the last 48 hours, so yes, time away from the desk would be good...

I keep sitting down with something for ten minutes, then getting up and finding something else to do instead.

Maybe I should try and earn some money. That's not a bad plan...

But let's face it. Today is a wash-out. Indeed I don't hold out much hope for the whole of the next fortnight, and I bet you 20p I'll be back and editing that book again within days. I just can't leave it alone.

And then... Frankfurt! Editors hearing about my book!

What if someone buys it?

What if they don't?

The most likely scenario is that various people express an interest at Frankfurt, and then in the weeks and months afterwards they read the ms and ponder, and chat, and ponder some more...

So, more waiting then.

I'm used to that. I can do waiting. And in the meantime I'll watch Coronation St. No, read Debi's book. File my tax return. Go for a walk. Find some work.

Anyone fancy a trip to the cinema??


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Swimmingly

Just a quick note...

I've been working dead hard and am very proud of myself. I used a combination of methods and will write it all up in due course, but for now I'm still frantically trying to get a new revision of the book ready for my agent, and (thank all deities) am being very productive and hardly procrastinating at all at all. And to prove it I shall now go away.


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Getting the Fear

There's this thing that I do, and I've done it for a long time now. Well actually, it's something I don't do. But anyway. Here's the thing.

Sometimes when I'm faced with a piece of work, I won't do it. I'll do anything but. I'll make a cup of tea, go to the loo, surf the web, check my emails, surf the web some more... you get the picture. When I was a software engineer I would do all these things rather than write software. When I'm Being A Writer, it's the writing I'm avoiding. I do it a LOT, and it drives me mad.

The only significant insight I've had about it is that it's about fear. If I try and force myself to do the thing I'm avoiding doing, I start getting all the symptoms of anxiety. I seem to be terrified of making a mess of it, so rather than risk that, I avoid doing it at all.

The only surefire cure I've ever come up with is gritting my teeth and getting on with it. And the irony is that when I finally do get on with it, I feel immensely better. But still, after doing a chunk of work and feeling better, I go away from my desk for a piss or whatever, and then when I return... it starts all over again.

Here are some not-very-helpful facts:

1. Despite knowing that doing the work makes me feel better, and despite having this proved time and again, I still can't make myself do it.

2. Despite being apparently fearful that what I produce will be utter rubbish, I've had it proved to me many times that I do NOT produce rubbish. I'm actually rather good at the work that I do. And to further compound this apparent conundrum, once I've finished a piece of work and offered it to the world, I rarely have insecurity about what people think of it. I know I've done my best, and if they don't like it, well, not everyone can like everything, can they?
So why the hell am I so paralysingly terrified of producing poor work at the start of the process?

3. My brain is a wily beast. The process is rarely conscious. I don't think to myself in the morning, "Oh my God, the prospect of work is terrifying me so I'm going to do something else instead." No, I just quietly think, "Ah yes, here we are on another day. Good. I'll get to that in a minute. I just want to..." As the day wears on I become more and more aware that I haven't actually done any work yet, and more and more convinced that I will, in a minute, just after I've... whatever. Although the fear and the desperation does become less subconscious and more bloody apparent as the hours tick by (and takes the form of an internal dialogue: "For heaven's sake, just do some work!" "No. Don't want to." "But it'll make you feel better." "No no no, I won't I won't." "But why?" "Lalala, I can't hear you...").

It's number 3 that's the bugger. People have made various suggestions to me over the years, for ways I might beat this thing. Little exercises I could do, or incentives I could offer myself, all of which would be fine if I were consciously avoiding work, rather than believing wholeheartedly that there isn't really a problem and I am about to start work any minute.

And yes, if I'm honest that's been my major problem so far this week. I'm supposed to be working, and I'm not. And it's making me miserable. Although, hyperanalytical being that I am, I don't know whether my non-workingness is as much a symptom of some deeper malaise as it is the cause of the malaise... argh. Going round in circles.

So anyway, here's the thing: I will feel better if I do some work. But I'm not doing any work. So how can I make myself do some work?

That thing mentioned in number three above, that denial of the problem, coupled with this very deep-rooted urge to avoid doing work at any cost, has made me less than effective at putting people's suggestions into action in the past. But here's my promise: If you make suggestions to me, of ways I might beat this thing, I will promise to try VERY HARD to implement them, and not do that other thing I do, of being all superior and thinking things like "Pah, heard that one before, I don't need to do that and anyway it'll never work". I will pick one suggestion per day, and do it. And see if I can find something that works, that I can use again in the future. Or maybe just a whole bag of tricks that I can try one at a time every time I get stuck in one of these ruts.

But for now, I'm going to go back to the one I normally use, which works, eventually, for a bit: I'm going to grit my teeth and bloody well get on with it.

I'll just make myself a cup of tea...


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That Is Not All

...except that's not all. While I'm here I may as well do a catch-up post.

I confess I'm having one of my what's the point? periods with respect to blogging, and I further confess it's been fuelled by my dramatic drop in visitor numbers. This blog was apparently more popular than it had ever been six months ago, with visitors coming out of its ears. I suspect that was down to a combination of factors - people linking to me and me having Something Dreadful Happen being the biggest. And then recently my blog fell off the face of the planet when Purpleocity got sick, and that lost me several readers, but it was already unpopular by then.

And all right then, I admit it. The quality's not been great here lately. I don't know why. It's partly about time - I keep having great ideas for blog posts but no time to write them, but... well, my life has been far busier than this in the past and I've still found time for good blogging. Maybe that's it. Now that I'm a full time writer I don't have that hunger to write in whatever small moment I can find. I'm sated.

And then I wander around the blogosphere as I have been doing this morning, and, bloody hell, there are so many good writers out there. Why in hell am I attempting to compete, both as a blogger and a professional writer? Shouldn't I just bow out and leave the field to the really talented ones?

Well, anyway. I'm still here. Not sure why, but I am.

In other news my week in Andalucia seems to have dropped some big stones in my pond and left a few ripples, even though I'm struggling to define what or how or why. And in the meantime I'm supposed to be rewriting Act III of My New Book. Although it feels pretty much like an old book by now, seeing as I've been thinking about or writing it for three years, and... oh, all right then, that's partly it too. I promised my agent I'd have a Version Ready For Showing To Publishers by the end of the week, and I'm bricking it.

Or maybe not. Maybe not feeling scared so much as... bemused. Can this really be it? Am I finally at the point where my book will be shown to publishers? I've had so many false starts, it's hard to have any real faith. And then what? Will somebody buy it? Will they pay me enough money for me to start work on another straight away, rather than glance at my bank account, go "Oh, fuck!" and rush about trying to get people to pay me to write stuff, any stuff, just please-will-somebody-give-me-money?

And the worst of it is, it'll probably be weeks before I know the book's fate. Weeks of feeling rather vague and thinking I probably-ought-to-be seeking out income, but I also probably-ought-to-be editing and making this book The Best Book Ever.

I don't feel very dynamic, that's the thing. I feel like I'm lying in the dark, sweating and flapping a fan about feebly, waiting for someone to open the door and say, "Here you are! We've been looking for you! Come with us, we have a new life for you ready and waiting."

Hmmm. Who's going to open the door?


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Blog-Squat

Marie Phillips has recently made her blog Subscriber Only after some unwanted attention in the wake of her book deal, which is a shame cos she just wrote a hilarious post which I wanted to nominate for Post of the Week, but couldn't cos her blog was subscriber-only... so she's agreed I can copy it here for PotW purposes. So, without further ado, I bring you Marie Phillips, squatting on my blog*.

"I thought the meaning of life was writing. It isn't. It's Prince.

Prince is a very good example of how to get it right, and when I next have a reading, which I believe will be at The Ivy House pub in Peckham (tbc, as they say) I will be doing it just like Prince. Before I am even in the building I will play a long video featuring lumanaries from my line of work plus, for no good reason, Salma Hayek, talking about how great I am, how incredibly talented and how much better I am at reading and writing than anyone who has ever been, or ever will be born. I will then arrive in a cloud of smoke through the floor of my custom-built stage - I don't have my own symbol (sad oversight) but it will be in the shape of my iconic signature, MaPhilps - accompanied by two unbelievably lithe and sexy scantily clad twin females who can do the splits and that really hard one from yoga when you lie back between your own legs, but (it is most unfortunate) will have little use for that move where they play air-guitar using their own legs as the guitar. When I begin to read, enormous bouncers will roam the audience threatening anyone who so much as looks at their camera phone with dismemberment - this show is for your memories after all. I will be FUNKY. I will read all the best bits from my book plus a lot of good bits from other people's books, and a few really bad bits from other people's books, which I will read very badly while my twin dancers fight each other with pink plastic light-sabres (look, I know it sounds like I am making this up, but I'm not.) Then we will break it down. I will retreat to one corner of my custom-built stage and read a medley of bits from my blog, some classics and a few boring bits that you have forgotten. This will go on for slightly too long. Then we will bring it up again! I will read some excellent passages from my novel that will get you super-excited before breaking off quite obviously before having finished and disappearing down into my custom-built stage. Then I will wait for bloody ages while you clap. Then I will come back up through the stage in a new outfit and read some really great bits of other people's books from the seventies. I will do this in a way that is FUNKY. I will end by reading some of the greatest moments from my novel, before disappearing into a cloud of smoke with the words "Take some time to get to know God." (This will be more appropriate for me than for Prince. I might say "Gods" instead of "God".) You will clap and go wild. But I am not coming back. I am not coming back. Those rumours you've heard of me coming back are just rumours. I am not coming back. The house lights will come on. I am not coming back. Half of you will go home. I am not coming back. Just when you are almost sure that I am not coming back, I will play a cackle of maniacal laughter over the PA system so that you know that I am coming back. But I am not coming back. I am not coming back. But hang on, what's this, a bunch of roadies wheeling in a suspiciously Marie-sized flight case? I AM BACK! BACK IN A BOX! I will come out of the box. Now I will read the best loved bits of my book which I haven't read yet to the accompaniment of an excellent FUNKY keyboard that plays the best loved bits of my book at the touch of a button. I will bask in the ego-pumping glory of your screams of joy. And then I will get back in the box and the box will be wheeled away. DO NOT TOUCH THE BOX. Now I'm really not coming back, but some of you will have paid a fortune to get into an after-party that I might have turned up at. This won't be sensible, because I am not going there either. I will be somewhere else, somewhere mysterious. The rest of you will spend seventeen hours trying to get home from one of the least well-served places on earth for public transport, but I won't care. My name is Marie. And I am FUNKY."

*That rather makes it sound as though she's using my blog as a toilet or a place to practice her yoga. She isn't. At least, I hope she isn't.


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Ooh & Argh

Ooh! "My agent" had a meeting with two editors yesterday and mentioned my book and they liked the sound of it!

Ooh! I've just seen a mock-up of a kids' book I'm doing in collaboration with e friendly artist and I really like it!

Argh! I've spent all day being writerly and not actually writing anything!

I'm off to Spain tomorrow for a week. I'll stick up another Girls' Fun post to keep you going (I transcribed several at once in a fit of procrastination a few weeks ago).


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Scared Again

Argh.

I'm at that stage again, needing to write, scared to write. It might be rubbish. I might fail.

It makes no sense. How will I know unless I try?

Pah.


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But When Will All This Happen?

Sorry, forgot to say. Frankfurt Book Fair is, according to Google my sources, the weekend of Saturday 13th October. Which is, coincidentally, when I will be going to Paris to see the Damon All-Bran monkey-thing.

So I am anticipating a glamorous and cosmopolitan weekend consisting of me swanning around Paris and sitting in Big Posh Theatres apologising to the people around me as my phone interrupts their theatrically-simian (or simianically-theatrical) entertainment.

"Sorry," I shall say. "It's my agent. He's in Frankfurt."


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My New Literary Agent

It has been a long and complicated ride and I'm not even going to attempt to describe the full ins and outs of the 34 literary agents I have conversed with over the last few months, but I am now the proud possessor of A Literary Agent Of My Very Own, and very pleased I am about it too.

The big issue in the last few weeks has been whether to change the book or not. There have been various literary agents, but two in particular: One who loved the book and everything about it, and one who very-nearly loved it but not quite.

And I, of course, being the unsure thing that I am, thought that anyone who thought it was ace obviously needed their head seeing to and very-possibly couldn't be trusted. That old Groucho Marx thing, not wanting to belong to a club that would have me as a member...

Well, I exaggerate. It's a good book. But good enough?

In the end I realised it makes far more sense to have an agent who thinks your book is briiiiillllliaaaant than one who doesn't, so that bit was easy. But then I had to decide, what do I think of the book? Do I want it shown to publishers in its present state? And that's when I started winkling every moment out of child-filled days to read the book for myself. And then find more time, to work out what I thought about it.

Luckily it's a few months since I've read the book myself, and that was enough to get some objectivity. It's a good book, but it could be even better, and I've spent (spare moments of) the last two days working out what I can do to make it a better book, and I came up with a plan, and here's the best bit...

I admit it, I was worried My New Literary Agent might disagree about the book needing changes, or about whether these were good changes, or about whether there was time to make changes before Frankfurt Book Fair (more on that later), but My New Literary Agent and I are in agreement about everything! Hurrah!

I like My New Literary Agent. He's called Adrian.

So, anyway. Frankfurt Book Fair. It's the biggest event of the publishing year, and it's where people who publish books go, to find books to publish. Of course people sign publishing deals all year round, but an awful lot of them have their roots at Frankfurt. And my book's going to Frankfurt! Huzzah!

I was a little worried that maybe it was good policy to find a UK publisher before going to Frankfurt, in which case I wouldn't really have time to make changes before showing it to publishers, but it seems I was wrong about that. Phew.

So now I'm going to get rid of all the flabby and confusing bits and turn my book into The Best Thing Since Sliced Bread and then when My New Literary Agent takes it to Frankfurt there will be people jumping up and down in the aisles shouting, "Me, me! Sell that book to me!" and we will sell it to France and Germany and the Netherlands and St Lucia and My Own Private Idaho and Fred's little aunt Hilda and everyone in the whole world will want to read my book.

Maybe.

Well, you know. A girl can dream.


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More "Writing About Writing" Stuff

There's more! The posts on this page aren't the only "Writing About Writing" posts.

For all posts labelled "Writing About Writing" and posted before September 2007,