A born storyteller

Beautiful Nefyn bay, This was our view

Today I went to visit my grandfather, Papa. He lives in a home and has dementia and it breaks my heart.

When I was a child he seemed preternaturally strong despite his short stature; if I linked my hands around his forearms he could flex his arms and lift me right off the ground. He could lift two grandchildren at once. His appetite was legendary, plates piled sky-high to be masticated slowly and thoroughly before equally massive second helpings. And then pudding.

 As I grew older I realised we approached things from a very different direction. He was a small town business man with conservative views (big and small c) who enjoyed country sports and belonged to all those men-only clubs that small town business men belong to. I have only rarely seen him without a tie and tweed jacket. I was (am) a grungy, vegetarian, left wing feminist. But he was my Papa and I loved visiting him, especially at his summer home in Nefyn, on the Lleyn Peninsula, where we would eat macaroons, go for long mountain walks and play scrabble long into the evening. And he would talk.

My Papa was a born storyteller. He always told us that he married Nana because she dug a pit in the woods and wouldn't let him out until he agreed to marry her; as a gullible six year old I reported this story as fact in a school report. During those long nights in Nefyn, or at the family home in Lincolnshire, he would tell me ghost stories. All true, he insisted, he may have been a keen walker and naturalist but he had a real belief in the spiritual world. Thirty years younger and I am sure he'd have been on Most Haunted. Or he'd tell me about his youth, cycling from Lincolnshire to Nefyn, sleeping in haystacks on the way, his post-war days in Germany working in the army stores where he met a beautiful, auburn haired German girl (my Nana) who he promptly married and brought home to Wandsworth. Tales of a boyhood roaming the Lincolnshire countryside. He brought the past alive.

His real flair though was for storytelling. His bedtime stories were fantastic. My family moved to Kent when I was 13, my sister 12. It was the first time I hadn't lived in the same town as my grandparents and I missed them horribly so when they came to stay it was really special. And Papa told us bed time stories even when I was 16 and my sister 15, we wouldn't let him stop. Quite unashamed and unabashed we demanded the next instalment of his Romney Marsh saga that starred us, our cottage and our cats, stories that combined adventure, magic and heroism like all the best children's' stories do. I still love childrens' and YA literature, done well story telling at its best.

He never wrote them down. He wrote poems - rhyming, scanning doggerel, he painted pretty landscapes, he  answered every circular or invite with a letter like the gentleman he was, but he never wrote down his stories. And that's a shame and a real loss. Now he never will, dementia is a horrible, horrible thing.

After the HEA

Alert – Borgen Spoilers

Look at those cheekbones!

It’s no secret that I have recently become addicted to Danish drama.  I’m not alone in this; a fair number of the UK population secretly and not so secretly thinks that watching Borgen and The Killing makes them semi-fluent in Danish, and that they too can carry off a Sarah Lund style jumper (sweater to my American friends). Is it the strong, confident female leads? Is it the sexy men with their incredible cheekbones? Or is it a bit of both plus a liberal dose of incredible story telling that doesn’t talk down to its viewers?

At the heart of Borgen are four incredibly strong Alpha characters. Birgitte Nyborg, leader of a small political party who finds herself  Prime Minister; Phillip Christensen, her gorgeous businessman husband playing stay-at-home-dad; spin doctor Kasper Jull, born Kenneth, who has totally reinvented his past and his ex-girlfriend fiercely ambitious reporter, Katrine. As much as the politics and the intrigue it is the relationships between these four characters that provided a great deal of the conflict.

A lot of romances have an alpha male as their hero; they’re not alone, many genres do whether films, novels or television series: thrillers, westerns, paranormals. Very few have a real alpha female and these characters, like Buffy, struggle to find a partner who can easily accept her strength and leadership (I’m looking at you, Riley Finn). Part of what makes Borgen so intriguing is the power play at home between these alpha couples. Katrine and Kasper, for instance, are bound together by their past, by loyalty and by love but kept apart by distrust; their jobs, his lies. Yet when it comes down to it, they can only really depend on each other.

The Nyborg-Christensens are a completely different proposition. Older, settled with two adorable children and living in an unostentatious but divine house (with the master bedroom weirdly just off the kitchen and fabulous shelving) they are the perfect power couple. They even have found a way to pursue two careers whilst raising kids, each gets five years to concentrate on their career and then they swap, Philip is working as an academic and raising the kids, Birgitte is an MP and leader of a small party hoping to get enough seats in the forthcoming election to make up a small percentage of the coalition.

Only she becomes PM and everything changes. It’s Philip’s turn to carry on with his career but with a wife who is never home that isn’t going to happen – and when he does insist a conflict of interest scuppers his dream job before he gets to pack his briefcase and scout out his new office. The loving, caring relationship descends into silence with Birgitte starts barking out orders as if he is one of her staff whilst Philip sulks. Her insistence he resign from his job is the last straw and it comes at a terrible price. As the series ends Birgitte is alone.

Some people think this terribly unfair, that male politicians fictional and real have spouses prepared to stay at home and forward their husband’s career, why should this female Prime Minister have to pay for being a strong woman, a working mother? They want to see an idealised world where she is supported by a husband who may have given up a six figure salary to unload the dishwasher (a lot, they get through a lot of dishes the Nyborg-Christensens) but is happy to do so – after all women do it all the time.

Sadly in a shirt not a vest

I think that’s missing the point. Yes he turns sulky and I am a romance writer for goodness sake, I am never going to condone an affair but this is what can happen after the Happy Ever After when one partner suddenly starts putting a lot less into the relationship. A successful HEA in category romance only happens after both hero and heroine open up, lay themselves bare, risk everything for the sake of the relationship. Philip risks the relationship physically through his infidelity but Birgitte risks it emotionally as she withdraws, rather than fix it she gives him carte blanche as long as he’s discreet. Philip is waiting for her to show that she needs him, wants him, she asks him to put on a façade for the camera. She can’t lay herself bare and he’s stopped trying.

There are two series to come so who knows how this will pan out. Despite everything I am hoping for a reconciliation – and not just because Philip is one of the very few men over forty who can carry off a vest. 

The darker side of Twitter

‘It’s not worth it, just ignore them.’

8yo has had a few problems at school over the last few weeks, friendship groups shifting, new alliances formed, the testing of bonds. It’s been really tough, especially for an over emotional mother-of-a-one-and-only. So I trot out the usual answers – play with someone else, hang out with the boys, walk away – and worry internally about how she’ll make it through this rite of passage. Because that’s what this is, right? Girls are mean, they divide and conquer, alienate, gang up, pair off. These are accepted facts, there’re books, movies, self-help manuals all about Queen Bees and how to parent your child to cope.

But is it only girls and is this just a school thing?

Borgen & The Killing's Mikael Birkkjær;
 Danish drama at its best

As documented last month I am a big fan of social media, especially Twitter. I adore Twitter and fritter far too many hours away hanging out commenting on my day, posting pictures of my baking (I know, but I don’t bake often, honest), chatting to people, documenting my Danish drama obsession, posting articles. There are lots of people I would consider closer than acquaintances whom I have never met, people with whom I discuss books, politics, Danish drama (I’m not the only one obsessed), shoes, children, education – everything.

But Twitter, like many things, has its dark side. Sometimes you can see vile, often misogynistic hashtags trending. There’s a lot of Justin Bieber craziness which it’s best never to click on, I’ll warn you. There is the shameful way some anonymous cowards use it to abuse others – just ask Stan Collymore.  And there’s the merciless mob mentality. One mistake, one misstep and the Twitter mob can roar down on you and insist you take it.

There’s someone on Twitter I am really fond of. I don’t know him in real life but he is passionate about a fairer society, his family and his interests. He cares. He has a blog. Had a blog. And he made a mistake. Those of us who write know about attribution, about plagiarism, about piracy but lots of people genuinely don’t and, in this world of millions of bloggers, information is passed round and shared at an alarming rate. People read something, think it's important and share it. the fact those words belong to someone else doesn't occur to them. More education on copyright and attributing needs to be done.

He made a mistake. We all make mistakes. He posted a blog that used material from an article that had been on a major newspaper's website. But, this is a small blog just like this one; he doesn’t get paid for it, any publicity, any recognition. And the paper tweeted about it. Yep, a national paper with international coverage named and shamed a tiny blog. So of course then other Tweeters with no connection to the newspaper or the blogger decide to get involved and they think it’s fine to send accusatory tweets. And when he doesn’t reply these tweets get more aggressive.

So he leaves Twitter.

Of course the paper and the original author of the words have a right to find out what has happened, to demand the words are correctly attributed or taken down. Of course. But why does anyone else feel the need to get involved? To retweet, to accuse, to demand answers when it has nothing to do with them?

I think people sometimes forget there is a person at the other end of an avatar. But words do have consequences and maybe, before joining a Twitter flash mob, we should all remember that.

A step in the right direction...

I have to admit, I haven’t been completely honest. Twice. Not lying outright, more of an omission. The first glossing-over-the-facts occurred in September when I was awaiting the New Writing Scheme (NWS) report on a book, Summer Fling, I had written targeted at M&B Riva. I knew full well it had gone for a second reading but didn’t blog about it. Why? Well, I wasn’t entirely sure what the first reader had said or if the second reader would like it. I didn’t want to post excitedly about my success only to have to admit to a damning second report later. Not just a few months after the Standard R so, I waited until I had received both and blogged about the experience as a whole.

The second omission was in November when something amazing happened. At the end of Oct, after some extensive editing of Summer Fling taking on board all the detailed comments and advice from my readers, I bit the bullet and submitted it into M&B. Thanks to the NWS I was lucky enough to skip the slush pile and send it ‘FAO’ but was still expecting a lengthy wait. This didn’t stop me from checking my email endlessly and obsessively which, as I waited 40 weeks for Standard R 2, was not very productive. Only…

Four weeks later I got an email. They liked the partial, they wanted to read the whole book.

Shock.

I reread the email many, many times; and then I read it again. A frantic last proof read or two and the full book was off.  And time for omission no. 2. No mention of this amazing step here. Why? Partly because of the long, long wait times (a friend has been waiting for over 40 weeks for a decision on a full), partly because of the fear of another Standard R. Partly because I was hoping to write a spectacular, surprise blog detailing the story of My Call.

This isn’t that blog. But neither is it another Standard R. Ten weeks after I pressed send I received a mystery package in the post from M&b enclosing two Rivas, one by the very talented Jessica Hart, the other the latest Nikki Logan. A few hours later I received an email. Not an offer, no, not yet. But, for an aspiring M&B author it was gold. A breakdown of what works and, more crucially, what doesn’t. A long, long email from an editor with suggestions looking at character, story, writing style – the works and an offer to reread it if I make the suggested revisions or to read something else if I decide to work on another project.

If I revise it? Well of course I am going to revise it! Only not just yet…  there is a lot to take in, a lot to think about, a lot to plan. So, *rolls up sleeves* I am going to stop procrastinating and write Minty, edit her and send her into the NWS and then, with the experience of a 2nd book behind me, I will rewrite Summer Fling and try again.

I’m not there yet – but I’m one step close.

And my surprise package? Research. One of the first things aspiring M&B authors are told is to choose your line. Turns out although I’m aiming at Riva my voice is somewhere in between Cherish and Riva so I have been told to read as many Riva writers as I can. It’s a hard life sometimes isn’t it?

STOP! Don’t Press that send button

I hate mingling (unless my boss is reading this in which case I LOVE networking, love it!), can’t stand big crowds, parties or large events and am allergic to ‘organised fun’. My favourite night out is a few friends, a cosy pub or restaurant, wine, food and good conversation; I avoid Christmas parties like the plague. As for phones, I won’t even phone up for a takeaway and make my long-suffering OH organise play dates etc if human interaction is called for.

Social media on the other hand, well you get all the nice parts of socialising; the fun, the humour, the support, the drama - all without needing to actually, you know, SPEAK to anyone. 

Did I say drama? There’s been a lot of drama recently. Now, I admit, I am just a tad hot headed. A weeny bit impulsive, a smidge emotional and, if pressed, will admit to a touch of the dramatics. I get riled, I get upset, I get emotional.

I am probably a fairly typical writer.

One of the hardest parts about growing up is learning to think before I speak, not to fly off the handle. To try and control my temper.

But the thing with email, texting, tweeting, blogging, commenting is that it’s all pretty instant – just like face to face interaction is. Once you press ‘send’ it’s out there, it’s gone. And you can delete, pull posts but someone somewhere has got a screengrab and they will be more than willing to post it.

Whether it’s the YA and romance writers griping at those who don’t think their work is the heartbreaking work of staggering genius their gran tells them it is, writers laying down rules for what they consider a ‘real’ review to be (either an academic treatise with footnotes or positive), an inexplicably single sci-fi writer (he highlights the single bit himself!) accusing all romance writers including Austen of 9th grade childishness and ability (that's about age 14 for those of us not in the U.S. I know some pretty mature 14 year olds actually) and then deleting all the comments on the blog he doesn’t agree with, well, the blogosphere has been alight with controversy the last two weeks.

It’s not just writers. All of us are guilty of hitting ‘enter’ on a tweet, email or FB post before we think about it – and we can’t all blame our Interns for sending inappropriate tweets (I’m looking at you office of Ed Milliband and Tom Watson’s #savetheintern). What we need to learn to do online is breathe, think and wait. We need to not fly off the handle on-line, just as we try not to in real life.

A colleague recently told me he has an email folder in which he files anything that makes him want to press ‘reply’ and compose an angry rant. He files the incendiary device in the folder, has a cuppa, does something else, sleeps on it and then replies. It’s pretty sound advice. 

So breathe. Rant to your nearest and dearest (privately NOT on Twitter or your blog comments). Spend 30 mins on the boxing section of your Wii Fit. Write the rant you want to write then save it and sleep on it. I can guarantee that when you read your imapssioned rant in the clear light of a fresh morning you'll be glad you didn't let it into the public domain to be laughed at. 

You're a writer and everyone on the internet is your potential reader. They might not be put off by a bad review but they will be put off by bad behaviour. 

Happy ever after...

For me, so far, the hardest part about writing romance is the HEA. Here your hero and heroine are, about to really be honest with themselves and each other for possibly the first time, lay themselves wide open to rejection (and being a category romance there are bound to be very good reasons why that rejection will be shattering) and your emotionally-invested reader needs to be swept away in a flood of sensual yet genuine emotion. The worry is that, having built your book and your characters up to this climax it is all going to be one massive let down, just as poor Anne  Shirley found when she finally received her  first proposal from Billy Andrews, who got his sister, Jane, to do the deed for him.

A truly satisfying HEA bypasses all sense and irony provoking a truly emotional response. I love Four Weddings and a Funeral I really do but when Andie McDowell says ‘Is it raining? I hadn’t noticed?’ I cringe. Every time. Yet up to that moment it works, the humour and romance perfectly balanced only to fall flat at the last hurdle – thank goodness for the end credits which redeem the film slightly. In contrast the ending of Sleepless in Seattle which came out at the same time is picture perfect – understated and sweetly funny much like the film itself.

*Swoon* Jordan Catalano...

Hathaway flying out to Seattle to find a bearded Dr Ross sitting by a lake (ER), Bill Pullman dropping the ring into the payment slot, his whole family grinning behind him (While you were Sleeping) and yes, despite my husband’s eye rolling, Patrick Swayze ensuring that No-One Puts Baby in a Corner. Claire Danes walking over to Jared Leto (My So-Called Life - okay, Brian obviously really loves her and that's lovely but she's a teenager and Jared Leto has cheekbones and a guitar), the moment the camera pulls back to reveal that yay! Joey and Pacey did get together (Dawson’s Creek), the look on Lorelai’s face as she realises Luke has ensured Rory’s farewell party was a success (Gilmore Girls). Each of these endings is the perfect pay-off for the viewer who, in some cases, has spent hours watching the characters grow and develop to reach this moment.

So how as romance writers do we achieve this perfect moment, this pay-off? Our HEA has to feel real, has to feel natural. We need to show that our characters have grown and moved on, are ready for this moment, deserve this moment. It’s not enough for a stereotypical, womanising, anti-marriage hero to just propose. We need to see what brought on this change of heart; we need to believe in it, we need to believe it will last. If our heroine has spent the last 120 pages professing to despise everything our hero is and does then she needs a more convincing reason to say ‘yes’ than his billionaire status and chiselled good looks no matter how perfect the proposal may be. Make them real, let them grow, show them learn from their mistakes and make the reader yearn for a HEA and then all you have to do is deliver it…

Sounds easy doesn't it?? 

Travelling by the book

This year, much, much later this year, I have a Big Birthday. Last time I had a big birthday, nearly ten years ago, surprisingly, I was still living in London and child free - looks back through the mists of time to younger, carefree days - and celebrated with two nights in a posh Bloomsbury hotel*, tea at the Savoy and an evening in my favourite Stoke Newington tapas bar with loads of friends. It was fab. Two weeks later we went to Venice.

Deep, deep nostalgic sigh.

Fast forward not-quite-ten-years and I am not just older, possibly wiser, definitely tireder but also poorer and it’s no longer just the two of us. We haven’t been abroad in years, our last two holidays under canvas, not necessarily by choice. But this year we are hoping to get away, to sleep in beds, between sheets not in sleeping bags on blow up mattresses, have food cooked for us, not heat up tins on a one ring outdoor stove. Ensuite loos, not treks across dew filled fields which definitely sounds more romantic and less damp than it actually is.

Only being contrary I don’t just want sun, sea and all-you-can-eat, I need more, a childhood spent with my nose buried in a book has given me many preconceived ideas of what a perfect holiday should be. The six hours we spend travelling down to Dorset or Devon? My attempt to relieve those long Noel Streatfeild summers when overworked children spent days running wild by the sea, returning to their stage schools full of cream and brown as berries. Must have been a lot warmer in the thirties, and a lot less rain.  Cornwall? The Dark is Rising series of course, I too want to stay in the Captain’s House, walk Rufus the red setter and help the Light defeat the Dark. Beats organised excursions any day!

Me on my honeymoon,
we dressed more formally eleven years ago

My OH cruelly vetoed my first choice of Prince Edward’s Island for a honeymoon destination, although he did allow me to choose a reading from Anne of Avonlea for the wedding itself, so instead I indulged my Lucy Honeychurch dreams and wandered round Florence for a week. Yes, we did have a room with a view, a perfect little apartment with a terrace overlooking the Arno. He may have been expecting highbrow sight-seeingwhen we went to St Petersburg knowing that my university degree contained a year of Russian lit and history. But no, instead I dragged him on a tour of significant locations from The Bronze Horseman.

And so what about my Big Birthday? Italy is always a temptation, with a classics degree and a love of wine, icecream and pasta it’s pretty much perfection but I find myself tempted by Austria. Not for the Sound of Music reasons, or Heidi (actually she may be Swiss), although naturally a day in Salzburg would be on the itinerary. Nope, a holiday in Austria would allow me to finally become a Chalet School girl.

Hob nailed boots, a neatly pinned scarf, a pack up with one vital ingredient missing and a sense of honour and adventure is all I’ll need to climb alpine slopes, wander alpine meadows, defeat Nazis, save people from falling glaciers and rescue Belsornian princesses. Then I’ll return to the Chalet for kaffee und kuchen and a spot of country dancing whilst conversing in at least three languages. Hopefully I won’t catch the twin disease though, I am pretty sure that every grown up Chaletian was delivered of at least one pair of twins, putting a  quick end to her career teaching at her beloved old school.

Of course, what I really want to do most is travel Europe by rail, first class on the Orient Express. Even my imagination draws the line at murder though.

*a surprise from my OH. I had had a very stressful week at work as they were restructuring and had to reapply for my job with an interview and presentation the day before my birthday. I returned home to find OH packing for me and was immediately convinced he was throwing me out and burst into tears. Drama Queen? Me?