True heroines

It's been slow, this editing business. And yes, one of the reasons is that I am swept up in the new national pastime of Armchair Sports Enthusiast.

Funny to think that two weeks ago most of us were sceptical about the Olympics; turned off by the expense, the excessive branding restraints and the corporate takeover. One OTT, charming and bonkers Opening Ceremony later, a ceremony that celebrated books and the NHS, multiculturalism, music and all Britain's heritage - the good and the bad, and the country heaved a collected, contented sigh, sank back onto the sofa and grabbed their remote controls, ready to surf a red button fuelled extravaganza of sports.

It's been lovely to see overpaid, over exposed men's football relegated to the footnotes whilst athletes, gymnasts, canoeists and swimmers take their place on the front pages. We are all experts in judo and taekwondo and almost understand how gymnastics is scored. Andy Murray wins gold on Centre Court, the men's gymnasts score Bronze - then silver, then Bronze again - and dancing ponies are suddenly the hottest ticket in town. And everywhere we look women are being judged not on their looks (mostly) but on their strength and prowess and ability.

Jessica Ennis, Victoria Pendleton, Beth Tweddle, Sarah Stevenson, Jade Jones, Nicola Adams; just a few of the amazing women who have dominated the headlines in the last two weeks. Women who have  trained, sacrificed, worked every hour of every day to achieve their goals. Women who aren't interested in being famous at any cost, women who don't care about sweat, blood and tears, women with bodies that don't adhere to fashion's size zero ideal - bodies that are strong, powerful, that have a purpose and a use. Of course I have as much chance as achieving Ennis' abs as I have of squeezing into a pair of teeny designer jeans but I know which I'd rather have!

Of course two weeks won't change a culture. There's an alarming tendency for commentators and journalists to label grown women as 'girls', Benny Hill music played at beach volleyball, Telegraph writer's drooling on about women's soft limbs, the glitter, eye make up and sequin heavy costumes on the rhythmic gymnasts and synchronised swimmers (although, how do they breathe? Are they part fish? I'm not sure it's sport but it is certainly surreal and breath taking to watch). All this shows that as Team G.B.'s women rack up the medals there is a lot more work to be done. But it's a start.

Now where did I put that remote control again? I believe it's time for the diving...

Fifty shades of Lace

A couple of weekends ago I went to the RNA conference in Penrith. It was fabulous from the filled goody bag when I arrived to the final talk by Kate Walker on emotion. There were far too many good moments to choose from; meeting two out of my three CPs in real life (and we had just as much to say in person as we do on line); watching fellow Yorkie Donna Hay, aka Donna Douglas, discover her inner self publicist (her first book as Donna Douglas The Nightingale Girls comes out 18th August and I can't wait to read it); or fan-girling over the uber glamorous  M&B contingent, especially twitter pals Fiona Harper and India Grey who were just lovely.

As for the talks - inspiring, thought provoking, tear-inducing (thanks Julie Cohen) and a real treat for an ex bookseller who loves a bit of industry talk, especially the frank and open Mira presentation. But if there was one theme that dominated the whole conference it was the sudden and surprising success of That Book. Less than half of us admitted to having started it, and fewer to having finished it but the truth is we would all kill for sales even half as good as hers.

A quarter as good.

But behind the envy and the admiration and the disdain and surprise and interest there was real puzzlement. Why this book? Why now? After all, it's not that well written (so we have heard) or original (fan fiction origin) or even that dirty. Apparently. (Okay, I haven't read it but I am addicted to this blog). And let's be honest. The romance writing sorority have been writing on this theme for years. 

You want to read about hot billionaires brought to their knees (ahem) by sassy virgins? M&B Modern line has them in droves. Sarah Morgan's RITA winning Doukakis's Apprentice is a witty, fun twist on the genre. And it's pretty steamy too. In fact read anything by Sarah Morgan, India Grey or Caitlin Crews. They can supply you with more alpha billionaires, lip biting heroines and knee trembling moments than tears at a gymnastic final. With emotion, wit and some pretty brilliant writing too. 

One of the worst parts of That Book's success has been the horrid, horrid term 'Mommy Por'n. There are so many things that offend me about the term that I won't even begin to go there; seriously. Patronising much? But apart from the patronising, sexist smugness of the term is the amusing implication that this is new. 

Really? 

'Which one of you three
bitches is my mother?'

When I was a teenager the 80s bonkbuster ruled supreme. Jilly Cooper's jodhpurs clad playboys, Judith Krantz's high society heiresses, Jackie Collins's Hollywood bad boys and girl. All getting up to hot and steamy action that would blow Christian Grey's mind. Judy Blume's Forever was passed round my class, followed by the first three Jean M Auels, read less for their painfully researched look at Ice Age humanity than for the frequent and explicit love scenes. I was not allowed to stay up and watch Lace - but I sneaked a copy out of the library instead. It's being re-released and this fascinating interview with Shirley Conran made me want to read it all over again. 

Truth was though for me and most of classmates the sex scenes were fun - and informative. But a good book was better. I would far, far rather have read a good sweet romance than a badly written erotic one.  There's hardly a kiss in Heyer and I reread her many, many times. So despite the curiosity I won't be downloading Fifty Shades. I may have to take a copy of Lace on holiday to read by the pool though! 

Love your library

One of the first tips for any would-be writer is to read. Read your chosen genre, read around your chosen genre, read widely, read voraciously, read greedily. Reading is one aspect of the writing game I have sorted. Not the way I used to; a job, a child, a social life (child's not mine, are you crazy?) and the aforementioned writing-lark mean that reading is something usually done before bed. Or while I'm cooking dinner. Or while child is at rehearsals/swimming/gymnastics/parties. Or when I dice with kindle death and read in the bath. Or because the sun's out. Or I have a cold.

I was shiny when I was 16!

Legend has it that I taught myself to read when I was just two. There may be some parental exaggerating in this but it's true that I don't remember learning to read and my school had me marked down as a problem child the first day of reception not just because I was *shock* the only child with divorced parents who *shock* couldn't afford school uniform and *shock* was on free school dinners but worse - Much Worse -'What are we going to do with her?' they whispered. 'That child can read...'
I read at other children's parties, under the covers at night with a torch, under my desk, at the table.

And when I wasn't reading I was making up stories in my head. I still do, only now I call them 'plots' and sometimes I even write them down.

As a child the library was my favourite place, my safe place. A whole room filled with books that I could read. I could try new things, rediscover authors, reread old favourites. I loved the slightly musty smell, the hush, the serious look as people browsed the shelves and that flash of delight as they found just what they were looking for.

I belonged to the library in every place I lived including my university city Glastonbury, Connecticut where I au-paired for a year. The American library had vast quantities of cosy crime and regency romance which I borrowed in huge armfuls to the horror of my employer who steered me towards the literary works on his bookshelves. That was okay too, I always did like to mix up my reading diet. This week alone I have read Sarah Morgan, Miranda Dickinson, Jasper Fforde and Henning Makell; category romance, chick lit, speculative fantasy and Nordic Crime.

Childrens, hard backs and classics. Not alphabeticised in vain attempt to seem less anal... there is a similar amount of fiction; category, some YA, the entire Agatha Christie & tbr mountains are all upstairs

Now I don't use the library in the same way. The years I worked as a bookseller I had a good discount and access to a lot of proofs and I got into the habit of owning and accumulating books; a habit my kindle has made a lot worse. There are 273 items in my kindle library after 20 months - and I don't download free books. I use my local library for the cafe, the wifi and the coffee and to try and find that book that will kindle my daughter's interest in reading. A book that so far remains elusive. Although in the dark times of redundancy the library was once again a place of comfort, of refuge. An escape.



Like many libraries the ones near me are changing, evolving. They are now called 'Explore Centres', there are less staff and more machines, less actual books and more computers, cafes and wifi, noise seems to be encouraged and children shout at whim (not mine; she may not be a reader but she has respect for the books). Sometimes this saddens me when I look at the space on the shelves and try and block out the noise, sometimes I applaud the innovation; an old failing building in my local park has become a 'reading cafe', a mixture of afternoon tea and books linked to the library system. Cake and stories and trees, what's not to love?

But as I hear of more and more libraries closing, shrinking, replacing professionals with volunteers, cutting, cutting, cutting I think of all the kids who may not have access to books at home for so many reasons, children who need libraries to flourish, to learn, to grow. Of me as a child, as a student, as an adult whose job disappeared and with it all security and freedom. Libraries are not a luxury, they are an essential. And we need to fight for them.

My father's legacy

There were many tales told at my father’s funeral. I didn’t really know him so I listened to them all avidly trying to get a sense of what kind of man he was. What kind of man left two young daughters and created a whole other life without them.

St Nicholas Street, Galway

He died alone, in a cluttered, very, very dirty house in Galway by this time pretty much a recluse. It must have happened near his birthday. I’m not sure how old he would have been; 58 or 59 I think. Not old but he was an alcoholic who had escaped death three times I was aware of. It had to catch up with him eventually.

It was a waste, everyone agreed. A waste that a brilliant, charismatic, charming man had squandered his life in this way. In the end, for all his talents he achieved nothing apart from fathering two children he didn’t raise.

I spent a lot of my adolescence and early twenties being very angry and bitter. When I wasn’t being sad. One visit to Galway as an adult was unsuccessful, I didn’t repeat it. And I didn’t tell him he was a grandfather, I didn’t think he deserved to know, didn’t want to taint my small, perfect baby with his deserting inheritance. My stepfather was (is) the funny, loving, doting grandpa she needed. Life was simpler, easier, better if I erased my birth father from the story.

Then he died and erased himself. I put a photo of her in his very grand, oak coffin at the very grand Irish Catholic funeral the lapsed Catholic Irishman would have hated. Wishing I had sent one photo while he was alive. Such a small kindness it would have been.

There were many tales told at my father’s funeral. The time he bought a model aeroplane and didn’t start it; he didn’t want to make a mistake so he kept it in a box and thought about it, too worried he might ruin it to ever actually make it. The books he planned out were never written not a word put down on paper because each word had to be perfect. The truth was he didn’t think he’d be a perfect father so it was easier not to be one.

Nature v nurture. He didn’t raise me, one weekend a month from the time I was five, gone before I was ten. And yet I have the same fear and I see it in my daughter too. The fear it won’t work, it won’t be perfect. The fear that as we are not good enough it’s better not to try. ‘There’s no point me practising my violin,’ she cried out in frustration one day. ‘I’m going to fail my exam anyway.’ It’s easy to say the right words. To tell her that failure is nothing to fear, that as long as she does her best that’s all that matters. Practice makes perfect. But I have the same doubting voices in my mind.

Why haven’t I edited Summer Fling? Why am I stuck on a rewrite of one chapter that won’t flow? Why am I putting all my energy into reworking a book that hasn’t been asked for instead of working on the one that has? I am so scared of failing, of not getting right, of that R&R turning into a simple R I am paralysed, sabotaging my chances of success with the guaranteed fail not finishing it will bring. Better to orchestrate your own failure than fail despite trying your best.

'Stop trying to talk yourself out of what you're trying to achieve Right Now.' More wise words from my C.P. as I panic, flounder, doubt. And she's right. I was, am, do.

But I am more than my father’s daughter. I have written three books. I am raising my daughter. I gritted my teeth and carried on when things got so dark I didn’t think I’d ever see the light again. I am terrified of failure, hence the epic wallow at my last NWS report, as all I could see was it confirm all those secret, negative fears, ignoring every word of praise and encouragement.

 I am terrified that I will keep on and on writing books that are never good enough. But crucially I also know that if I don’t write them, if I don’t try, then I will never get there. I have to keep going. And in that I am not my father's daughter, I am my own person. 

Advantage Underdog

I love tennis. Love it. And yesterday I fully intended to write a post justifying my love of tennis by pointing out just how perfect it is for research (aka my tenuous reasons for slacking off during every Grand Slam and Queens but especially at Wimbledon time).

I was going to illustrate my point with pictures of First Tennis Crush Stefan Edburg who had the most beautiful legs any man has ever sported, followed by Aussies Pat Rafter and Mark Philappoussis who used to play doubles *faints* dazzling their opponents with their gorgeous faces. Possibly. They dazzled me anyway. And then, after I had treated you to fit men in tennis whites, *swoons* I was going to make some serious points about handsome men who make money through hard work and dedication and then (Federer, Agassi) set up charitable foundations with their loot. Proper heroes. Proper inspiration for any romance writer. (Okay, Philippoussis ended up on The Bachelor, we'll gloss over that).

And then last night's match happened and suddenly I had the perfect inspiration for my post.

In this country we love to think that Wimbledon is special. Andy Murray may have made it to US and Australian Open Finals but they don't count. (I don't agree with that statement at all btw Andy if you happen to stumble upon this but we both know that most of the UK does). No matter how large the sports section, throughout most of the year tennis barely merits a paragraph. Growing up I didn't even realise there were other tournaments. And then for two weeks the country goes tennis crazy.

Wimbledon. The whites of the players against the green of the court. The thud of the ball on the grass.  The red button allowing you to select your match; if only they'd had that when, no matter how thrilling the other matches, the Beeb made us watch Henman grind his way to another plucky defeat.

A place where dreams can come true.

I've only set foot in the hallowed grounds once. A school trip when I was in the sixth. We had tickets for the outside court seats but I begged my way onto Centre Court. Memory is a funny thing isn't it? I was convinced I saw Goran Ivanisevic lose to Lendl in the fouth round Wikipedia tells me I saw him beat Kevin Curren. Either way (!), it was the first time I had seen or heard of the hot headed Croat but, like all the crowd that day, I was rooting for the underdog. It took him another 11 years to finally gain the title, on a Monday in a rainy July, a wildcard entry not expected to get past the third round, if he was lucky. He worked hard, he kept believing He never gave up.

Last night another unknown achieved the unthinkable. A 26 year old journeyman, used to the challenger tour, who had failed to even get past the first round of qualifying in previous years, came out onto Centre Court and blew away the world no, 2. If that happened in a film we would laugh at it as unrealistic, but it happened. The tension as he came onto serve for the match was incredible. The crowd expectant, Rafa wound up tight. Back home both my OH and I had our knuckles stuffed in our mouths, like children, transfixed on the screen. We expected him to choke. To blow that first match point like so many others before him. A nervous flicker up to the sky. A visible deep breath. An ace. Lukas Rosol in the history books.

Twenty six is young; but not for a tennis player. Miracles do happen, but not usually against a take-no-prisoners-champion on Centre Court. Hard work, self belief and having a go no matter what, it's worth a try isn't it? You never know where it might take you.* Just ask Rosol.

*Goes off to practice backhands dreaming of my Centre Court debut. Oh alright, really goes off to rewrite that first chapter for the umpeenth time and dream of that elusive contract.

Why does it always rain on me?

A month ago I finally, finally started editing Spring Fling. An edit tailored to specifications from a real live M&B editor.

Only her specifications don't mean a bit of tweaking here and there. They require some major additions, a large rewrite and, crucially, a new end to Chapt one which, I have decided, means a whole new Chapt one altogether.

So four weeks later? I have four pages. Four painstakingly written, edited, re-edited and edited again pages.

They are devoid of life, spark and originality.

I am devoid of life, spark and originality.

I want to get it right, I want to improve it, polish it till it shines. Instead I am rubbing all the gloss off it.
*enough of the terrible metaphor*

Also, I may have finished wallowing but I haven’t got my confidence back yet. ‘If’ my inner goddess whispers (hey, if it works for E.L James maybe I need to find mine, and a talking subconscious too) ‘if you got Minty so, so wrong then how are you ever going to make this one right?’

And then I (and my inner goddess and subconscious and whoever else is in my head; I’ve only read the recaps of Book One) sighs and admits defeat.

Meanwhile my self imposed deadlines tick on. My Significant Birthday is just months away, really almost weeks away *panics*. I wanted to have the glimmerings of a publishing deal by then, a way of proving that I achieved something before middle age took hold. Otherwise I'll need to find a porsche and a toyboy and I don't have the time or money for either.

Some might argue that writing three books whilst holding down a job, raising a child, ranting on Twitter and becoming obsessed with Danish drama was an Achievement in itself. My inner goddess/subconscious/overly controlling billionaire with trousers that hang just so would disagree. I (we?) want the validation a publishing deal would give me (us, blimey it's getting crowded in my head) as well. But, as the amazing Jennifer Cruisie recently blogged, it has to be the right publishers at the right time.


In half term we braved the rain and took the child to Legoland. It was really, really wet but, because this is Britain (home of the shortest drought in history TM) and it was half term the rain made no difference to the numbers. We all pulled on waterproofs and queued as  normal. Some queues weren’t too bad, others (Atlantis and spinning water thing, I am looking at you) involved long, long waits in what was, by then, torrential rain.

Queuing and rain. Those true definitions of what it means to be British.

Only not for everyone, not anymore. Those who can, who are willing to spend an extra £30 per person can jump the queues, take the short cut. They walk smugly (or sheepishly) past the rest of us as we wait, dripping wet and grim faced, to hop straight onto the ride.

‘What are they teaching their children,’ we muttered, half in anger, half in envy. ‘That money can buy anything, that waiting your turn doesn’t mean anything, that you don’t earn your place.’ Well, this is Cameron’s Britain after all. I don’t want to imply that as a young graduate with no work experience at all he wasn’t worth every penny  of the £90,000 salary he was paid for the job his father procured him; draw your own parallels and conclusion.

But actually there is a sense of achievement  as you draw closer to your turn, about knowing you have earned your place at the front; and not just because the front is under cover either. And that sense of achievement  is one that those who push/buy/rush their way to the front will never truly have.

And when I finally get to tell my call story it'll be all the sweeter thanks to the wait, the doubts, the stress and those moments when I think 'sod it, I'll go and have a cup of tea* instead. That's what I tell myself anyway *stares gloomily at four edited pages*.
*gin

There shall we wallow, down in the hollow

If you are one of the many brilliant people who read for the Romantic Novelist Association's fantastic New Writer's Scheme then please skip to the end of the post where I have been tagged in a power of four  to see just how predictable I am. Do Not Read the following piece of self indulgent pathetic whininess (please).

This weekend the Guardian Guide had an interview with Robert Pattinson in which he said that he never takes any notice of the good reviews but dwells on the negative ones. Now, I have seen all four of the Twilight films thus far, including Breaking Dawn part one to which my main reaction was a mixture of WTF and hysteria despite having read the book, so I am guessing poor Rob has read a lot of negative reviews in his short but lucrative career. It depressed me to think how much he must doubt himself, best known as a pretty boy vampire and half of a non-smiling-if-supernaturally-attractive couple, so much fame and exposure while he is still growing as an actor.

But of course we all do this. See the negative magnified whilst we ignore the positive.

The same day I received my NWS report. Eight pages of carefully thought out analysis, suggestion and feedback on my latest WIP. Now last year I sent in a book finished at the last moment, not planned out and edited as I went. I wasn't expecting much. To my amazement I got a second reading, fast tracked to an editor at M&B and I have suggestions from that editor as to how to strengthen the book. Amazing. Of course the words that I remember most from all the feedback I have received on that book are words I intend to have inscribed on my gravestone: Cosy, trite and predictable. This from a reader who said many, many other wonderful things - but these are the words I remember. Rob and I have a lot in common, sadly not our bank balances.

So when I set out to write Minty I wanted to learn from my previous experience, make her book lighter, flirtier, fun. Include a strong internal conflict backed up my a strong external conflict. I planned a three act structure, I wrote it, rewrote and edited again. Most dangerously of all I was pleased with it.  So of course I didn't get a second reading. I got eight pages pointing out all I missed, the book's many, many weaknesses.

Now I know that someone has spent a great deal of time and effort helping me to be a better writer I know they wouldn't have done so if they didn't think I had potential and I am grateful. Only, it stung. Stung so much that I shed tears, dramatically declaimed my intention to never write again and I wallowed, like a hippopotamus in a nice mud bath. Wallowed shamefully.

And I am ashamed.

But wallowing has it's uses. By indulging, just for a day, I got all that negative thinking out, poured it out in tears and whining and general patheticness, so when I face that report again I can look at it objectively, use it the way the reader intended to make my book better, make it the best it can be. As I explained to my eight year old wallowing is important. As long as it lasts less than twenty four hours.


The Power of Four

Something lighthearted to cheer up what was a very shameful post. The very talented Lindsay J Pryor (not once but twice a New Voices finalist) tagged me in this...

Four places I have worked

1. Scarborough seafront selling rock from under a sign that said 'Cheapest on the front'. Not at all humiliating.
2. Little Chef on Romney Marsh, in those days we wore A-line dresses and cloths on our head, they were very attractive. Film director Derek Jarman used to come in for an all day breakfast with many very handsome young men, while I wore a cloth on my head. Again, not at all humiliating.
3. Waterstones. Happy, happy days.
4. I spent a year as an au-pair in Connecticut, one of the best years of my life.

I have had proper grown up jobs too, honestly...

Four films I could watch over and over again

1. Last of the Mohicans. 'I will find you...'
2. While you were sleeping.. The perfect Romcom (I would link to a post on this very matter but am not sure how too...)
3. North by Northwest - Cary Grant (yum), a chase film and classic train-in-a-tunnel metaphors
4. The Breakfast Club because I HAVE watched it over and over again...

Four telly programmes...

1. Buffy. Best Programme Ever.  How I miss Buffy...
2. My So-Called Life. Jordan Cataloano *deep sigh* when 8yo is 12 I will watch this with her and have a frank discussion about boys, booze and drugs and how even uptight mothers need a break sometimes.
3. The West Wing. Why is the world not really run by Bartlett. Why?
4. Anything Danish. How can I choose between Borgen, The Killing and The Bridge, how? Not Those Who Kill though, that was one depressing show.

Four authors I enjoy

1. Diana Wynne Jones - so so talented and thankfully prolific. If you didn't read her as a kid do now. Howl and Chrestomanci were early crushes (okay, they still are).
2. Georgette Heyer- not without the snobbery and racism common to many 1930s writers but the reason I want to write romance
3. Judith Kerr - the day I realised that the heroine of When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit grew up to write Mog and The Tiger who Came to Tea I nearly cried with happiness. I wholeheartedly recommend Goodbye Mog to any parent who needs to explain death to a child, it helped 8yo (and me) through the death of my beloved Nana.
4. Patrick Ness - Chaos Walking trilogy is a modern Young Adult classic. Profound, moving and ultra readable

Of course there are also numerous category romance writers; Jessica Hart, Fiona Harper, Liz Fielding, Megan Crane, Julie Cohen etc who inspire me!

Four places I have travelled to

1. The US especially New England *dreams of house on Cape Cod and apartment in Boston*
2. Italy - my favourite country I think, couldn't pick a favourite part though
3. St. Petersburg
4 Prague

My new Danish obsession means I now long to go to Copengagen...

Four websites I visit daily

Oh I am so sad...

1. Twitter. Obsessed
2. Facebook to hang out with my Crit group
3. The Guardian so I can get depressed by current affairs
4. Amazon, got to keep the Kindle stocked up!

Four favourite foods

1. Cheese on toast. White bread, cheese almost burnt. Yum.
2. Ice cream, it's a bit of an addiction
3. A perfect, juicy, crisp apple. Powdery specimans will not be tolerated.
4. Wine. Not a food but definitely a favourite

Four places I'd rather be

1. Cornwall, in my dream cottage overlooking the sea
2. Sorrento, sipping a limoncello in the town square

3. Copenhagen of course!
4. On holiday, anyway as long as the sun's shining,

Four people I'd like to tag
 Sorry!

1. Julia Broadbooks
2. Karina Buchanan
3. Catherine Coles
4. Amalie Berlin