Minty and Luca; the evolution

I succumbed. I wasn’t going to put myself through it again. I really, really wasn’t. It’s a distraction, stress I don’t need; but, as the clock ticked down to the opening of So You Think You Can Write (SYTYCW) I caved. A global romance writing competition? Of course I was going to enter. Who was I kidding?

This year HM&B has combined elements of their two autumnal competitions - Mills & Boon’s New Voices and Harlequin’s SYTYCW. The first was a public first chapter competition with entries open to public comment and grading, which led to the dreaded ‘rose bombing’ and some very public dissatisfaction with comments received. The second also required a first chapter to enter but these weren’t available to view and entrants needed a finished manuscript in case they were selected to go through.

This year we submit the first chapter as per but they ARE available to view and subject to public vote, possibly comments but if so that functionality isn’t available yet. The top 24 then need to submit full manuscripts and three of those are then posted for public vote. Terrifying stuff. But so worthwhile. Previous competition winners have achieved publication and last year’s runner up Charlotte Phillips has three books waiting to be published. Three. In less than a year.

My chapter features two characters familiar to anyone who regularly read this blog. Some things haven’t changed; Minty still hides behind a carefree, frivolous mask and avoids all commitment, Luca still wants stability and a family. But many things have. These characters have been written and rewritten. And rewritten again.

First version: Chick lit lite with Minty deciding to marry her gay best friend because he was too afraid to come out to his traditional Italian family. Cue the arrival of his suspicious, handsome cousin Luca.
Second version (4 rewrites before entered into NV11): Minty is tricked by her gay best friend into a fake engagement when his cousin, Luca, comes to town
Third/Fourth version (NWS version) After one scandal too many Minty’s father cuts her off and she immediately finds herself back on the front pages linked to her flatmate’s cousin Luca, who chivalrously offers her an escape – and a job, at his Italian ice cream business.
Fifth version (RNA conference pitch) After her father cuts her off Minty’s flatmate offers her a job at his family business back in Italy. Only he’s forgotten to tell his cousin Luca, who is looking forward to welcoming him back into the business, that the job is for Minty not for himself.
Sixth version (SYTYCW) is very different. No flatmate,  a stronger set up and more sparks straight off – I hope! You can read it for yourself here: One Kiss or Two

Let me know what you think…

Summer, holidays & puppies

My thespian family dressed in their Mystery Play costumes

Just when it felt like summer may just have finally made a belated appearance it turned out that autumn was hot (cold) on its heels. It has been a chilly few days in York; tights, gillets and boots have been dug out and even seasoned Yorkshire folk have toyed with the idea of putting the heating on. Normally I love autumn, the leaves, the crispness in the air but this year I feel hard done by. I like my seasons to come in order and leave an impression not rush by with scarcely a deviation in temperature.
It was an odd summer. The Olympics and York Mystery Plays turned our lives upside down and all attempt at routine was lost - which played havoc with my writing and blogging. Not that I didn't have ideas, I had lots, just not the time or energy to get them down on paper. They included:

• The history of York Mystery Plays (not writerly but as both my OH and daughter devoted over 4 months to it they were the event of the year in my household. They were spectacular btw)
• My significant birthday and the resolutions I made upon it (write more, eat less, try & get up earlier)
• Stephen King Was Right or Routine is Important
• SYTYCW or here we go again although I should know better and am not prepared cue yet another frantic rewrite
• The evolution of Minty through six SIX rewrites 
• My awesome holiday to Austria, how it recharged what turned out to be very flat batteries and inspired lots of story ideas with amusing anecdotes (trust me, they were funny involving schnapps, hotel bands & the Heidi song)



This was our view sigh*

• The awesomeness of Andy Murray's double win with some painstaking analogy about how working and waiting will get results

Instead however I am going to introduce you to the newest member of the household. He is very cute and very naughty and in just 5 days has turned our lives upside down. As it should be. Just think how much plotting I'll get done when walking him...

Book Launch

Last night the very lovely Pam Hartshorne, aka Jessica Hart, kindly invited me to the launch of her new book Time's Echo. Fittingly for a book partly set in Tudor York, she held the launch in the Medieval beamed splendour of the Merchant's Adventurer's Hall and treated us to delicious canapés and fizzy wine. Very civilised indeed.

Of course I bought a copy of the book and started reading it the second I got back home. I love Pam's romances and was really curious to see how she would tackle a completely different genre. Time's Echo is a timeslip, a genre I know very little about, and was described at the launch as part Philippa Gregory, part Barbara Erskine and part ghost story. Grace, who hasn't stopped moving since she was caught up in the Boxing Day tsunami, has ended up in York where she is sorting out her late godmother's affairs. She has never been to the city before so why does it seem so familiar and yet so different? And who is Hawise, the Tudor maidservant who she keeps hallucinating she is? She can't be possessed, can she?

I don't know the answer to those questions by the way because I am only on Chapter Five but so far it is totally enthralling and very atmospheric with a real sense of menace - and I am hooked!

York being the village masquerading as a city that it is, there were several guests at the launch that I knew, some I expected to see including fellow students from Pam's creative writing course, and a couple I really didn't, including a much loved colleague from years ago. It was lovely to catch up with Donna Douglas who is also a York writer. Her latest book The Nightingale Girls is currently flying high in the charts. This one I have finished reading and can thoroughly recommend. It's an engrossing read, set in a 1930s hospital with a huge cast of brilliantly written characters and with a brilliant sense of time and place.

I feel very lucky to know such talented writers who are so generous with their time, wisdom and advice. And who write such eminently readable books. So, if you'll excuse me I have an armchair to curl up in and a book to finish.

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.