A (true) fairy tale

Are you sitting comfortably?
Then I'll begin ...



Once upon a time, (last night actually) I attended the Brit Writers' Awards at the O2.  G and I were sitting at a table with a very nice group of people but one woman in particular stood out for her warmth and friendliness and she shared her personal story with us.

Catherine  Cooper worked as a primary school teacher for 29 years until four years ago, at the age of 50, she was simultaneously diagnosed with both breast cancer and a debilitating genetic condition resulting in severe disability.  She was forced to take immediate retirement on medical grounds, thereby losing her health and the job she loved in one devastating double whammy.

As we all know, we can't control what life throws at us.  All we can control is how we react to the hand we're dealt.  Catherine's response to her situation is awe inspiring.

'I always said I'd write a book when I retired,' she told us.  'The retirement came somewhat earlier than anticipated, but I saw it as an opportunity to get going.'

Disabled, pumped full of drugs and in constant pain that prevented her sleeping at night, she began writing a series of children's books, illustrated by her husband.

'I wanted to write the kind of magical fantasy adventure story I would have enjoyed reading to my classes, had I still been teaching,' Catherine said.

She told us it was writing fiction that kept her going through the dark days and nights, and she gave thanks for the chance it gave her to escape from a grim reality into a fictional world of her own making.

Catherine self-published the first three books and began taking them into schools, inspiring children with her love of books and reading.  She set herself a target: 500 books to be sold by Xmas; another 500 by Easter; 1500 by the summer.  Each target was met and exceeded.


Humble in spite of this impressive success, Catherine was surprised and delighted to be short listed in the BWA children's category.  When her name was announced as the winner and we watched Catherine, walking with the aid of two sticks, make her way to accept her award, all of us on the table were choked.

But the story doesn't end there.  Oh no ...

The evening wore on, with more uplifting tales of writers achieving their dreams.  The only category for published writers was won with universal approval by the mighty Terry Pratchett.  All around the O2 applause broke out as each new winner went to collect their awards.

And then ... the grand finale as we waited to hear who had won the overall BWA award.  £10,000, an instant book deal, 300 copies of the winner's book already printed and hot from the press, universal acclaim ...

Drum roll, please ...

And the winner was ... Catherine Cooper!

So, if you're one of those people who are always making excuses why they can't write ... or who crumple under life's knockbacks ... or believe dreams can't come true ... be inspired by Catherine's story.

But note:  this success didn't come to her out of thin air.  It came about through her determination to rise above adversity; her ability to create something positive from the most negative of circumstances; days, weeks and months of sheer hard work; the generosity of her spirit and the magic of her own imagination.

There's no doubt that this is just the first day of the rest of Catherine's life and I'm sure you will be hearing more from her in the future. Meanwhile, you can get a sneaky preview of her Jack Brenin series of books here.

Amazing though it is, Catherine's was not the only magical personal story last night.  I was blown away to hear that the winner of the short story category was Helen Hardy, longstanding and valued member of the East Dulwich Writer's Group.  (Before anyone suggests corruption, let me hasten to add that I judged the full length novel category, so had no hand in Helen's well-deserved success.)

Helen was unable to accept her award in person because ... she gave birth earlier the same day!  How magical is that?

And if I may be so bold, I'd like to add one small piece of personal evidence that I have had a small part to play in The BWA story.  On page 5 of the souvenir brochure there were quotes from Cameron, Clegg, Alex Salmond, a Local Literacy Leader, a member of the Muslim Writers' Awards (from which BWA grew) and two judges.  One of them was Professor Thom Brookes.

Guess who the other was ...

Here's what I said:
With the dire situation currently reflected in the publishing industry, and the almost insurmountable difficulties faced by new writers in achieving that elusive first deal, initiatives like the BWA provide a much-needed and welcome opportunity for new authors to receive recognition for their writing.

So there we go.  That's the end of the (true) fairy tale and I hope all involved live happily ever after.

As for you, what are you waiting for?  Come on.  No excuses now. Get writing!

Clear your diary ...

Oh boy, July is barely underway and I'm already overwhelmed at the number of crucial dates in my diary.

So, on the basis that a lit date shared is ... a lit date shared ... I'm giving you all the info in one post so you can put them  in your diary too.

Hope to see you there ... and there ... and ... 

*********************************************************************************
What
Members of the East Dulwich Writers' Group will be chatting to passers by and selling Hoovering the Roof, their first anthology, as well as other books by EDWG members.  HtR is now on its 2nd print run, having sold out of the 1st. 

When
10.00 am - 3.00 pm Sat  3rd July

Where
Northcross Road market, London, SE22

******************************************************************************
What
EDWG members are at it again - this time with munchies and readings from Hoovering the Roof

When
4.00 - 6.00 pm Sun 4th July

Where
Alhambra (sumptuous shop selling Spanish goodies), 148 Kirkdale, London, SE26 4BB

*******************************************************************************
What
24 hr Oxfam Bookfest readathon.

Last year’s Bookfest resulted in a 40% increase in book donations to Oxfam, and hundreds of thousands of pounds of additional book sales in the months following Bookfest. When you consider that the sale of just 21 books is enough to equip a whole classroom in Vietnam, or that a normal month’s book sales buys safe water for 2.1 million people, you can appreciate how much more your support of Oxfam’s Bookfest events can achieve.  

When
9.00 am Mon 5th July - 9.00 am Tues 6th July.  7 members of EDWG (including some woman called Debi Alper) will  be reading in 20 minute slots between midnight and 2.00 am. (Gasp)

Where
Oxfam Bookstore, 91 Marylebone High Street, London, W1U 4RB

UPDATE:  THE TIMINGS OF THIS EVENT HAVE BEEN CHANGED.  IT WILL NOW RUN FROM 8.00 AM MON 5TH JULY AND WILL FINISH AT MIDNIGHT.

******************************************************************************
What
EDWG event with readings from the anthology

When
7.00 - 8.30 pm Thurs 8th July

Where
Review Bookshop, Bellenden Road, SE15 4QY

********************************************************************

What
Launch of 33, short story anthology published by Glasshouse Books with a story set in each of London's boroughs.  Authors include Stella Duffy,  Emma Darwin, Nicola Monaghan, Jess Ruston, Rachael Dunlop and many more.  (That Debi Alper woman crops up there again.)  See here for further details.

When
From 6.30 pm Wed 14th July

Where 
The Press House Wine Bar, 1 St Bride's Passage, EC4Y 8EJ.  If you can't make the launch, you can pre-order a copy of the book here.

*******************************************************************************

What
Brit Writers' Awards Ceremony.  The talented finalists, selected from 21,000 entries, will hear the results in a stellar evening.  (Hang on - that Alper woman isn't one of them ... oh yeah, she was one of the judges instead.)

When
Thurs 15th July

Where
IndigO2,  O2 Arena, Peninsula Square, London, SE10 0DX

********************************************************************************

What I really need now is an extended lie down in a darkened room.
Can't see that happening before August ...

A Hearty Welcome to the Magpies

I'm delighted and honoured to be this week's stop on Elizabeth Baines's blog tour to promote her gem of a book, Too Many Magpies.

It's over a year ago that Elizabeth was last here, promoting her short stories  (busy woman, eh?).  As that took the form of an interview (which you can see here) this time I've asked Elizabeth to do a virtual reading.

First the intro:
Can we believe in magic and spells? Can we put our faith in science?

A young mother married to a scientist fears for her children’s safety as the natural world around her becomes ever more uncertain. Until, that is, she meets a charismatic stranger who seems to offer a different kind of power… But is he a saviour or a frightening danger? And, as her life is overturned, what is happening to her children whom she vowed to keep safe? Why is her son Danny now acting so strangely?

In this haunting, urgent and timely novel, Elizabeth Baines brings her customary searing insight to the problems of sorting our rational from our irrational fears and of bringing children into a newly precarious world. In prose that spins its own spell she exposes our hidden desires and the scientific and magical modes of thinking which have got us to where we are now.

Got that?  Sounds good?  So here we go.  Top up your glass.  Make yourself comfortable.  An extract follows.

FOR SORROW

On the baby’s first birthday the Smarties on the cake went frilly round the edges. The first sign of odd things happening.

No one took it seriously.

He said it was magic. (He; he doesn’t have a name, not here, not in my head.). ‘I told you,’ he said afterwards, ‘things would start happening now you and I have met.’

‘Magic,’ said Danny too, four years old and excited, waiting in an agony of impatience for the start of the birthday tea in the garden, though never in any doubt that things would go as planned, or that birthday teas would go on happening, and Daddy always come to join them in time.

And, this time, he did. He came round the side of the house, Daddy, my husband, ducking under the honeysuckle and coming to kiss us all, smelling faintly of the lab, that sharp high chemical smell.

He was a scientist, my husband. He had a rational explanation. He looked at the Smarties and grinned. Lovely teeth, he had, not a single filling, and naturally curly hair. The kinks of it glistened in the sun. It came back to me then, all the reasons I loved my husband.

‘See,’ said Danny, pointing the funny way he did with his left middle finger, ‘they’re like little mince pies.’

And they were, each sweet surrounded by a perfect row of frills. My husband looked at them and laughed.

‘Osmosis,’ I think he said, I wasn’t in a state to remember the actual word. Something about things running, their contents seeping through their skins, leaving themselves behind. At any rate, he said I must have put them on when the icing was too wet.

Of course. Because of what had happened, I hadn’t been in a state to judge the drying time of icing.

But it was odd. Why, for instance, if things had melted, had the colours not run?

I cut the cake. I doled them out, the magic Smarties. A piece for my husband, and one for each child.

And the blackbird pipped confidently, as if that garden and those hedges would always be there for him to call across; and there we sat, husband and wife and two-point-four children, point-four being the child we might have had if certain chemical chances in our bodies had or hadn’t occurred, and which we’d never have now, now things had started to happen.



It was the day before the baby’s first birthday that I met him.

In the park there were magpies, too many to be counted. When I was a child there were never so many of them — one for sorrow, you said, two for joy — but now there were too many for such short rhymes or such simple messages, they’d multiplied and colonized the towns.

That afternoon we’d both been on a committee, educationists drafted in to advise on artists in schools, my first outside commitment since before I’d had the babies. My first time back in the world.

Though I wasn’t really back there; I couldn’t concentrate on the dry committee language, I’d got too used to simple sounds linked to the vivid senses, or to holding and
rocking without the need for words at all.

It was hot in that committee room, early May and unseasonably hot although there’d been no sun all day. They had the window open and puffs of engine smell rose up through the still air. They were discussing the database of artists, and I was thinking idly of how in the centre of town there was never the sound of birds.

A train rolled over the viaduct, blue-and-grey toytown carriages sliding unbelievably along the top of a sky-high brick wall towards the suburbs where my husband would be putting the children to bed.

Tonight, for once, the baby would have to go to bed without his breastfeed.

On cue, as I thought of that, my breasts tingled, automatic, with primitive life, and on cue the familiar sleepiness overcame me. I’d lost the drift of the argument in the room now. I’d gone too far, metamorphosing down those baby years, and I was gaping now, hardly breathing in this flat dry committee-land. I yawned.

He’d hardly spoken till then.

He didn’t speak when he didn’t have to. Knowing too much about words to squander them.

I looked, I noticed him, for the first time really, just before he spoke. I saw a careful tension around his large mouth. Fastidiousness reining in something else.

And when he spoke he held his lips as though tasting something. Testing.

I knew then. He had the power.



As we crossed the park afterwards, suddenly there were birds again. Magpies, dropping out of the trees, like bunting, like Jacks-out-of-boxes. They cackled, they seemed hilarious.

We tried counting.

‘Seven,’ he said. ‘What does that signify?’

I said, too sternly, that I didn’t believe in charms or spells.

He laughed. I saw that his teeth were bad, stained and very full of fillings. He said: ‘There are charms and there are charms, and there are spells and there are spells,’ and I had no idea what he meant.

The sun came out, dazzling and disorientating between the trees. The magpies glistened then, medallion green and alchemy blue. They were watching us sideways, they cocked their heads slyly over their bird-shoulders, waiting, or maybe taunting, it was hard to say.

We moved on, and they flapped away into the columns of sun between black tree trunks, still there but suffused and melted with the light.

He said, ‘Seven for a secret never to be told.’

I said quickly that I didn’t believe in secrets. And I told him all about my husband, and about the kids, to indicate at once that there was no chance whatever, should he be thinking along those lines, of any kind of intrigue, any kind of setup where I’d need to make divisions, protect him from knowledge or guard my family’s privacy from him. And, to nip in the bud any growing attraction, I babbled on about the children in the bourgeois way I’d guessed by now he wouldn’t approve of. But those shapes in the sun, I could sense them shifting. I lost courage in what I was saying, and he was laughing at it anyway, showing those big handsome teeth with all those awful brown fillings. I guessed suddenly what he’d meant: that the best charm, the real secret, is in losing your fear.

I’d stopped walking, I discovered. The bark of a tree was behind me, ridged and warm. Under my feet something crumbled, sugary, the dead catkins off the tree.

I said stupidly, no not stupidly, I thought it might protect me, it was one the things which Richard and I held most important in our life together: ‘We only give the children sugar at special times like birthdays.’

After all, it was my baby’s first birthday next day.

It didn’t work, that spell. And I knew, after all, that it wouldn’t. I sensed, didn’t see him come closer. He took hold of my hand. He knew that vivid power of touching, he knew without being told that once he’d made contact I wouldn’t be able to take it away.



The magpies flew off again.

The first time I’d seen so many was the day I discovered I was pregnant with Danny, my first child. Three for a girl, you once said, four for a boy, god knows what seeing so many could mean.

He had hold of my hand.

He said, ‘What are their names?’

If this has whetted your appetite, follow the rest of the tour here.
If you'd like to hear Elizabeth's podcast, go here.
Links to reviews can be found in the sidebar on Elizabeth's blog here.
Next stop on the tour is at Tom Vowler's blog here.
The last stop was at Nuala Ni Chonchuir's blog here.
For further insights, I really do recommend you check out the other stops on the tour.

UPDATE: ERRORS ON THOSE TOUR STOPS.
LAST ONE WAS AT VANESSA GEBBIE'S BLOG HERE
.NEXT WEEK ELIZABETH WILL BE APPEARING AT ECO-LIBRIS (WITH WHOM SHE IS PLANTING A TREE FOR EACH COPY)

Because you're worth it?

An interesting double take on literary prizes.

Lionel Shriver’s 2005 novel We Need to Talk About Kevin has received the public vote as the most popular previous Orange Prize winner.  Nevertheless, she's very disparaging about the value of literary awards in this article in the Independent last week.

Even more to the point, she's hesitant about recommending a career as a writer, saying:

I'm very sympathetic to aspirant writers. It's very difficult and there are no guarantees that cream will ever rise to the top.

It'd be totally hypocritical to discourage people from joining my profession, which was good to me in the end, but I have qualms about being encouraging. The odds are stacked against you. I want to give people enough of an idea of the capriciousness of the industry.

Michele Roberts, one of the Orange prize judges, conducts a robust defense of literary awards in this article, also in the Indie.

But she too is relentlessly downbeat about the realities facing authors, saying:

Deciding to write means volunteering for poverty: 20 years ago, publishers might offer certain well-known writers six-figure advances on sales and could afford to be reasonably generous to some of the less well known. Those times are over.

Nowadays, many authors augment their meagre incomes from writing by taking on whatever freelance work they can get, or by teaching. A joyful acknowledgment that you write from a sense of vocation, driven by single-minded devotion to language, image-making, storytelling, co-exists with a sense of belt-tightening, an increase in the sheer bloody-mindedness necessary for survival as an artist. 

When I conduct workshops, I always have a section that I call 'managing expectations'.  On the one hand, I don't want to destroy dreams and hate the idea that someone might feel so discouraged to hear how high the odds are stacked against them that they feel there's no point in continuing to write. 

On t'other hand, I still get MSes for edit in which the covering letters state that the author 'just' wants to pay off their mortgage or take early retirement and write full time.  Clearly, it would be wrong of me not to balance their expectations with a reality check, however unwelcome that might be.

If someone decides that there's no point in writing on the grounds that there's such a minuscule chance of achieving fame and fortune, I suspect they were never truly committed in the first place. 
You can write and hold down an unrelated job. 
You can earn money by doing other related work.
You can grow your own veg and shop at Lidl.
There are ways to survive, if you're prepared to set your priorities accordingly.

Yes, there's a payoff.  Rent still has to be paid, food still has to be put on the table.  We seem to have returned to the concept of the starving artist in the garret boiling up old shoes to make soup.  Progress, eh?

But if you're prepared to accept the likelihood of poverty ...

... and you have the hide of a rhino ...

... and you realise that this road will be bumpy and you have to watch out for the potholes ...

... and have the energy to climb back out of those you fall in along the way ...

... I genuinely believe there can be no more rewarding way to live a life.  

Those highs when your writing takes wings ... when your characters take you in surprising directions ... when you slap yourself on the head, yelling, 'Of course!' ... when you sit back and reflect that you have created an entire world and populated it with an eclectic cast drawn from inside your own head ... when you fall in love with a particular phrase or image ...

Ah, there's nothing like it.

If the price to pay is eating pasta five nights a week and a minimal social life (apart from lit events - lots of them!) then so be it. I'm in. 

And anyway, there are still those amazing stories of people who make it to the big time, even though they are few and far between.

As the old lottery slogan used to say, 'It could be you!'

Watch out for visiting magpies

I'm delighted to announce that Elizabeth Baines will be visiting here on 26th June to give a virtual reading as part of her tour to promote Too Many Magpies.

I've been very remiss - I should have been posting about this long ago.
You can check the previous stops on the tour here.  And here. 

The current stop is at our very own Barbara Smith's blog. 

Next week - Vanessa Gebbie. 

33 London Boroughs ... 2 Great Books

I've mentioned before (most recently here) that I have a short story coming out soon in a 2 volume anthology to be published by the innovative new publisher, Glasshouse Books.
33 has a story set in each of London's boroughs and looks like an eclectic and exciting mix of styles and unique approaches.

It's all systems go and guess what - you're invited to the launch party!

33 EAST / 33 WEST
THE LAUNCH PARTY
Wednesday 14 July from 6.30 pm
The Press House Wine Bar 1 St Bride’s Passage, EC4Y 8EJ
Please join us to celebrate the launch of our most ambitious project yet. 

33 boroughs, 33 shorts, 1 London. 

From Bexley to Brent, Havering to Hillingdon.
Entrance is free for all.
Please RSVP to events@glasshousebooks.co.uk.

Click here for more details and to order copies.

Click here to see the authors for 33 East and here for 33 West.
(Lots of familiar faces and some new ones that I look forward to meeting in Real Life.)
Follow Glasshouse Books on Facebook and check for updates.

Debi's deafisms

The improvement in the weather has been matched by a corresponding improvement in my hearing, but my world remains muffled compared to most people's. 

Here's the latest insight on the day we bought First Born an I-Pod Touch for his 15th birthday.

FB:  I've got a rugby game.
Me:  You'd rather be gay?

First Fruits

For the first time in over fifteen years, I have a garden to potter in, thanks to the wonderful and generous Emma Darwin.  (Emma and I met online months before we discovered a few years ago that our Real Life homes are mere yards apart.)

Take one author with a bad back, a generous and warm spirit and a neglected garden.
Add another author with a strong back, a determination to make time, but no garden.

Put them together and what have you got?

Beans, that's what.  And onions, garlic, potatoes, lettuce, spinach, tomatoes ... to add to the fennel, wild rocket, rosemary, thyme, parsley, chives, bay etc flourishing on my balcony.

So here I am, living on a council estate in the heart of the metropolis, feeding my family on home grown organic produce - and loving it!

Child detention continues - Sehar's story.

In spite of the weasel words uttered by this new government, the shameful practice of  child detentions and deporting vulnerable refugees is continuing.

Please click on the link and be prepared to be filled with shame - and then get angry and act!

URGENT ACTION ALERT - The UK Borders Agency is planning on forcing Sehar ...

You've got to laugh

Just as I was thinking we were in dire need of some good quality political satire, this was brought to my attention.

Together with the link in the previous post, it's at least an indication that we've got humour on our side. 
We're going to need it ...

Tomorrow Belongs to a Conservative Future - Spitting Image Tomorrow Belo...

Debi's deafisms (and a teensy bit more)

No, I haven't been abducted by aliens, though the results of the election have left me wishing that I had been.

I've been so rushed off my feet that I didn't even know the news until 24 hours later.   Talk about finger on the pulse ...  Still, at least I had an extra day for being in denial.  Small mercies indeed.

Anyway, due to aforementioned rushed-off-feetness, I don't have any time to blog so I'm just going to give you this latest insight into my muffled world to be going on with.

FB:  My French exam was so funny today.
Me:  I didn't know you had a friend Suzanne.

Flash in the Pan

You have no idea how much I would love to be here

If you're not as busy as I am at 1pm today ...
And you're sickened by the media manipulation of the forthcoming election ...
And you want to give vent to your frustrations along with a friendly mob of like-minded people ...
And can get to Parliament Square ...
And have always wanted to join a flash mob ...

... check the details here and give a shout for me.

Dog Days

G didn't do the marathon this year.
Regular visitors here will know that this is a break with tradition going back over a decade.

To be 100% honest, I was relieved not to have to go through that hideous  buildup in tension to marathon day this year.

Instead, we were all looking forward to a nice relaxing Sunday.  I was out with the boys and G went for his usual 10+ mile run.

All was going according to plan until G rang me to say he'd been bitten by a dog.  He'd been minding his own business, running round the park, when a yapping terrier shot towards him like a bullet and sank its sharp, bacteria-ridden teeth into his leg.

It was only a small wound inflicted by a small dog but he had to go to A&E for a tetanus jab.  When he heard G's diabetic, the doctor insisted he take anti-biotics as any infection could have serious consequences.

Grrrr!
(That was me, not the dog.)

I'm not sure it was better than a marathon build-up ...

Keys to a happy life

Mmm.  Lovely sunny day, I thought to myself this morning.  How shall I spend it?

With lots of work related items jiggling for my attention, I went for the self-indulgent option.

I dug the folding lounger out from the basement shed and carried it into the grounds of the estate, just below the balcony.  The only other things I took with me were my WIP, a bottle of water and a pencil.

Luxury.  Time passed as the sun moved across the sky throwing my chair into shadow.
No matter. I was too busy to move, lost in the craft.

First Born and his friend passed saying they were hungry.  I chucked them my keys and told them to help themselves.
Little Guy kissed me goodbye as he headed off for a friend's party.
The sun moved behind the block, throwing me into deeper shadow.

Scribble, edit, polish ...

What time is it?  Already?  Missed lunch.  I really ought to eat something.  Could do with a pee too.  Suppose I should go in ...

And that's the point I realised that FB hadn't returned my keys.
But that he was outside.
And the keys were inside.
And Little Guy had locked the balcony door.
And hadn't taken his own keys with him to the party.
And G was out for the day.
And no one has any spare keys.

A combination of helpful neighbours, a step ladder and a small child not too scared to be fed through a tiny window means that I'm now able to tell you about this several hours later. 

From now on, no one gets my keys.  No one.  If they haven't got their own, tough.  They're hungry?  Tough.  Need the toilet?  Tough.  Next time, maybe they'll think more carefully.  Harumph!

York Wrapped Up

The previous posts have the feel of a headlong dash through last weekend in York at the Festival of Writing.  No links, no photos and - let's not mince words here - not a lot of style.  It's tempting to go back and edit the posts but that would be cheating.  As an experiment in live blogging, they're the product of the weekend and a valid reflection of it.

Now that I have the benefit of hindsight, I've decided to go back and fill in some of the gaps.  Actually, who am I kidding?  It's also because I'm finding it hard to move on.  I still have people I need to get back to with feedback but that doesn't excuse my new found tendency to squat on WordCloud checking for new posts every few minutes.  It's like when you've been at some iconic rock concert or a life-changing political event.  Years later, you still exchange conspiratorial glances with those who shared the experience, knowing that from such events lives are changed.

'York 2010.  We were there ...'

So - back to filling in those gaps.

Entering the zone

I was in the zone before I even left the train.  A woman sitting across the aisle from me leaned over and asked if I was Debi Alper.  Whisks recognised me from my avatar on WordCloud.  As hers is a cupcake (though a particularly attractive cupcake) she would have been a lot harder to pick out in a crowd.  For both of us, it felt like a positive and sociable start to the weekend.

Red dots

Everyone was issued with a small badge with their name on.  Those of us who had a specific role as authors, agents, editors, publishers or organisers, had little red dots on our badges.  As someone pointed out to me, it was like the stickers placed on artworks sold at an exhibition.
'I'm Debi.  Buy me.'

Queens of the red dots, Adele Geras and Emma Darwin

Self-editing mini course

Emma Darwin and I had to cram our usual 7 hour workshop into 4 hours (including a tea break).  With such a large group, it was impossible to give individual feedback on participants' own writing, but a combination of exercises and lots of Q&A meant that the course was still interactive.

Authonomy Live

I am filled with admiration for those brave writers who took part in this event on Friday evening.  It would be enough of a challenge to read aloud to a panel of experts and an assembled throng of approx 400.  How much more so when the words you are reading are your own?  The judges felt unable to agree on a shortlist of 3, so 4 people were put to the public vote which was overwhelmingly in favour of Shelley Harris's beautiful reading.  (Shelley got my vote for her gentle and touching excerpt set during the Silver Jubilee in 1977.)

There was an instant buzz around Shelley - a spontaneous indication that this is her time.  While she was still trying to take in her award, agents approached her from every angle, asking to see the rest of her book.  At the last count, I  believe 7 had expressed an interest.  From such stuff, dreams are made.  Will Shelley be the first to be signed up by an agent as a direct result of the Festival? Though I'm willing to bet she won't be the only one ...

Shelley Harris, winner of Authonomy Live

Those one-to-ones

It's inevitable that some people were happier with the feedback they got in their ten minute slot with agents than others.  The feeling I got was that most people were realistic about the book trade and the chances of their book being published.  They were equally realistic about the financial reality and if they weren't, there was an inexhaustible supply of authors telling them how it was virtually impossible to make a living out of writing, even for those considered highly successful.

For every person who was disappointed by the agent's response, there were several more who found the feedback very useful.  Many of the agents made useful suggestions about the sort of thing a particular writer would seem to be best suited to, providing plenty of food for thought.

Although each of the 10 minute slots flashed past, I felt in my Book Doctor sessions that I was able to make fundamental and (hopefully) useful suggestions for everyone.  Many of the authors sought me out afterwards so that we could continue our discussions.  I was really impressed with the overall standard of writing and it was very gratifying to know that I was able to give practical advice that would take their work to another level.

There were times when I felt more like a therapist than an editor.  There was a clear trend for people to be self-deprecating and over humble (usually the most talented writers!).  I suspect this reticence was a way of pre-empting rejection and possible failure.  Yet, I saw some seriously good writing and intriguing concepts as well as a clear urge to tell stories.  It's almost as though people need permission to write by being told they're not wasting their time.  As if creating worlds of our own and peopling them with a cast formed from our own imaginations could ever be a waste ...

 Literary Death Match

My chance to be Cheryl Cole (or possibly Louis Walsh) came on Saturday night when I was part of the judging panel for the brave participants of the Death Match. Some threw themselves into the performance, using props and costumes, while others preferred to let their words do the talking.  With an equal split between published and unpublished authors, the panel decided to even out the obvious advantage in order to encourage those who are (as yet) unpublished.

Who'da thunk it could be so hard?  Consensus was hard to reach.  The ones that engendered the strongest feelings split us down the middle.  Not a bad thing for the authors concerned - better to be either loved or hated than to evoke a unanimous mild response. Do you hear me, Mr Marmite?

In the best X Factor tradition, the audience ruled supreme and demanded Adele Geras should be added to our shortlist.  Adele's piece was so overwhelmingly fabulous we had felt it would be obvious to everyone there that she was in a class of her own and, as she needs the validation less than the aspiring authors, we hadn't included her.  Nevertheless, she won the audience vote and in a warm and generous gesture, presented her bottle of champagne to Mary Flood, for her moving and powerful story of an eviction based on real events.

 Mary Flood, winner of the Literary Death Match

Workshops and keynote addresses

In advance, I had pictured myself gatecrashing some of the workshops and thought my biggest problem was going to be choosing which to attend.  In the event, I was so busy giving feedback on people's writing that I never had the chance to go to any of them.   Luckily, in the spirit of generosity that underpinned the whole Festival, the organisers have made much of the workshop material (and the keynote addresses) available on the website.  See here

Busy authors at the POV workshop

 

A Literary Bubble

With no tv, radio or newspapers and every conversation seemingly lit-related, we were cocooned from the outside world with no idea what was happening 'out there'.  Who knew that the entire Polish ruling elite had been wiped out in an air crash?  We were all too busy, totally immersed in Word World.  The only real criticism I've heard so far about the whole weekend is that there was simply too much to fit in.

And there's the rub.  I think that for many people, the opportunity to have direct face-to-face feedback from an agent was the initial hook.  But no one in their right mind would pay that kind of money for a 10 minute session.  So useful though that feedback was for most people, it was only a small part of an entire weekend devoted to the craft of writing and the business side of publishing.

The range of workshops ensured every angle was covered.
The keynote addresses were inspiring and entertaining.
The evening events were fun and informal.
 
But I think for most people the best part of all was simply being there and mixing with other writers at all different stages of their writing careers.  There was no hierarchy or obvious cliques.  Though some people knew each other in advance (stand up, WordClouders) at any stage you could find a mix of professionals and aspiring authors chatting, laughing and exchanging words.

So what did everyone have in common, given the diversity of backgrounds represented?
Well, obviously everyone there could afford the fee, but apart from that we all share a passion for words and the amazing things we can do with them, a love of storytelling and an endless fascination with other people.

An event like this changes lives, some in a more subtle way than others, but all positive.
Almost everyone will have received some useful and specific advice relating to their writing.
Most will come away inspired to write and uplifted.
Many have caught the eye of an agent and been asked to submit more of their work.
Some may end up signing a contract with an agent.
And some may even achieve their dream of seeing their words in print.

Will it happen again?  What do you think?

The incredible energetic and creative team behind this year's festival are already looking ahead.  You can register interest for 2011 now here.  The full website has been left up here.  Huge thanks to the awesome Harry Bingham and Tommy Kristofferson from the Writers' Workshop, Kate Allan (who somehow managed to juggle incredible professional organisational skills with the needs of a new baby) and Jeremy Guy.

 The indomitable Harry Bingham

Meanwhile, the next best thing to actually being there is to join the community on WordCloud.  It's free to register and there's a whole world of useful info, chat and supportive exchanges.  Check out the host of different groups - or start a new one yourself.  Write on walls, join conversations, look up specific info, browse the blog and (my favourite part) the forums.

I Get the Last Word

Thanks to Avis Hickman-Gibb, I now have a new designation.  I was explaining why I thought Emma and I are such a good team.  Emma is mega qualified to MA level and scatters her talk with learned literary references, whereas my writing evolved from a more organic approach.  It was only later that I was able to analyse and deconstruct what I had created from instinct.

'Ah,' said Avis, 'You're a street writer.'

Yep.  That's me.  A street writing woman.

York - All Talked Out

I'm home after a ghastly journey.  I arrived about an hour ago and this is the first time I've sat down.

'Tired' doesn't come close, though my brain is still zapping.

I have much more to share - including photos - but I'm sorry that there will be a delay before I can get round to it.

I'm going away tomorrow for a few days with the family and I have to confess I'm really looking forward to tuning out.  I know there will be people coming here wanting to hear more about the most stimulating weekend I can recall and I do apologise as I won't have access to the internet for a few days.

Back soon!

York Talk 4

OK.  It's official.  I've lost the plot.  I think it might be something to do with having drained the reserve adrenalin tank and running on pure will alone.

I can't even remember what happened on which day any more.  I'll return to what happened yesterday tomorrow.  Argh.  See?  No idea what day it is any more.

1.30 this morning I was still reading through submissions in my room.  Stumbled into breakfast at 8.00 and along with my coffee and cereal, by the time I got to sit down I had another 4 pieces to read.   In theory, I only had one hour of 1-1s booked today.  In practice, I haven't had a moment to pee.

I ran to my room just now after lunch, realising I was late for the author signings.  As I grabbed some books I saw a caretakery guy who asked which room I was in.
'Ah,' he said, 'you're the last.'
'Last what?'
'Last to hand your key in.'
'Oh!  What time should that have been?'
'9.00 this morning ...'

Gasp.  Bless him, he said it was fine and not to rush.  As if ...
So off I ran - arriving too late for the signings. 
Damn and damn again.  Apart from anything else it would have been nice to have fewer books to carry home.
Ah well, them's the breaks.

I need to pack now and get ready for the final round up.  There's so much more to tell you but it's going to need to unfold over the next few days/weeks.

I hope I've given enough to convey the atmosphere over the weekend.

Eeek- I haven't even told you about last night's Literary Death Match yet ...

York Talk 3

I got through breakfast without dribbling coffee down my chin or growling.  Result in itself.

Then it was off to hear Katie Fforde's keynote address.   She gave 10 pieces of advice that were not only sensible and practical, but also very entertaining.

Show, not tell - so here are some examples of the wisdom of Katie:

Finding your voice is a bit like having an orgasm.  Before you have one, you don't really know what it is.  Once you do, you have no problem identiifying it - and enjoying it.

You have to want it enough.  I want to be size 10 - but I obviously don't want that enough.

I am a bit bored by my voice.  I'm also a bit bored by my face.  But I can't change either.

Follow that, eh?  But I had to cos then it was straight into my POV workshop. Initially I'd wondered how to fill an hour on that one subject.  In the event, I could have continued for far longer given the chance. 

And I got another round of applause at the end so I must have got something right I guess.

Then zoom - off to my first session of 1-1s.  6 authors and their work - 10 minutes each for feedback.  This was immensely gratifying.  Having read and absorbed all the submissions in advance, I felt I had useful things to say.  Writers are so vulnerable and of course all of those of us who are authors as well as editors know that from the inside.  Being in a position to encourage and point out strengths (cos everyone has them) as well as weaknesses and practical suggestions for dealing with them felt really constructive. 

I feel privileged to be in that position, especially when you can clearly see how something can be improved (eg you're starting in the wrong place ... or you're over relying on dialogue to impart info ... or can you justify this timeline  distortion?) and you see the person's face as they see how much better their work could be with some tweaks ... wonderful stuff.

And one submission I immediately pitched to the organisers and they have hooked him up with an agent.  I've no doubt whatsoever  that his book will be on the shelves at some point.  How amazing to have been a prt of that process.

I crossed over the lake (did I mention the lake?  the omnipresent swans, geese, ducks? the lovely setting?) in the company of Katie Fforde, Adele Geras (longtime hero of mine) and Emma Darwin, thinking - ooh look at me ...

I've had lunch (during which I read and discussed 2 new people's writing) and have  decided to miss the next session so I can blog.  While I've been sitting here, a woman drifted past in a dreamlike state saying she's had a very positive reaction from her agent pitches and it looks like she's on her way to being represented.

I need to rush now, so once again don't have time to add the photos.  Patience, peeps.  I'll get there eventually.

York Talk 2

OMG.  I can't believe I'm sitting here blogging at this time of the morning.
The York air is positively crackling with creative energy.

Back to last night.  Shelley Harris won the Authonomy Live session with her beautiful and evocative story set during the Silver Jubilee.  I have a photo of Shelley with her bottle of champers - haven't got round to uploading the pix yet.  Patience, my dear blogmates.

It took real guts to those who took  part in this session.  Can't be easy to stand up and read to an assembled throng of hundreds as well as a panel of experts.  Kudos to all.

I went to bed midnightish to read some late submissions.  And I don't suppose you'll be surprised to hear sleep was elusive.  So many brain cells jostling for space and bouncing off the walls of my skull.

I'm so not a morning person, yet there I was at breakfast at some ungodly hour, desperate for a cloak of invisibility until I get some caffeine.  No cloak.  Must remember to pack that next time. 

I keep meeting people.  Ah there's G - she came on one of my London courses.  And there's R - I've been editing his books for years and now have the face to fit to the name.  Oh look.  There's H from my writers' group.  And F, who I met at a London book launch ... 

I've sneaked out to write this post and there are all these people coming up to chat.  How is it possible to have approx 400 people all in one place and for them all to be so fab?  What are the odds against that?  I haven't met a single person who's been negative in any way.

Right.  Off now for Katie Fforde's keynote address.  Then my POV workshop.  Then ...

Well, catch up later.

York Talk 1

Yeesh - what a ride.  What a buzz. 

Teething problems for some at check in sorted and straight into the mini course: Debi and Emma double act.  In spite of large numbers, it turned out to be quite interactive.  Intense?  You bet.  A huge amount to get through in 4 hrs. 

Hard to interpret those expressions. 


Were those frowns of concentration/discontent/confusion/boredom?

Feedback was good.  We got applause!  That has to be good, eh?

Whoosh.  Straight into the literary speed dating aka organised chaos but a good way to meet a large number of people fast.

And what an amazing bunch of people.  All those writers, all that creativity and enthusiasm.  All in one place.

Hardly enough time to appreciate the food.  It was good though.  As far as I can tell because I wanted to talk and to listen, not eat.

Barely enough time to digest the grub and certainly not enough time to digest all the wonderful words coming at you from every angle.

Because - whoosh again.  Authonomy Live.  Brave writers reading their work to the assembled throng and the panel, Simon Cowell, Cheryl Cole and ...

... oh hang on.  Wrong bunch. 

I'm sitting here, listening to the writers' words and the panel's feedback and thinking how lucky I am to be here.  And blogging for all of you who can't be here.

Apologies for the lack of links. I've taken some pix but haven't got round to uploading them yet.  Will try again tomorrow.

Debi's deafisms

Part 3 in an occasional series giving an insight into my muffled world.

FB:  Is it true that Hong Kong is a country?
Me:  Well, I don't think you could really say that.  Hogwarts is a school, not a country as such.  Though metaphysically speaking ...

Closerer and closerer to York

Right.

Mini course and workshop: prepped
Submissions for Book Doctor slots: received and ready
Hair: Cut and dyed
Teeth: tobacco and coffee stains scrubbed off by dentist
Minor surgery to remove cyst on spine: gulp ...

... tomorrow morning

Oooer ...

Me, him and some books (and a rogue Sainsbury's carrier bag)

Just rec'd this pic from the Magnificent Meloney, featuring yours truly, the legendary Dan Maitland and some of them there book things.

Hoovering the Roof - the East Dulwich Writers' Group anthology published in November -has gone into its 2nd print.  Yippee!

More events planned.

Oh my aching sides ...

We're all familiar with the spam emails offering to make us rich quick involving  movements of vast quantities of dubious currency around the globe for which they *ahem* need your bank account details.

Does anyone ever get caught by these emails?
Presumably some people must be sufficiently gullible, otherwise what's the point of sending them in the first place?

Sometimes though, I do wonder if the spammers are losing heart and just going through the motions.

Otherwise, what possible justification could they have for sending this email I received today?

Hello  I am Mrs.Yengeni from south African a Parliamentarian Wife i contacted you to be my project partner and stand as my Husband foreign partner for transfer of US$15 million into your account for investment  You maybe familiar with the news about my husband legal position. endeavor to read the website :   Mrs.Lumka


Could this be the most lacklustre attempt at fraud yet?

Literary balls

I'm referring to the number of lit-related balls I'm juggling at the moment.

I've just finished reading and critiquing one book and have another MS waiting.

***

A week from today I will be in York for the Festival of Writing.

By this time next Friday, I'll be part of the way through the mini-course I'm running with Emma Darwin - Self Edit Your Work for Market.
With over 60 participants booked, we won't be able to give individual feedback but are working hard to ensure the course will give aspiring authors the tools they need to edit their own writing and learn the requirements of the market.

The following morning, my workshop on POV has been shifted to a giant amphitheatre as a result of 90+ bookings.

My one-to-one Book Doctor slots on Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning are also booked out.

In between, there's a veritable feast of stuff going on and there had better be plenty of coffee available to keep me going when the adrenalin runs out.

I'm grabbing a few days after that to go away with the family.  (Remember me, guys?  I'm your mother.)

 ***

At some point, I really hope to be able to make my own WIP a priority.  I've typed up the revisions and now just need to go through the 2nd draft for the final polish.

***

I've completed my short story set in Croydon for 33 and it's been accepted by Glasshouse Books.
The launch is scheduled for 6th July and there are plans afoot for lots of events.

***

Blimey, but there are a lot of people writing their hearts out in this world ...
I've just received an email from The Brit Awards.  (I'm one of their 'high profile' sic judges.)
The response to the competition has been overwhelming and they've had to postpone the process.
The Awards ceremony will now be happening on 15th July.
Meanwhile, the first layer of judging is taking place with over 21,000 submissions being sifted through by the first layer judges.

***

I could go on.  I have more workshops booked in central London coming up soon, for example ...

***

And on and ...
There's plenty more where that came from but I really should be getting on and doing it rather than talking about it.

I'm considering live blogging the Festival, so I shouldn't be gone too long.

Meanwhile, I need another coffee.

Debi's Deafisms

Part 2 in an occasional series giving an insight into my muffled world.

Two for you today - to make up for my absence recently due to pressure of work.

1)
Emma:  I'll talk to my next door neighbours, Sam and Alan.
Me:  Your next door neighbours have salmonella?

2)
Ring at doorbell.  I open door to see 5 small children, aged 5-7.
Guliz (spokesperson):  Hello, Debi.  Sorry to disturb you.  We were wondering if you could possibly let us have one very small potato.
Me:  Oh.  Sure.  Just hang on there a minute.
Thinks:  potato prints?  Potato gun?  Sweet.
Me:  Here you go, guys.  The smallest potato I could find.
Children:  Sideways glances at each other.  Feet shuffling.  Obvious discomfort.
Me:  Is there a problem?
Guliz:  Um, well that's very kind of you, Debi.  Thank you.  Only what we wanted was a small container.
Marie-Lise:  Can I have the potato anyway?
 
 

Anyone else feel a draft in here?

I'm in the process of working through the first draft of Identity Flawed. 

I love this craft of reshaping and adding flesh to the bones of a story.
It's a time for crazy mood swings though.
One minute I'm thinking it's pretty damn good and might even be the best thing I've ever written.
The next I'm convinced it's crap and I'll never be able to write another publishable book again.

Anyway, Emma Darwin has posted recently about the importance of this stage and I thought I'd say how I approach it.  There as many different ways of writing as there are writers, but this is what works for me.

Draft 1.
This is where I'm chucking the story out.  I rarely plan ahead (though at some point in the writing I will probably have a vague idea of the story's trajectory) and I don't read back through until I've finished.  I let the story unfold as I write by placing my characters in situations and watching to see how they react and what happens as a result and where that leads onto next.  In this way, I find out what's happening at the same time as the protagonists - and the reader.  At some point, the story will grow wings and the characters will take me in unsuspected directions.  (I've blogged about this before here.)

As the story develops, inevitably adjustments will be need to be made in previous chapters to fit into what is revealed by later developments.  I usually write in longhand.  When I type up a chapter I print it out and mark the MS with any issues I know I'll have to return to later.  At the end of the 1st draft, I'll have a complete MS covered in scrawl relating to those issues and any others that come from feedback from my writers' group.

Draft 2.
This is just as crucial a stage in the crafting of a novel as the 1st draft and can't be skipped over.  I start by making the changes I was already aware of and then begin reading through to see how the whole thing hangs together.  I look for inconsistencies in character and plot.  Structural issues like unnecessary timeline distortions.  There may be scenes and even whole chapters which are superfluous and need to be deleted, where I was just writing to continue the flow.  If the section has no role in driving the narrative forwards it has to go.  There will also be sections that are vital to the plot but which I have skated over in my rush to splurge out the story.  I'll check that any sub plots are properly woven into the main narrative and that there are no irrelevant threads or characters.  I'll look out for POV shifts and any areas where I should be showing not telling (or the reverse!).

NB:  This stage is vital, whether you're submitting your MS to an existing agent (as I am) or pitching to a new one.  It's just as crucial if you're submitting the book for an editorial critique.  You should never let anyone see your MS until you have ensured you have made it as good as it possibly can be yourself.  Don't expect anyone to accept your novel because they can see it's a hidden gem.  If it's a gem, it needs to be so bright and sparkly they can't avoid noticing it.  

Even if you're submitting the MS for a critique, it makes sense to polish it as best you can before sending it to an editor, in order to get the best value from the feedback.  Ironically, the longest reports I've written have been for books with the greatest potential.  That's because it doesn't take many words to say things like 'You're using far too many adverbs throughout' or 'Stick to a linear chronological narrative whenever possible' or 'Watch out for confusing POV shifts' etc.

Draft 3.
Ah, the final stage.  This is the polish and is also essential.  With this last read through, I make sure I've always used the right word/phrase/image, that there's no clunky prose and that every word earns its keep.

And that's it.  You've completed a book.  It's no longer your WIP and it's time to launch it into the world.
Good luck!

Forward to the Festival

Less than a month to go to the Festival of Writing in York.
And, yes, I'm really excited about it.

Imagine - a whole weekend spent in the company of other writers, being surrounded by the full literary experience of talking about the crafting (and selling) of words.
Bliss.

I'm going to be the there for the full weekend.
On Friday, Emma Darwin and I are running the Self Edit Your Work for Market mini course.
Saturday morning, I'm running a workshop concentrating on how to deal with the thorny problem of handling POVs.
Then, on Saturday afternoon, I'll be doing an hour of 1-1 sessions, meeting with writers (who will have submitted writing in advance) and discussing their book.
Saturday night, there's a gala dinner.  (What to wear???)
Then on Sunday, I have another session of 1-1s.

In between, I'm going to have to decide whether to explore York, gatecrash some of the other workshops, hang out and chat with anyone around, or (and this is my fantasy) sit and work on my own WIP, inspired by the atmosphere.

Oh and there will be lots of people there I'm really looking forward to seeing.  Some I already know - either through my writers' group or because they've attended workshops I've run in the past.  Others I know through blogging or Facebook.  And I can't wait to put faces to authors whose books I have worked on but who I've never met in Real Life.

Bookings close on 25th March, so if you'd like to join us all, you'd better act fast.

Happy World Book Day!

Here's a way to celebrate this auspicious day ...

Buy a copy of 100 Stories for Haiti.

 

It contains stories by some wonderful authors, it was put together with awesome speed and efficiency, it's for a cause that cannot have failed to move you over these past weeks, it's a symbol of how writers and the internet can make a real difference and ...

... it's a book, and everyone should buy at least one of them there things today if they possibly can.

Enjoy!

In Bed with Debi

Did that get your attention?

Probably not.  And definitely not, I suspect, when you hear the list of things I found in my bed when I woke up this morning:

• A pair of swimming goggles
• An unidentified green cotton pouchy thing
• 11p in change
• A (used) blood glucose test strip

But sadly no car keys.  They've been lost since Friday and replaced this morning at a cost of £130.  I can think of an awful lot of things I'd've preferred to spend that kind of money on ...

Adapt or die

This day should have been spent working on my WIP - except my printer had other ideas ...

I managed (only just) to avoid my initial instinct to crawl under the duvet and stay there until someone made things work (which would be a l-o-o-o-n-g time).

Instead, I finally got round to creating a separate blog for the Revo posts published on this blog in 2008/9.
I've been promising myself I'd do it for ages.  I wanted the posts to all be in one place for ease of use for anyone doing research - or just curious.

For those of you who weren't hanging out here back then, the posts are about my time living in Grenada during the revolution, coup, US invasion and aftermath 1982-1983.

For some ridiculous reason, I can't seem to add links in the sidebar, and some of the photos seem to have gone AWOL so it's still a work in progress, but it's there and it's real. 

Comments are disabled on the new blog, but feedback will always be welcome here. 

There is much spitting and gnashing of teeth chez Alper today

Look. I'm not difficult. I don't ask for much. I do believe I give more than I take in life.

So why oh why, when all I want to do is print my own sodding MS, has my printer chosen today to act up? I print other people's MSes all the time without any trouble.

I spent yesterday working on the 1st draft of Book 6 online for the things I already knew about.
Next stage is to print a hard copy and work through to produce a 2nd draft.

I have the time (which is rare in itself).
I certainly have the inclination ...

What I also have is a malevolent printer who's squatting next to my desk chuckling to itself as I sweat and swear over its inner workings.
It is, I tell you.

I'm held in thrall by a useless piece of crap technology that has worked fine(ish) for all the years that I've had it and has chosen today of all days to act out the part of a recalcitrant gremlin.

The way I see it, I now have 3 choices:

1) I can take to my bed and refuse to get up until the world goes away.
2) I can get the saw out of the cupboard and spend a pleasant day hacking bits off the printer.
3) I can go for a walk and attempt to breathe while I do so.

Right. I'll try for option 3. But I tell you this, if when I get back there's no change in the attitude of hpdeskjet 990cxi, you'd better lock your doors and stay away from the windows 'til I tell you it's safe to come back out.

Me and my mates are on the warpath. Shit technology is in our sights and its days are numbered.
Be afraid ... be very afraid ...

The Long List

I've just sent my regular 'what I'm up to' email to my agent. It's always good to take a step back and remind myself exactly how it is I spend my time, so I thought I'd reproduce it here.

• I've been approached by a new publisher, Glasshouse Books, and asked to contribute a short story to an anthology with a story set in each of London's 33 boroughs. Mine is set in Croydon.
• I've been doing an enormous amount of editing, mostly through Writers' Workshop, but some also direct to me. I've also been mentoring an unpublished writer, which has been very rewarding.
• I've been hosting creative writing workshops, some alone and some in tandem with Emma Darwin.
• I've been asked to be one of the 'high profile' (their words) judges for the Brit Writers' Awards.
• I'm participating in the Festival of Writing in York in April: co-hosting the mini course, running a workshop and taking part in Book Doctor one-to-one sessions.
• my writers' group has set up its own imprint and published an anthology - the first print run of which has sold out. My contribution is a tighter version of the first chapter of Me, John and a Bomb (largely due to the local link)

As far as I'm concerned though, the most important piece of news is that I've finished the 1st draft of Identity Flawed and I'm very excited by it. My top priority now is to work on this whenever I have time. I hope to get the final draft to you within the next few months.

So you want to be a writer?

Are you sure? Are you really sure?
Even after reading this?

Puff the Magic Dragon

I'm under no illusions. I know perfectly well that the one thing that could make a difference to my ears as well as my general health would be to stop smoking.

I assumed all smokers knew that. Surely there are none of us left still in denial ...

Check this conversation I had yesterday while huddled in the cold with a fellow addict.

Her: I've got a hole in my lung.
Me: Oh dear. Shouldn't imagine smoking is a good idea ...
Her: Aha! That's where you're wrong. my doctor told me on no account should I give up smoking.
Me: Really?
Her: Yep. Apparently, the tar is blocking up the hole. If I stop, the tar would go and the hole would open up and get bigger.
Me: And the doctor told you this?
Her: (rolling another fag) Yep. I've got asthma too. I've only got about 60% lung function. D'you know what the doctor told me to do if I have an asthma attack?
Me: Let me guess. He told you to smoke a fag.
Her: Yep. He said that way I'm concentrating on taking deep breaths in.
Me: Was this by any chance the same doctor who told you about the tar ...?

Now, like I said, I'm not in denial about the health-giving properties of tobacco, but any activity that has the upside of giving you insights like the above conversation has to have something going for it ...

I got the power!

It's like this.
My bionic ears, aka Desdemona and Hortense, are callibrated to my maximum hearing loss (approx 70%).

But here's the thing: my hearing fluctuates.
So when it's not too bad, D & H amplify every sound so that I can hear worms turning the earth. In Australia.
The volume control is not sufficently adjustable to turn it down to a more normal level.

I don't mind really. It makes life ... interesting.
Yesterday, for example, I was sitting on the bus and found I could hear both sides of other people's mobile conversations. Which was even more remarkable as I can't hear my own phone.

Like I say, interesting. It would have been even more so if the conversation I was eavesdropping on had been in English, but you can't have everything.

Anyway, I'm thinking about auditioning for Heroes if only I can convince them my power isn't dependant on digital devices. Please don't shop me ...

Brace yourself

The orthodontist has told First Born he's a borderline case but will probably be able to get braces on the NHS. But here's the thing ... his teeth really aren't bad. The incisors are very slightly out of line but that's it.

So he needs to decide whether he wants to have a mouthful of heavy metal train track braces for a year followed by several years wearing retainers at night to correct a very slight misalignment that would have no health consequences.
'Top and bottom?' I asked. 'Because his bottom ones look perfect to me.'
'Yes, we'd do both,' she replied. (Her own teeth were very white and very straight.) 'We want him to have a perfect smile, don't we?'

Do we? Perfection. Are any of us perfect? Can we be possibly be so without painful corrective measures? Should we even want to be? Aren't imperfections what make us unique and distinct from each other? If we have the attitude that every small 'imperfection' has to be dealt with, is there not a risk we could all end up as bland anodyne versions of the same template?

What is a 'perfect smile' anyway? I'd've thought that has to come from within, not be the result of straight teeth.

What do I know ... if he wants them, of course I'll support him and I have urged him to think carefully.

Anyway, while I'm talking teeth I thought I'd share this story my mum once told me about her mother.

Apparently, the whole family made a rare trip to the seaside and my grandmother went for a paddle. Don't ask me how, but somehow she managed to lose her false teeth in the sea. Gallantly, the men set up a search party.

No chance, you'd think. Yet some time later one of my uncles emerged from the sea, proudly holding up a set of gnashers.
What are the odds against that, would you reckon?

But if you want real improbability, wait for the punchline.

They weren't hers.