Swings and Roundabouts

I know the title could well be about the ups and downs of being a writer - but today it isn't. Today it's really apt because I'm just about to take my annual skive from the desk, and the pub, and the cats, and Elle and The Toyboy Trucker, and I'm going back to my fairground roots (see Stealing the Show...).

Monday and Tuesday sees our town's annual Michaelmas street fair (the longest street fair in Europe apparently) which is loved by the town's youth (and those not-so-young, actually) and loathed by all the newcomers (they all bought posh and eye-wateringly expensive flats in the old brewery/old cinema/old mill house and somehow no-one mentioned the fair and they now have paratroopers and waltzers outside their bedrooms for 48 hours each October and keep having petitions about it...) but as it's a charter fair and been going since the 1400s only the Queen can revoke it - and somehow I can't see that happening anytime soon.

So, because my godparents will be here with their dodgems and gallopers and other more scary hi-tech rides and their candyfloss/toffee apple stall, and because they're quite old now, I go and help out... Well, actually it's nothing to do with them being quite old - it's just because I LOVE it. I shall be doing whatever is needed - but as the weather is very cold, very wet and very windy, I hope they'll be kind and give me a job taking money in a nice snug pay-box...

Oh, and on a writerly note, I see in this week's My Weekly that they're running a three-part serial. I thought they'd stopped having serials??? Anyway, nothing ventured and all that, I've just sent them my three-parter, Back-to-Back, that was so cruelly rejected by Woman's Weekly. I've no idea if they'll like it or even want it, and maybe they'll think it's contrived and old-fashioned too (oooh, please - not that!) - but as I can't think of anywhere else for it and as I always try and send stuff out over and over again, it seemed daft not to give it a whirl.

I'll let you know what (if anything) happens when I'm back from all the fun of the fair...

I Am A Real Writer. I am! I am! I am - I think...

The blog is mostly going to be about writing stuff today and - phew! The My Weekly interview has just finished and it was lovely! I don't mean my part in it was lovely (I waffled and giggled and flapped and repeated myself as always), but Wendy, the interviewer was wonderful. She asked such great questions, made it all so easy - like chatting to a friend. I'm so glad it's over though - I hate talking about myself. Well, you feel such a show-off, don't you? And I don't think I have anything remotely earth-shattering to say (although I'm really good at remembering those clever little quips, sparkling witty anecdotes and humorous gems the minute it's over...) - so again, hats off to the lovely Wendy for making it a breeze.

Also this morning I've sold a short story to Allers mag in Sweden. Yippee! This was one I'd had published in People's Friend a couple of years ago - so maybe this is a good writing tip? Anything suitable for PF might well be worth subbing to Allers to sell Swedish mag rights? I shall certainly try them with some more...

And I'm thrilled to discover that the online romance site Cata-Network are going to review Happy Birthday on their Single Titles list - so more good news, well, hopefully, unless they absolutely hate it of course, in which case I'll probably cry.

Now all I have to worry about is if I'll finish Moonshine in time... if the Telegraph are still laughing their posh socks off over my first love revelations... if the Daily Express are ditto-ing their less-posh dittos ditto over my childhood... and if I'll ever be brave enough to face the audience at the Manchester Literary Festival on Oct 18th... I've just been sent the details of my slot (a romance panel with the mega-famous Mavis Cheek and Penny Jordan - think I must be the token chav) and it sounds great if only I could convince myself I was A Real Writer...

I am A Real Writer.. I am A Real Writer... I am A Real Writer...

First Love

Today I'd intended to write Moonshine this morning, then go to the lunch time session of Weight Watchers, and then (after the crying had stopped) be dutiful, and spend the afternoon alternately writing and concocting inedible (see Fine Dining blog entry!) little lo-cal meals to pop in the freezer.

As always with my higgledy-piggledy life, this didn't happen.

What did happen was a) My Weekly rang and asked if I'd like to be a feature in their Christmas Special. I misheard this and thought they'd asked me to write a feature, so we talked at cross-purposes for ages and I made a bit of a prat of myself, frankly. Anyway, once we'd sorted out that they wanted someone to interview me about my writing life (WHAT writing life???) and they'd be ringing me to do this on Friday, and I'd got all excited and a bit big-headed, there was just time to grab a small Toblerone (eaten standing up so the calories wouldn't count for Weight Watchers) and head off to the spare bedroom. Then b) happened...

b) was the Daily Express. They wanted to do a feature too. (Think that the lovely and efficient Little,Brown publicity girl is working overtime - bless her. I've never been so popular - and certainly never had TWO national publications approach me on the same day). This time it's going to be on my childhood. And I had to provide them with notes so that when they rang me we'd all know what we were taking about. Well, they might - I never do.

So, by the time I'd stopped preening and showing-off and smirking smugly, and rapped out a few notes about my youth and emailed them, it was too late for Weight Watchers and I hadn't actually even opened the Moonshine file. So I ate two more (small) Toblerones. And then there was c)...

c) was the Sunday Telegraph. And my admiration for my publicity girl knew no bounds!!! They wanted a 1,000 word article on My First Love (human, not animal - otherwise it would have been my cat, Smokey Seaward, at the age of 7). And they wanted it today. And that's where the rest of the day has gone... lost in blissful dewy memories of Being A Teenager In Love. 1,000 words wasn't enough! I got goose-bumps just thinking about how we met, and all that starry-eyed obsession. Remembering all those lovely, wonderful, mad, never-to-be forgotten moments... Writing and deleting and writing again about how it feels to be madly, truly, deeply in love for the first time ever... Re-living every glorious minute, hearing the umpteen "our tunes" in my head, picturing his face, his smile, his long legs and Hendrix-hair... I sent it just now, smiling nostalgically, but oh, it's been a wonderful way not to write Moonshine or find out how fat I am...

Now I have to go and be a grown-up again and feed the cats and find a suitable pierce-and-ping for The Toyboy Trucker's tea and I'll probably be able to force another Toblerone in there too - but at the moment I'm still 17 and wildly, dreamily, soppily in love...

Wicked Weekend

Have now decided I should have become an Officially Old Person years ago! I've had a truly amazing birthday weekend - great plan having a "special" (thanks lovely Debs for this kind euphemism!) Friday birthday because it meant the celebrations could continue into Saturday and Sunday - and they did! Oh, believe me they did. One of my presents from The Toyboy Trucker was a dinky little pink and lilac digital camera, and when I've learned how to delete the worst of the awful fat, multi-chinned, gurning, hung-over pics (big mistake allowing Elle to show me how the camera worked...), I'll attempt to post one or two of the censored ones on the blog at a later date.

As a suitable celebratory present for An Old Person, Elle and The Doctor gave me a truly amazing hot air balloon flight complete with iced champagne. I was practically beside myself with excitement as this has been top of my "things to do before I die" list for ever. However, this, on the morning after drinking my way along the liqueurs shelf of the restaurant at Friday night's family party, was deemed as Not A Good Idea, but I think the hang-over-anesthetic worked well in quashing any nerves I might have had. I couldn't wait and I absolutely loved it!!!!

The Toyboy Trucker came with me (Elle and The Doctor both wimped out at the last minute claiming sudden attacks of vertigo). It's an experience I'll never forget as long as I live.

I did have quite a few of my misconceptions about balloon flights corrected, though - like the pilots have to train with instructors and gain flying hours before they can get their licences - just like with any other flying machines. Stupidly, I think I'd just assumed anyone could buy a balloon and take-off willy-nilly without any rules and regulations. Now I know differently - balloon flights are as tightly regulated as anything else that goes up, up and away. And then there was the noise. From the ground balloons appear silent, and while much of the flight was certainly that, once those burners get going they roar like angry dragons! But oh, it was so serene - and the sensation of flying so slowly and smoothly, just going wherever the thermals and currents took you, gliding with the wind in your face and people all staring up from below on such a gloriously warm and sunny Autumn day was just wonderful. A dream come true...

It was all over too quickly for me and as soon as we'd landed (smoothly, only a bit of a bump despite being prepared in the briefing for all sorts of lumpy landings) I just wanted to go back and do it all over again. I'll definitely use it in a novel - it's very, very romantic being up in the sky, unfettered and unhindered - and in America they have balloon weddings (must have bigger baskets?) which the UK hasn't licenced yet. Do wish they would because it would make a fantastic happy-ever-after...

Then on Saturday night - just when I'd thought it couldn't get any better - The Toyboy Trucker said to make sure my feet stayed on the ground we were going into town for a quiet dinner for two. And I believed him! Hah! We drove into Oxford and ended up at Shanghai 30s - the most sublime Chinese restaurant (it's had rave reviews from all the broadsheets and is the sort of place I've looked at from outside and sighed wistfully) - which is in an Elizabethan house (all twisty narrow staircases, linen-fold panelled walls, and tiny rooms) where Elle and The Doctor and all our friends were waiting in a private room which they'd spent all afternoon decorating (hence the wimping out of the flight) with umpteen balloons and masses of sparkly things and candles everywhere and it was like walking into a fairy grotto. It was so amazing and unexpected that I burst into tears. The food was wonderful, the service out of this world, and between the umpteen courses I worked my way through the cocktail menu... It was a fabulous, fabulous night - and again something I'll remember forever.

Then on Sunday, to round off this spectacular weekend, Elle and I went to a Wedding Fair which was being held in the glorious stately home where she and The Doctor are getting married. This was my first venture into the world of wedding fairs - and blimey, what an eye-opener (even for someone with a double hang-over!). There were things there I'd never dreamed anyone could have/want/need at a wedding (or anywhere else). Amazing stuff. As someone whose entire wedding cost £45 (without the fireworks and champagne, but including the fish and chips) I simply drifted round the wonderful 14th century halls, overcome with emotion, and pretty sure that I'll be awash come Easter when I'm there again in my Mother of the Bride role... Elle and The Doctor seem to already have most things arranged, but I did get a bit overexcited and booked them a chocolate fountain...

Now my OOP (Officially Old Person) celebrations are over I really must, must, must knuckle down and write Moonshine because it's nearly October and I have a feeling I'm supposed to be delivering it in about 6 weeks time - aaargh!!!!

Happy Hippy

As the old song goes - what a difference a day makes!!!! Yesterday, I was way down in the dumps with the rejections - today I'm leaping with joy.

I finished writing the new My Weekly story yesterday morning (the Christmas commissioned one which I'd called A Real Cool Yule, which I'd even given the alternative title of Willow Sticks and Sushi, just in case the title put them off before they even read a word...) - just made the deadline - and emailed it to them last night after re-reading it about twenty million times, convinced that I was no longer able to create a decent short story.... and with no great hopes that it would be anywhere near what they wanted.

And, yes! As always happens in this weird, unpredictable writing world, they loved it! They accepted it this morning - less than 24 hours after I sent it and Woman's Weekly zapped my confidence - and have already put the payment through.

Oh, blimey - the ups and downs of being a writer are enough to drive you doo-lally, aren't they??? Still, today I'm smiling...

Grrrr...

Oooh - what a grim writing day. Six rejections - SIX! - in one go!!! And all from Woman's Weekly.

Five short stories - all considered to be "too predictable" - and the 12,000 word three-parter that I'd worked on for soooo long.... Sadly they felt the three-parter was "contrived and old-fashioned".... Ouch!

I've been in this game long enough to know that rejections are all par for the course, but knowing it still doesn't make getting them any easier. I HATE it! It always feels so personal, doesn't it???

Not that I expect everything I write to be accepted - far from it - I'm still without an ounce of confidence, but after writing and selling short stories for most of my life, I was pretty sure I knew how to avoid the "predictable" "contrived" "old-fashioned" pit-falls. Clearly I don't... Sigh...

Must now take my own advice, re-read the short stories, rework them where necessary and send them out again. Which I will do the minute I've stopped swearing and kicking the furniture and sulking. Sadly, though, I feel the three-parter is a dead duck. I can't imagine finding a home for it as it stands and it's too complicated to chop down to make a shorter story. Sod it!

Now going to abandon the blog and writing anything today and go and mutter Bad Words in the garden...

The Ultimate Accolade

Wow! It takes a lot to make me speechless I can tell you - but today I am.

My favorite author of all time is Peter Robinson (ace writer of the Inspector Banks crime/thriller series) who I first discovered a few years ago while wandering aimlessly in a charity shop on one of the saddest days of my life.

Peter's "The Summer That Never Was" was a lone crime novel amidst a lot of long-abandoned and never-read literary tomes (probably bought on the recommendation of dinner party guests or the hefty broadsheets), and the starkness of the cover and the bleak title suited my mood. I bought it for a pound, needing a novel that would take me away from the current awfulness of my real life, and devoured it within two days and two sleepless nights.

That one book had me hooked on Peter Robinson's writing and I immediately bought his entire backlist so I could read them in order, and since then have bought every one of his books in hardback as soon as they're published. Which, I hope, will placate those writers who seem to think that buying second-hand is a mortal sin. I've always thought it was an ideal way for those of us who are not so well-off to discover new authors, and if you like them, then you'll buy everything else at full-price rather than miss out. Now, I could do Inspector Banks on Mastermind - well, no, I couldn't because I'd be a gibbering wreck long before I got to the Big Black Chair - but you know what I mean.

Anyway, I'm currently reading Peter's latest brilliant novel, yes, in hardback - All The Colours Of Darkness ( a very clever mixture of Shakespeare and Spooks) and last night I was snuggled in bed totally immersed, when I let out an ear-splitting shriek of disbelief.

The Toyboy Trucker (who'd been asleep for hours) leaped out of bed and stubbed his toe on the bookshelves and swore a lot and was just about to stumble to the shower before I told him it was only 2 a.m. And the bed-sharing cats - Jonah, Luca, Alexia and Dexter- all fled out onto the landing excitedly expecting an early breakfast.

"Why," The Toyboy Trucker asked through gritted teeth as the cats all glared at me, "did you scream? It's not another damn (he didn't say damn) spider is it?" "Noooo,' I gibbered excitedly, pointing to page 162 of Peter's book, "I'm in this book!" "Oh, great," he muttered, crawling back under the duvet. "I hope you're the bloody victim..."

No, but honestly, I couldn't believe it either - but it's true! I'm in it!!! No, really!!!! I'm in All The Colours of Darkness. How cool is that???