It’s been a busy but
fun week because I have been entertaining company from the other side of the
world. Australia, to be precise. A fellow author with whom I’ve been friends
with on Instagram for the past three years messaged me a few weeks ago that she
was coming to the UK. How exciting, I answered. Was she coming to my neck of
the woods at all? She was, she replied. Could I recommend a decent hotel or
B&B. A hotel or B&B? Absolutely not! She’d come and stay at Blake Manor
for the four days she planned to stay in Bury St Edmunds – so long as she didn’t
mind bunking down in a single bed in quite a small spare room. She didn’t mind.
In fact, claimed she’d rather be in a single bed in a friend’s home than in an
impersonal hotel or B&B.
So, our plans were
laid, and I duly spruced up our tiny spare room and made it as comfortable as
possible with my best bedding, flowers and new towels. But as the hour of her
arrival ticked ever closer, the nerves began to bite. What would she be like?
Would she be happy with our tiny house or would she wish she’d picked classier
accommodation after all? Would she be easy to feed, or turn out to be fussier than
my daughter? Would I like her? More importantly, would she like me?
The beautiful Angel Hotel where Charles Dickens stayed and wrote The Pickwick Papers
Tuesday morning
rolled around and I went to collect her from the train station. My carefully
laid plans to be waiting on the platform for her with a big welcoming smile
were instantly scuppered by the fact there wasn’t a single parking space to be
had. Desperately circling the station over and over again, I anxiously scanned
the tiny full car park on each circuit, but it was no good. Eventually, I
hitched up onto the pavement and sent a desperate text informing her of the situation,
then went for another couple of goes around the one-way system until finally I
saw someone come out of the station dragging a case bigger than herself and looking
around helplessly.
It could only be her!
Once again breaking the law with carefree abandon, I parked in a no stopping
area and jumped out, waving frantically and calling her name. Her face breaking
into a relieved smile, she rushed over and there was only time for a quick hug
before I threw her case in the boot and we hurried back to Blake Manor as
quickly as lunchtime traffic would allow.
The Atheneum – where many a 17th century ball took place
After settling in, a
restorative cup of tea and a quick “getting to know each other chat” we went for
a tour of the sights in Bury St Edmunds. Now, although I love the little market
town I live in and am fully aware of how lucky I am to reside in place that is
so rich in history, it’s not until I’m showing someone else around that I really
appreciate what a very special place it is. To tourists, especially those from
younger countries such as Australia and the US, it is an architectural marvel,
with houses from all periods rubbing shoulders.
We paid a visit to one of the oldest buildings in town – Moyses Hall. Originally, a 12th century town house belonging to a wealthy merchant, it is now a small museum stuffed full of local memorabilia. Pride of place among the exhibits is the rather macabre death mask of convicted villain, William Corder, and a book which was made from his skin!
Accused of murdering his lover and the mother of his illegitimate children, Maria Marten, in the infamous Red Barn Murder. Corder was executed in Bury St Edmunds in 1828 and the grisly souvenirs as mentioned above were made.
It is quite an incredible building and it’s possible to see the original brickwork, fireplaces and doorways. Wandering about and looking at the exhibits, my friend kept exclaiming over the age of it and it made me realise that yes, a building dating back to the mid-12th century that is still intact and still being used for something is actually quite incredible.
Then we wandered around the town itself. Bury is a charming and eclectic mix of old and new, with roads such as St. John’s Street winding away from the town centre chock full of individual artisan shops all housed in ancient buildings.
There is a new part of the town as well, a large shopping complex called the Arc with its brand-new buildings and rather space age looking Debenhams department store. I don’t hate the new part, it’s not as offensive as some I’ve seen, and I guess it serves a purpose.
Bury is also home to the country’s smallest pub, the rather aptly named Nutshell, and my friend was very keen to pay a visit and have a drink in it. We squeezed inside and ordered a G&T each. It is really tiny. Seven people constitutes a crowd, anymore and it’s a crush, yet every square inch of its walls and even the ceiling are filled with quirky and funny knickknacks and memorabilia.
Inside the Nutshell Pub
We went to the Abbey Gardens, the beautiful and well laid out park surrounding the ruins of the medieval monastery. Once one of the largest and most important monasteries in Britain, it was a complete world unto itself. The monks grew all their own food and provided for themselves with livestock, fisheries, beehives and an orchard. They also had a hospital and were the only form of healthcare most people had access to.
Located on the banks of the river, boats would sail up from the North Sea and sell their wares from Europe, Scandinavia and even further afield. Sadly, the river silted up over time and it became too shallow for boats to traverse. Add to this the devastating effects of Henry VIII and his dissolution of religious institutions across the British Isles, and it spelled the end of Bury St Edmunds being one of the most important towns in the country.
There are quite a few
ruins to explore, as well as the magnificent cathedral and the lovely St Mary’s
Church which was commissioned by Henry himself as a fitting final resting place
for his favourite sister, Mary, who had married the local lord Charles Brandon.
Coming home after a
few hours being seeped in history, there was just time for a nice relaxed
dinner and chat, before quite understandable exhaustion after travelling over
24 hours from the other side of the world caught up with my poor friend and she
toddled off to bed.
Wednesday, day two of her visit, and we went to visit another local author who has also been friends with my Oz visitor for several years. We had a wonderful lunch and a lovely long chat about all things bookish. The really great thing about spending time with other writers is that you can talk until you’re blue in the face about books and their eyes don’t glaze over. Try doing that with non-writing friends and it soon becomes apparent that they really want you to shut up.
Despite the weather forecast being for solid rain all week it only spotted in places and so on Thursday we drove the 30 minutes or so to a nearby stately home and garden, Anglesey Abbey. Totally beautiful, we toured the very well-preserved house in the morning and then treated ourselves to a cream tea. Curious to resolve an age-old question, I conducted an experiment and put the clotted cream first on one half of my scone and then the jam and vice versa on the other half.
My verdict? Well, obviously, both were delicious, but I found spreading the clotted cream on the scone first literally ripped the scone to pieces and it was also very hard to then spread the jam on top. The half I spread the jam on first worked better as the jam seemed to cement the scone together so I could then smear the cream on top.
Enjoying the beautiful Autumn sunshine, we ambled about the grounds and woodlands looking at the plants and giggling at the fact that every statue was male, naked and sporting very unimpressive “parts” – those that hadn’t snapped off, that was. It did rain a little, okay quite a bit, but the downpour was short-lived, and we had hoods on our jackets, so it was all fine.
Driving home, we just missed the rush hour traffic and rounded off a perfect day with traditional fish and chips and a film – “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” – very appropriate for a pair of authors – in front of the fire.
Friday, the last day of my friends stay, and I’d arranged for us to meet four fellow indie authors who all live in and around Bury St Edmunds for brunch. First thing in the morning I had to run Miss F out to her work placement while my friend packed her bags and prepared for her departure later that day, then we wandered to a nearby restaurant that does an excellent brunch menu including veggie, vegan and foods for people with special dietary requirements.
We all took our books for a group photo and a fine time was had by all. I couldn’t help reflecting how much talent was seated around that table, drinking coffee and discussing all things bookish. Very diverse, practically every genre was represented, and it was fascinating to hear each other’s stories of how they came to be published and what their plans were for the future.
Brunch over, there was just time to bid my friend a fond farewell with promises to stay in touch, then it was back out to collect Miss F from her work placement in the middle of nowhere, followed by a hectic afternoon of arranging the printing of flyers, housework, laundry, shopping and preparing for a long weekend of work.
And now it’s Saturday morning and I’m trying to finish writing this blog before heading off to work for a full-on day of people and attempting to stay perky and awake! It doesn’t help that my body likes to play mean little tricks on me and the nasty cold I thought I’d managed to get rid of a fortnight ago is back with a vengeance. So, I’m sipping black tea with honey to soothe my poor throat and hoping this cold isn’t here to stay.
I wish I could say my
life is going to get less mad next week, but it isn’t. Due to the long term
sickness of a colleague I will be pulling a lot of overtime and on Monday – my one
day off next week – I have to drive Miss F all the way to Ipswich to meet some
dodgy sounding person at the train station in order to buy some ants off him.
Yes, you did read that right, but more on that next week.
Time is ticking by
and I really do need to go, once again, thank you for joining me this Sunday
morning for a coffee and a chat, and I wish you a more peaceful and relaxing
week than the one I am facing.
My Meet the Author spot this month is focused on bestselling traditionally published author, James Fahy. Creator of the The Changeling fantasy trilogy and the Urban Gothic vampire series Phoebe Harkness. James is also a major influencer on Instagram, where he shares snapshots of his life and family shenanigans, as well as featuring amazing recipes and cooking tips. Although an extremely busy man, James is a keen advocate of authors from all walks of life supporting each other – be they newbies or seasoned writers, traditionally published or indies.
First of all, thank you so much James, for taking the time to come onto A Little Bit of Blake this week, and I’d like to start by congratulating you on the launch of the latest book in the Phoebe Harkness series, “Paper Children”.
Thanks, Julia. It’s been a while coming since Phoebe 2, for enough reasons to fill a whole interview all on its own. I wrote Changeling 3 after the second Phoebe book, then, due to my own clumsiness, got into a bit of a traffic accident which led to a fun year of operations and physio. Once everything was back off hold though, I wanted to get Phoebe 3 out there asap. Excited that it’s finally here!
As an author myself, I know what a crazy head-rush launching a book is, so, how do you feel it went? And do you have any traditions or routines you like to follow when publishing a new book?
Book Launch
time is one of my favourite times. All the solitary slogging away behind the
scenes, where it’s just you and the screen finally come to fruition. I spend
most of my time in the run up weeks to launch in a whirlwind of emails and
phone conversations with the Publishers, my Agent, the art dept who are dealing
with the cover, the marketing guys who are telling me where and how they’ll be
pushing the book… it’s an odd sensation really, as writing itself is so
solitary, but then at the ‘birth’ there are suddenly so many people involved
and it turns into a bit of a circus. I also have great fun running teaser
campaigns on Social Media, promos, booktrailers and giveways. I think any
author would agree it’s a little bit like a personal Christmas when you have a
new book out. Great fun but a bit exhausting.
You’ve probably been asked this before, but can you pinpoint what or even who inspired the character of Phoebe Harkness within your imagination, and was the fact that Oxford appears to be one of your favourite places a contributing factor to basing Phoebe’s world in a dystopian version of this city?
My decision to
write Phoebe largely stemmed from my frustration at how a lot of male writers
seemed to handle female characters. I read a lot of Urban Gothic and
paranormal, and while there are some great ones out there, there are also so
many books where it seems the only way a woman can be portrayed in a book as
‘strong’ is either to make her a completely stone-cold b***h, or have her be
this perfect and unrealistic goddess. In my life, I’m surrounded by strong
women, in my family and friends, and I wanted to write a female lead hero who
was badass AND human. Phoebe is sarcastic, resilient and tough. She’s also
socially awkward, clumsy and makes mistakes. I didn’t want to shy away from
presenting a fully rounded person, and that’s where Phoebe came from. It seems
to have worked well, I get so much feedback, especially from female readers,
either telling me they ARE Phoebe, or they want to be her best friend. That’s
pretty gratifying to me as a writer. One of the oddest questions I get asked is
‘as a man, how do you write women so well?’. Which I think is odd, because I’m
fairly sure no one ever asked JK Rowling ‘as a woman, how do you write teenage
boys so well?’.
As for
choosing Oxford, well it’s my hometown, so it’s where my heart lives, and I
know it inside out.
It’s such an amazing city, and there’s so much
history and architecture to mine there as a writer. Phoebe’s world is a closed
in walled city, so I had to choose one that was interesting enough and had
enough substance for me to play in for more than one book. I can’t imagine
Phoebe being set anywhere else now.
Phoebe Harkness is
now a trilogy, do you intend for it to remain so? Or can fans expect more from her?
If you’ve truly written the end on that story, which direction will your
writing take you in now and can you give any hints as to what your readers can
look forward to?
Will there be
more Phoebe after Paper Children? Hmm… readers will have to read the last page
if they want to know. (evil cackle).
The next book I will be releasing will be book four of the Changeling series, which my Erlking readers have actually started baying for blood for now. I think if I moved to anything else before putting that one out there in the world, they would actually come for me with torches. It will be hot on the heels of Paper children though, promise!
After that, I
have more than one project I’m working on. Two standalone novels, both of which
hopefully will surprise readers familiar with my work, as neither of them are
quite like what I’ve written before. My Changeling series is radically
different in tone and voice to the Harkness books, and I really enjoy singing
in different notes that way, so you can expect something a little chilling, and
something a little historical. I’m keeping details under my hat for now though.
I know as writers we’re not allowed to pick a favourite book – as parents are not allowed to have a favourite child – but is there one of yours that holds a special place within your heart?
Book? Or child?
There’s more than one book that’s special to me, for
different reasons. The Weirdstone of Brisingamen by Alan Garner contains the
spark that lit a fire in my younger mind that would one day spread into the
Changeling series. I’m not sure I would ever have come to Erlking or the
Netherworlde without Garner. Likewise, there’s a little-known book by Thomas Burnett
Swan called Day of the Minotaur. I read it when I was around thirteen, and it
started my obsession with mythology and faerie tales. It’s probably the reason
I studied classics at college and later at Uni, and these themes still flavour
a lot of my writing, so I owe a lot to that book.
Are
you one of those authors who wrote as a child? Or is it something that came
later in life?
Oh, I’ve always written. I think it was a bit of an outlet for me when I was a child. I was very solitary. I wasn’t one of the popular kids and I think I had a bit of a reputation of being a weirdo. My childhood was a strange and quite lonely one. Most friends I had were adults. I could hold better conversations with them and none of them ever tried to push me down the stairs at school. I was bullied at both primary and High school and hated both. I didn’t really start making friends or become comfortable in my own skin until I left high school and went to college. I met good people there and started to realise that the world was bigger than school, and I could carve a place in it, even if only through sheer bloody-minded determination. So, writing as a child was escapism for me. I could be anyone, I could go anyway. I could get away from my own life. I think you need that spark, that need to explore other places than your own life, in order to start to be a writer. Everything that comes after that is just practise, trial and error as you hone your skills and find your voice.
I’ve
seen it stated many times that unless you write every day you cannot consider
yourself a proper writer. Now, I have my own views about that statement, but
was wondering what your take on it is?
I get that some people say that, and I can see the sense in it, in that, like exercise, if you fall out of the habit, you can get flabby and it can be difficult to get back into your stride. But I also think that, like exercise, sometimes you just need a rest day. Everyone is different. Some people have to write every day, others won’t stop until they’ve written a self-appointed ‘words per day’ target.
That doesn’t work for me. I can go a couple of days without writing. Sometimes I just need to switch off. I do get antsy though if I go longer than a week, as I write full time, so I really have no excuse not to. Although I give myself a mental break, as I have other things in my life too. I’m father and main carer to my family, two of which have special needs, so I have a lot of adult responsibilities, a house to run like clockwork, and everything else to manage too. A burned-out writer is a bad writer, that’s what I think anyway.
I
know from your Instagram page that your hobbies and interests are broad and far
ranging, but when you’re not writing, what is your favourite thing to do?
I can’t ever really sit still. I’m a very fidgety
person, so I get very antsy (and no doubt irritating to everyone around me) if
I have nothing to do. Even if I’m reading, it’s usually in a multitasking way,
book propped up in the kitchen while I’m cooking, or balanced on the bike at
the gym.
I love cooking and baking and am a self-confessed
foodie, as anyone who follows me online already knows. I’m the only one who
cooks in my house. My other half isn’t allowed in the kitchen, it’s my realm.
There’s something very relaxing to me about cooking, all the stages of
preparation, method and ingredients. It’s almost meditative. And the fact that
it all comes together in the end into something delicious is like alchemy. Plus,
I get huge satisfaction from seeing people enjoying things I create. Whether that’s
my books or the food I put in front of my family. Maybe I still get a dopamine
hit from pleasing people and feeling appreciated, blame my childhood!
Other than cooking, I’ve gotten back into exercise and
being healthy in a big way. (yes, I’ve become one of those horrible people who
actually enjoys going to the gym). It’s so good for clearing the mind,
releasing stress and tension, and just making you feel better about yourself. I
treat it like therapy, it gets me out of my own head for a while. After my
stupid accident where I nearly died, I think I’ve scared myself a bit, and
realised how fragile we are. Bodies are not disposable; I feel the urge to look
after it now. I’d like to be around for a while longer!
When I do make myself relax, I adore horror movies. I will watch anything as long as its not torture-porn, (boring). Very few movies actually scare me. The ones that do impress me are those that don’t rely on lazy jump-scares, but the ones that unsettle and get under your skin. The ones you find yourself thinking about days later.
Like
me, you are very careful to maintain your family’s privacy online, but how do
you feel about those authors who share every tiny detail of their lives on
social media?
It’s not for me to tell other people how to police
their own social media. Some people are clearly happy enough to have their
whole lives on show, but for me personally, it’s an area I’m very wary of.
The nature of my job means that I consider myself (to
some degree) to be available and approachable. I’m happy splashing my own face
everywhere and being public property, but when it comes to my family, they
didn’t sign up for this. I don’t mind being in the public eye, but my OH is a
very private person, and my kids are kids. They have a right not to be constantly
exposed to however many followers I have. I’m fair game, I’m happy with that,
but they all know and live with ‘dad’ and ‘husband’ me, not ‘jamesfahyauthor’
me. There’s so much danger online with security these days, if you’re in any
even semi-public profession. You might see the odd, very occasional family
photo on my feed, if it’s a special occasion and I have everyone’s agreement,
but otherwise I don’t even give my other half or children’s names out, simply
because out of the people who follow me on social media, a heck of a lot of
them are people I don’t know. You never know if there are stalkers or oddballs
out there. (judging from some of the more random Direct Messages I get on Insta
from total strangers, quite a few, it seems.)
You
seem to have struck a happy balance on Instagram, posting a lot of non-book
related posts and stories, and of course as a traditionally published author
with the backing and promoting of a publishing house there is less need for you
to promote your own books. But I was wondering how you felt the unsupported
indie author should best try to promote themselves and their books on social
media? And is there anything you feel they really should avoid doing? (Sorry,
that’s a lot of questions within a question)
That is a many levelled question! Okay, I’ll try to
answer each bit of it.
Firstly, yes, I’m pretty happy with what I call the
‘casserole of nonsense’ that makes up my little insta-world. I see some
accounts where it’s a writer and EVERY single post is about either their books
or writing, and I fully understand why they might do that, and if it works for
them, then great. But nobody is just one two-dimensional thing. I think it’s
far more interesting and varied to your followers for them to actually get to
know you, through sharing your other interests, your sense of humour or
oddities. Open up a little to people instead of just being a rolling
infomercial, that’s what I say. My feed is a blend of writing and promo pieces,
whatever I’m reading, lots of landscape and nature photography, food, and many
a silly selfie when I have some random topic on my mind I want to chat to
people about. It works well for me, it might not for others.
You’re right in saying it’s a benefit to have a
publisher when traditional to help with marketing, promoting etc. (and I should
hope so too, they do, after all, take a cut of what you’re books make, so any
writer would expect them to work as hard as they do themselves to make the book
a success) – in my case they do. My publishers are wonderful and always
enthusiastic.
I’m not sure I self-promote any less than an ‘indie’ writer though. I do all the same things on Social Media, teasers, giveaways and competitions, book trailers etc. mainly because I genuinely enjoy that side of things, its just another way to be creative and play with the world you’ve created in your books, but in a different format. I love image and video editing, so it never feels a chore to me.
As for what people should avoid doing? Well, I don’t
think it makes a difference if you’re traditionally published or indie, or self-published,
(I actually don’t like people hanging on the distinction as though it has any
real bearing on the writing. A book is a book.) I have a lot of writer friends,
both traditionally published and self-published, and the ONLY advice I would
ever feel qualified to give if they asked, would be to be genuine. If you follow or
interact with other people online, do it because you want to, and you find them
interesting, not for the fact that they might be ‘useful’ to you further down
the line, or that you think they might buy or review your book if you’re nice to
them.
People are very, very, good at sniffing out insincerity that way I think. I chat on a regular basis to a lot of my followers, and for most of them I have no idea at all if they’ve read my books, or if they just like talking to me and following my posts. And I don’t ask. I don’t push my books onto people. If you make a genuine connection with someone, it’s been my experience that at some point you get a message saying, ‘oh btw I just bought your book and I’m loving it’. That’s far more satisfying to me.
My only other never-do rule (that I stick to myself as well) is never plug your own book uninvited in someone else’s comments section. I just think that’s such terrible manners, and always so awkward. Online friends are not each-others free advertising space. If that person wants to shout your book out, they will, (and if you’ve made a genuine connection, they really will). Shoehorning a ‘great pic of your pet budgie, Laura. It reminds me of a scene in my bestselling new novel soon available at amazon and other outlets’ just makes me absolutely cringe! I’d never do it, and when I have it done to me it makes my cynical mind wonder if that person is only my ‘friend’ online because I’m a handy soapbox.
I’m always more than happy to support and shout out
other writers, (and I do all the time, we’re all in the same business after
all, and attention is not cake. Someone else getting a shout out does not mean
less love for me) but I know a couple of traditionally published writers who
would never shout out an indie writer, and equally, I know indie writers who
only shout out indie books, or create closed (to me) posts asking indie
discussion questions I cant contribute to. It’s a bit sad that the division
even exists. I think it’s self-defeating and I tend to ignore it and just do my
own thing.
I
know you avoid Facebook and have been quite vocal about your dislike of it, can
you tell us why you think Facebook and Instagram are such different beasties
when they are owned by the same company and are basically the same concept?
They operate very differently, (for me) Facebook works like a town hall noticeboard, where I can hang a post with some info about my writing, or what’s going on, and maybe people will see it, maybe they won’t, but it feels much less immediate and less like a conversation than Insta does. What I like about Insta is that there is this sense of a cohesive Bookstagram community, and it’s a bit of a false picture. Everybody doesn’t know everyone else, and we’re not all standing in a big circle holding hands. It’s more like countless smaller circles that are always moving and interlocking, little sub-pockets of people, and each of us is in (and moves in and out of) several of these shoals at any given time. That’s fun for me to explore.
I like that I can fill my grid with my posts, (which I
think of almost as a blog) whereas on IG stories, I probably do most of my
interaction with people, as it’s silly, disposable and very light. You can put
whatever you like on there. I follow certain peoples IG stories much more than
I follow their grid, because their stories are so entertaining. Largely on
Insta, I live in DM’s, where I normally have a ton of conversations going at
any given time. Its like texting a ton of friends at once, and some of these
conversations you could scroll up a year. Its wonderful for me, as a writer, to
make that connection and to build that kind of long-term relationship with a
reader.
Autumn
is here and the endless posts of falling leaves and pumpkin spice with
everything are once more upon us. Do you have a favourite season? Or do you
find something different to enjoy in each one, and can you sum up in a few
words what each season means to you?
I don’t have a favourite. I love them all for
different reasons. (I know a lot of people hate winter for the horrible weather
if they have to commute, but I work from home so I get to escape that – but I
did it for years before I was able to write full time, and the horror is still
in my memory)
Okay, in a few words then:
Spring always feels hopeful to me. Winters are long and dark here, and there’s something about seeing that first fuzz of green on the bare trees and the days starting to get lighter that makes me feel I can breathe again. I love blossom, spring always feels like a celebration.
Summer: this is when I escape to my cottage on the island off Wales, so it’s my super happy family time, always full of busy adventure, exploring and outdoor fun. Summer is beaches and cliff walks, my kids covered in ice-cream, and sand all over the car. G & T in the garden in the evenings, and big family BBQ and parties.
Autumn: for some reason I always seem to be releasing a book in autumn, so its always busy! I love the light in this season, and the crisper air. Deer parks and woodland walks, with lots of hot and filling autumn food.
Winter: I do love all the festivities, Christmas, new year, fireworks and bonfires, and of course Halloween is my favourite time of year full stop. Mulled wine and cosy nights snuggled on the sofa reading. Bliss.
As
I’ve mentioned before, you feature a lot of recipes and share with us the
wonderful looking meals you create on Instagram. You seem to have a strong
preference for Asian cooking, and I wondered what your favourite meal is?
I spent time in Japan, which is where my love of all
things Japanese comes from. I speak well enough Japanese to get by, and I love
the elegant simplicity and artistry of Japanese cooking. For a long time, my
favourite dish was Nabeyaki Udon, which is a comforting noodle and egg broth
full of smoky dark flavours. More recently, in the last few years, I discovered
a love for Korea, and I’m an absolute addict for K-drama. I’ve watched so many,
and I love everything about the culture, from the music, the fashion, the food
and the cultural atmosphere and social rules. I plan to head to Seoul once I
can speak the language well enough (I’m learning Korean at the moment – I love
languages) and see it for myself. Korean food is robust and punchy and full of
bold flavours and smells. My new favourite thing is Bibimbap, which I have
gotten pretty good at making. So tasty!
Did
you watch a lot of TV chefs as a child? Growing up, I have vivid memories of a
mumsy Delia Smith and a permanently drunk Keith Floyd whom my family watched
more for entertainment value than to learn to actually cook from.
No, not really, but everyone in my family cooked growing up. My family is Irish on my fathers’ side, and Italian on my mothers, and both clans are huge, and all foodies. I started cooking when I was very young, and I cook with my own little ones now. I think it’s important you learn young to be self-sufficient. I still remember being shocked when I first went to Uni and one of my flatmates in halls couldn’t iron a shirt or boil an egg. TV Chef wise, I love Mary Berry, as she’s always up for a laugh, and I have the biggest crush on Nigella Lawson. Everything she makes always looks so decadent
What do your family think of your books? I appreciate your daughters are probably too young for Phoebe Harkness, but have they read The Changeling series? Or perhaps you’ve read it to them?
My eldest, who is ten, has read the Changeling Series and loves it. With a writer in the family she’s been reading since she was born, so her reading age, (according to her school anyway) is around fifteen now. She writes as much as I do and told me she wants to be an author like Dad when she grows up. I told her not to wait until she grows up, write now, and she does. Our house is fully of stories. I haven’t read my books aloud to them, (they both like to squirrel themselves away in reading nooks in the playroom and read in peace) but I’ve done readings and talks at quite a few schools, including my daughters, which I think she was equal parts proud and mortified about. Any book talk I’ve done is always fun when it’s with kids. They ask the best questions.
Can
you remember a book or series that had the biggest impact on you as child, and
maybe were the influence behind your own writing career?
As I’ve said earlier, Garner’s Brisingamen is my
mental bedrock, for reasons I can’t really articulate. I think it was my first
encounter with the idea of a magical world intersecting with the real world,
something I’ve gotten my teeth into with my own writing. I was (and still am) a
huge Tolkien nerd, long before there was any whisper of movie versions. I must
have read Lord of the Rings countless times. It’s the scope and depth of the world
building that gets me, and I think Tolkien laid out the unspoken guide for
pretty much every fantasy writer who followed him. Ironically, the vampire
nightclub, Sanctum, which lies below the streets of Oxford in my Phoebe
Harkness books, is entered by the Eagle and Child pub, where Tolkien used to
meet and chat with CS Lewis and the other inklings. It’s a regular haunt of
mine, and one of my favourite pubs to sit and write in in Oxford. It’s hard not
to feel inspired when you’re sitting with your notebook in the same spot he
used to sit and write in.
Do you have any favourite authors now? And what is it about them that appeals to you?
I’ve always adored Clive Barker. It’s been a thirty-year love affair since I first picked up one of his books, and I think I own everything he’s written. He’s known for horror due to classics like the Hellbound Heart (and the Hellraiser movies that it inspired) but he writes the most original and weird fantasy, he’s just a master storyteller. His writing is always lyrical, almost poetic. I think what I love about Barker is that he never pigeonholed himself or limited himself to one thing. He’s written horror, fantasy, children’s books, he’s a filmmaker, a director, an artist with great work in paint and sculpture. It’s something I aspire to do too.
Neil Gaiman is another, for similar reasons. His seminal Sandman series opened my eyes to graphic novels, and how you can hide stories within other stories. He doesn’t shy away from uncomfortable or controversial subjects, and his writing is always filled with a kind of quiet, unobtrusive hope.
Of
the classic authors, which ones have you read and is there a piece of classic
literature you think should be compulsory reading in every school?
I did a BA and MA in English and American Literature,
so I’ve probably read most of the classics. Uni was useful for turning me onto
them, and writers I might not have explored, and the poets. It really forces
you to widen your reading and to read outside of your comfort bubble. There are
some amazing minds in the classics, and its rewarding to spend time with them.
It would be hard to choose a favourite, but I love Hemmingway and Henry James,
Tennyson and Coleridge, and Mrs Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf, is a book that is
so beautifully written, I read it once a year.
I’m not sure about compulsory reading in school. My
school read ‘A Kestrel for a Knave’ and ‘Hobson’s Choice’, both of which I
found drab, grim and depressing. But we also, if I remember right, read Roald
Dahl’s autobiography, which was absolutely fascinating.
I think I would suggest that every schoolchild reads Charlottes Web, because there a lot of depth in that book, about friendship, about growing up and rites of passage, and about sacrifice, death and dignity. People pretend to kids that these things don’t exist, but death and struggle are all around us in the real world, and you can arm a child against them if they’re taught to understand things like grief and love, and how to have a conversation about them, and to learn to be brave.
And
some quick-fire questions for you:
Favourite
ice cream?
I’m not an ice-cream fan. You can have mine.
Marmite,
yes or no?
Absolutely yes. On crumpets please.
If
you weren’t a writer, what other career would you like?
I’d love to expand into screenwriting and directing,
maybe acting, who knows where the path leads in the future.
What
did you want to be when you grew up?
More popular, hah! I always wanted to be a writer.
I’ve very single-minded
Favourite
TV programme as a child?
There was a kid’s show called Knightmare, where kids
had to run around CGI dungeons solving riddles and puzzles. I used to run home
from school in time to tape it on the VCR. That and the Crystal Maze.
Favourite
TV programme as an adult?
I’m a huge American Horror Story nut. Been here since
season one. I’m a loyal veteran.
What
do you put on your fish and chips?
It used to be cheese on chips when I was down south, but
I’m a northerner these days, so salt and vinegar for me, and lots of it. (still
not friends with chip-shop gravy though)
Sweet
or salty popcorn?
Salty everything. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,
but I could drink soy sauce from the bottle. (don’t do this though, too much
can kill you)
Tea
or Coffee?
Both. I don’t get people who feel the need to take
sides in the tea/coffee war. It’s like the Austen/Bronte divide. I like both.
Maybe I’m just greedy.
Should
the death penalty apply to people who constantly talk in cinemas?
Maybe not the death penalty, but I do think cinema
ushers should be able to take them out with a blow-dart and a horse
tranquiliser.
If
you could invite one famous person round for dinner, who would it be?
Just one? That’s tough. Maybe Tilda Swinton. I’d love
to cook for her and just have her talk at me while I’m cooking.
After
your family and pets, the next thing you’d rescue if your house was on fire?
I have a box in a cupboard under the stairs full of
old photos, from my grandparent’s generation. I haven’t had any of them
digitised yet, so I’d grab that because they’re irreplaceable. Everything else
is insured.
And
finally, the biggie – Pineapple on pizza, yes or no?
Sure, why not? In a world where people are smearing
mushed avocado on bagels and roasting Kale, we need a little anarchy.
And on the subject of anarchy, I’d like to again wish you every success with the latest Phoebe Harkness book – and I’m sure that Paper Children will be a worthy successor to books one and two in the series – Hell’s Teeth and Crescent Moon
I’d like to say a big thank you to James Fahy for giving up his time to come and talk to us. He’s a very talented writer and all-round nice guy and if you’d like to follow his Instagram page yourself or find out where to buy his books, then all his links are below.
This week I want to talk about the cars I’ve owned over the years. Now, don’t get me wrong, I can look at a nice car and go “mmm” just as much as the next person, but pay out three years wages to buy a status symbol car? Nope. Never. Even if I had that kind of cash lying around, I doubt very much, I’d ever waste it on what is basically just a mode of transport, one step up the evolutionary ladder from a pony and cart. And I don’t understand those who do. It’s a car, get over yourself, and telling me straight away what type of car you drive and what horsepower it is, well, to quote Shania Twain – “That Don’t Impress Me Much”.
Of course, cars
need to be a comfortable ride, reliable, safe and economical, but you can get
all of those things without paying out a small fortune, and as for those people
who get caught in the sticky web of finance deals and pay hundreds of pounds
every month just to have the latest version – well, a fool and his money are
soon parted.
Over the
years I have owned precisely six cars, which considering I’ve been driving
since I was 19 is not bad. It took me a while to pass my driving test, four
attempts to be honest, and that wasn’t because I found it hard to learn, but
because I fell apart in the test. Quaking with nerves, I’d do stupid things
that would have my lovely driving instructor shaking his head with disbelief
when I got back clutching yet another fail notification. Finally, on the fourth
attempt, I took the test with a raging temperature, a throat that felt like
sandpaper and a head that was threatening to explode. I didn’t care if I passed
or failed, I just wanted to get it over and done with so I could go back to
bed. Of course, taking the pressure of myself meant I passed with flying
colours.
My first
ever car was a Ford Escort Mk1 1300 four door saloon in metallic bronze. Built
like a tank, it was in immaculate condition and had hardly any mileage on the
clock despite being reasonably old. The engine was as clean as a whistle, as
was the paintwork, and I cut my teeth in that car. It cost £600 which back in
the 1980’s was a lot of money for such an old car. My dad bought it because of
its pristine condition, low mileage and because he knew its provenance. The
deal was, my parents would have use of it while I was learning to drive. During
that time, I would make monthly payments to pay off £300 of its cost. Once I’d
passed my test, the car would become mine completely. As it took me almost two
years to pass my test, my parents had a second car for that long for only £300,
so a pretty good deal for everyone.
It was a clunky though sturdy car, with a face only a mother could love. There was no power assisted steering, if you took it over sixty miles per hour the force threatened to shake your arms from your sockets, and there were no rear seat belts. But I loved that car. It didn’t matter that I felt like I’d done an aerobic workout on my arms every time I drove it, it offered me freedom and independence. Living out in a small village with an irregular bus service, having my own transport was gold.
The Shed – Much loved
That car
went everywhere, I drove it to Kent on holiday and up to Hull to visit my boyfriend’s
family, and it took it all in its stride. Maybe it wasn’t the quickest mode of
transport in the world, but it was certainly the most reliable and the most
economic.
As it was
brown and usually full of crap, my friends christened my car the Shed and
teased me about its old-fashioned appearance, and the fact it was so noisy when
travelling at speed the radio had to be cranked up to full blast to hear it. It
became habit that the passenger would automatically turn the volume down as we
slowed down, in order to save our eardrums from being shattered when the engine
noise suddenly dropped, and the full force of the music would hit us. Once, the
rear door locks broke and the doors wouldn’t open, so my friends had to climb
over the front seats to get in, clutching mini skirts to thighs and shrieking
with laughter – much to the interest of my elderly neighbour who I suspect had
to have a little lie down afterwards to recover from the sight.
But all good
things come to an end, that little car last me from 1985 to 1997. When I got
married my husband used it to get to and from work, and although I could never
prove it, I think he thrashed it a little too hard and the engine blew. And
that was the end of the Shed.
After the Shed, my husband decided he wanted a status symbol car, something more in keeping with the ace guy he thought he was, and he bought himself some kind of Ford turbo thing – please don’t expect any more details from me, other than it was silver and low and sleek and growled like a bear on heat when you stepped on the accelerator. Totally impractical for town – we have a lot of speed bumps around here and having to baby your car over them in case you rip your undercarriage off is a complete pain – and no good for country lanes, I hated this car with a passion.
Technically,
it was supposed to be my car as well. I had paid for half of it after all, but
my husband snipped and criticised me the whole time I was driving it and, in
the end, made me so nervous about it that I flatly refused to drive it anymore.
We had the beast for about nine months and then my husband’s parents offered us
a lovely Ford Mondeo as my father-in-law was getting something smaller and
easier for him to handle.
Reluctantly,
my husband agreed it was too good an offer to turn down, especially as we were
thinking of starting a family and the beast was a complete no-no as far as car
seats and fitting a buggy in the boot were concerned. So, the beast was sold, and
the nice sensible Ford Mondeo joined the family.
I didn’t
mind the Mondeo. It was comfortable and practical, a nice smooth ride which
behaved itself very well over the next couple of years, including managing two
holidays in Cornwall with lots of driving about on very twisty steep roads.
However, I always felt it was a little too big for the road we live on. There’s
residential parking up our street and spaces are extremely limited and purely
on a “first come, first served” basis. On numerous occasions we’d try our hardest
to get into the last space available, before having to give up and watch in seething
frustration as our neighbour’s mini side stepped into it.
Time ticked
by, I had Miss F in 2003 and the Mondeo was the perfect family car, roomy
enough to fit all the paraphernalia one small baby seems to need just to be
taken seven miles down the road to visit her grandparents. Then my marriage
fell apart and I was left with a one-year old baby and a mountain of debts.
My
ex-husband was struggling to pay any child maintenance and I accepted the
Mondeo in lieu of two months maintenance, despite the fact it had been a gift
to us both, was now in dire need of repairs and that he’d also left with me a
pile of other debts. This was in September 2004. The following January I was
driving Miss F home from a birthday party in a nearby town when the car
suddenly slowed to ten miles an hour on the motorway. Nothing I did would
convince it to go any faster, so I limped home with my foot flat on the floor
and other cars speeding past me on the motorway honking their annoyance. I got
home and phoned my mechanic, who told me it sounded like the clutch, and that
once the clutch goes in an automatic that was it, the car was done for.
So, I went to bed that night feeling a bit grim. I couldn’t afford a new car, and as it was natural wear and tear, I wouldn’t be able to claim on the insurance. In the middle of the night, I was awoken by the sound of a car roaring at speed down our road and then a very loud crunch, like metal on metal, before the car revved up and roared off into the night. Next morning, when I went to get my daughter’s pushchair from the boot of the car, I discovered the whole driver’s side had been removed from boot to bonnet – that must have been the sound I heard in the night. I telephoned the insurance company, who sent an inspector and wrote the car off on the spot. I didn’t get much in the way of insurance – it was an old car after all – but anything was better than the nothing I was expecting.
My next car
was a dear little Vauxhall Astra hatchback in a sort of metallic peachy pink
bronze colour. I bought that early in 2004 and it was a good and faithful
workhorse for us. It was reliable, sturdy, nippy and very cost effective. Requiring
hardly any repairs, it sailed from MOT to MOT costing me very little in
between. I have very fond memories of that car, although its demise has gone
down in family history as being the most spectacular car exit ever.
It was early
one Monday morning in 2012. I was rudely awoken at 5am by the sound of someone
pounding frantically on my front door. Pulling on my dressing gown, I stomped
irritably downstairs and threw open the front door to find my neighbour from across
the street standing there clad only in a flimsy nightie. I blinked at her in
surprise. Not what I’d been expecting, I must say, and she grabbed my arm
yelling at me to look at my car!
I looked at
my car. My car was on fire! Yellow flames were licking at its insides and fire
was oozing out of the bonnet. For a moment, my neighbour and I had a completely
girlie moment on the step, where we just shrieked and did a little panicky
dance. Then I pulled myself together and rushed to phone the fire brigade. Now,
I’ve never had to call an emergency service before and must admit, despite the
severity of the circumstances, it was very exciting but a bit daunting and the
conversation with the operator went a bit like this.
“What is the
nature of the emergency?”
“Fire! There’s
a fire!”
“Where is
the fire please?”
“In my car.”
Sigh. “Where
is your car please?”
“Outside my
house!”
Eventually,
I calmed down enough to give them my address which is literally five minutes around
the corner from the fire station. By this point, fireballs were ballooning
inside the car and we could feel the heat from it. My neighbour ran to get
something more covering on as lights began to snap on up and down the street and
people were coming out to see what was happening.
My lodger sleeps in the basement and his window looks out onto the street, so I was concerned about smoke and fumes going into his room and ran to bang on his door. Very excited, he of course grabbed his phone and started posting updates to his Facebook page. By now the fire engine had arrived and lots of chunky men in fire breathing apparatus were tackling the blaze which was pretty impressive and very scary.
I ran to get Miss F up and we all huddled on the front step to watch, united with the rest of the street in excitement. Finally, it was over, and the fire was out. My poor car was a smoldering blackened wreck and the smell of acrid smoke and burning plastic was horrendous, making the whole house reek for days afterwards.
Wheels on Fire!
Of course,
it was a write off, there was nothing left to salvage from the car and the
insurance company paid me a few pennies. Again, it was an old car and unfortunately
the way insurance works is they pay you what the car is worth, not what it will
cost to replace it.
So, there I
was, car less again. I managed a few weeks without one and wondered if we could
get by permanently relying on walking and public transport. After all, we lived
in the middle of town, and both Miss F’s school and my work were within walking
distance. But I quickly discovered it’s just too inconvenient not having a car.
The whole having to have my shopping delivered or pay out for a taxi, not being
able to visit family and friends when we wanted to and never being able to go
anywhere on the spur of the moment. Nope, we needed a car, but I hadn’t got much
money – the insurance pay-out had only been a few hundred and was not enough to
buy anything reliable.
Then my parents stepped in with a small cash gift to my brother and I, and I used mine to buy a new car. I bought it off eBay, and it seemed like a good deal, but I really wouldn’t recommend you do it that way unless you are a trained mechanic or have access to one. The car was a bright red Citroen C3 which looked beautiful but was an absolute bitch to drive. It rattled alarmingly and every time we hit a bump in the road, things would shake and move around us. It felt like I was driving a tin can and if I went at any speed, I imagined the car was running away with me. It cornered like a cow, was a pig to park and was so delicate that if the temperature overnight dropped to the point where a light cardigan was needed, the car would refuse to start in the morning.
It was considered
a higher performance car, so my insurance premiums doubled, it ate petrol like
it was going out of fashion, and there was a funny smell in it that no amount
of air fresh seemed able to get rid of. I stuck it for six months before deciding
enough was enough, it had to go.
I traded it
in through a local second-hand car company who I must admit were brilliant and
very fair with me. Given all its faults I didn’t think I’d get much for it and
was thrilled and delighted when I saw what they offered me. A 1996 Nissan Micra
automatic in British racing green. Absolutely immaculate inside and out, and
with only 26,000 miles on the clock, it had had only one owner, the anecdotal
little old lady, and it had been kept in a garage all its life and serviced
every two thousand miles. It was a gem. Lovely upholstery, it smelt nice and
handled beautifully. A comfortable, sturdy and reliable little car that we took
to right from day one. My daughter christened it Basil because of its colour,
and for the past seven years it has served us faithfully.
Most years
it sails through the MOT with minimal repair work necessary, but last time I
was advised it needed about £150 worth of welding underneath to ensure it would
pass the following year. I really did mean to get it done, I honestly did, but
the year has flown by and I somehow never got round to it, and suddenly it was
the beginning of October and my MOT was due at the end of the month and I still
hadn’t got it done. Deciding I really needed to get it booked in, I found the
folder where I keep all the car details and pulled out last year’s MOT
paperwork, only to find my memory had let me down as usual. Far from being due
the end of October, it had been due the day before! Panicked, I called my
garage to see what they could do.
They could
fit the car in for a MOT that afternoon, but there certainly wasn’t time to
carry out any welding. But what about if it failed, which it probably would do,
given their insistence last year it would without the welding. Well, then I
would have ten days to affect the necessary work and submit it again for the
MOT. Oh, right, well can I still drive the car in those ten days. No, it would
have to be off the road. Now I was really panicking. Not only do I now need my
car to get to work, I also had to get Miss F to her work placement nearly a 40-minute
drive away. But there was no time to do anything else, so I took Basil to the
garage and left him there, convinced when they called it would be to tell me
the patient was terminal.
It was a
long hour before they called with amazing news. Basil, bless his little spark
plugs, had pulled through for us and sailed through the MOT needing nothing
more than a new bulb. But what about the welding I asked? Well, they replied,
he still needs it but because you haven’t done many miles it hasn’t
deteriorated to the point where it has to be done. Maybe by next year though…
yeah, well, next year is a long way away, a lot can happen between now and
then.
You can
imagine how relieved I was that instead of £150+ bill, it ended up only costing
me £58 for another year’s worth of motoring. Thank you, Basil, I may even give
you a wash to say thank you.
Thank you
for joining me again this week, and I hope you’ve enjoyed my trip down
automobile memory lane.
We’ve gone down with the plague in
the Blake household, well, Miss F has got a nasty cough and cold and hasn’t
been to college this week, which is unfortunate as it’s only her third week but
couldn’t be helped. Always seems to happen after the long summer break, doesn’t
it? The kids go back to school and bam, the ever-popular game of pass the
pestilence begins. So, we’ve painted the red cross on the door, and I’ve been
desperately hoping I don’t get it – I simply don’t have the time and can’t afford
to be ill. But as she’s been coughing over absolutely everything and has been
plagued with the most violent and unexpected sneezes that she seemed incapable
of catching in a tissue, I suppose it was inevitable that I’d wake up Saturday
morning with shaky legs and a throat that feels like it’s lined with
razorblades.
Bugger. I hate being ill and I’m
the world’s worst patient. I get so frustrated at all the stuff piling up
around me that needs to be done. Usually, I’m incredibly robust when it comes
to fighting off infection, so I’ve dosed myself up this morning with black tea
and honey – my go to remedy for sore throats – increased my daily dose of Vitamin
D (look it up, recent research shows it does more to prevent colds than the flu
jab) and I’ve got lots of good hearty, healthy food to eat. Stuff a cold!
Fingers crossed I mange to head this one off at the pass. Here in the UK most
of us don’t get paid for the first three days of being off work sick, and even
after that it’s only a miserly £3.50 per hour sick pay, so I really can’t
afford the cost of being ill.
I’ve only once in recent years been
ill enough to have time off work, and that was three years ago when I had to
have some seriously scary abdominal surgery – during which we discovered I am
very allergic to morphine – anaphylactic shock – nasty, really don’t recommend
it, and necessitated three weeks strict rest lying down as much as possible.
Beforehand, Miss F had been confident she could look after me, and for my first
few days out of hospital she was puffed up with her role as chief Florence
Nightingale. Never have pillows been plumped so much or so many cups of tea
been made for one woman.
But she got real bored, real quick with
this and by day four it was – “are you STILL not better?” – and it had to be
gently explained to her, that no, mum was really, really, unwell. This was a
completely foreign concept to her. Mum is never ill. Up until then, if I did
ever feel under the weather, I just swallowed down an aspirin and soldiered on.
As a consequence, Miss F believed me bulletproof, and the truth that I was just
as vulnerable as anybody else shocked and scared her.
For the first time in her life, she
learnt the hardship of duty and responsibility, that sometimes there are things
you don’t want to do, but you have to, because there’s nobody else to do it. My
mum helped out where she could, dad came around and vacuumed the house a couple
of times. Having had plenty of warning, I’d blitzed the house from top to bottom
and got up to date with all the laundry. I’d also had manic cooking sessions
and filled the freezer full of home cooked meals ready to be pulled out and
reheated. Everything to make it easier for Miss F had been done, but, the daily
care of me was on her – and this shocking revelation hit her on day four.
To her credit, she pouted for a
bit, then pulled herself together and accepted that for the next three weeks at
least, this was simply the way it had to be. It had been explained to her that I
wasn’t to move too much, that moving could rip my stitches inside and cause
massive internal bleeding, that I could end up back in hospital, or worse, if I
tried to do too much. I am proud to say she took this on the chin, took a deep
breath and just did what had to be done.
Now, before you all start reporting
me to social services, be aware that all she had to do was heat already cooked
meals in the evening, load and unload a dishwasher, generally keep the place tidy,
and put laundry into the washing machine and tumble dryer. I wasn’t exactly
expecting her to sweep chimneys or re-tile the roof.
Halfway through the second week she
had an epiphany moment. Coming into the lounge she perched on the end of the
sofa and looked seriously at me.
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you ever get sick of it?”
“Sick of what?”
“Well, you know, everything. The
constant having to load and unload the dishwasher, the fact there’s always
washing, and that no matter how much you tidy up, there’s always something else
to do, and then the whole having to think about what to cook for dinner every
single evening! I mean, you do it one night, and that’s fine, but then there’s
the next night, and the next, and the next, for like, forever! So, don’t you
ever really, really, get sick of it?”
“Oh sweetheart, welcome to the
world of being a woman.”
I think it did her good, this
realisation of just how much I do everyday that goes unnoticed, unthought of
and unappreciated. For the first time she realised there were no such thing as
laundry fairies who magically took the dirty clothes from her basket (or the
floor, whatever) and washed, dried and ironed them and then magicked them back
into her drawers. That dinner always had to be thought of, and that someone had
to keep on top of basic necessities like cat food and toilet rolls – ran out of
those on evening seventeen, luckily there were boxes of tissues in the house!
A valuable lesson to learn at any
age, I think.
So now I’m sipping another cup of tea
with honey and hoping that if I pace myself today and eat and drink lots of
good things, I will be well enough to return to work tomorrow. Actually,
whether I’m well enough to go or not, I will be going. It’s crazy, they tell us
all not to go to work when we’re ill because we spread infection to our
co-workers, yet because we don’t get paid for being responsible, none of us can
afford to be. Something to think about, government?
Anyway, this week has been another
busy one. Taking advantage of the fact Miss F has been home, I’ve been able to
tick another item off my perennial to-do list and have had a massive de-clutter
of the entire house, including her bedroom and den – something I wouldn’t have
been able to do without her being present to supervise. Three large bags have gone
out to the bin, there’s a massive pile of stuff in the corner of my bedroom to
eBay and four bags of stuff not good enough to sell but too good to throw away
have been taken to the charity shop.
Now, I’m not particularly a pack rat. Sure, I have stuff, but I’m not one of those people who hoards useless clutter for years, and every now and then I do a major sweep through the house and ditch the unwanted, and, if I can, make a few pennies selling it. But this was the ultimate de-clutter, the real “hardening your heart and if you’ve not even thought about it in over a year, get rid of it” purge.
We used to go to a lot of fancy-dress
parties and even the odd cosplay event, so as a consequence had drawerfuls of
accessories and wigs and dress up stuff. But we haven’t done anything like that
in years and, to be honest, a lot of the stuff simply wouldn’t fit us now
anyway. So, out it all came and was sorted into three piles – bin, sell, donate
– and I then spent almost a whole day putting it all on eBay, figuring now was
the perfect time to try and sell it what with Halloween coming up.
I was a big Doctor Who fan back in
the day and had a cupboard full of retro Dr Who VHS tapes I’d bought when at
the height of my craze. I don’t even have a video player anymore, so why was I
keeping them? Looking on eBay, I see they’re going for respectable amounts, so
they’re all going as well.
Then there’s hundreds of DVDs, some still wrapped, and I’m actually shocked at the sheer waste of money, all those £10’s here and there spent on films I probably only watched once, if that. Adding it all up I can’t help but think if I’d kept my money in my bank account, I’d be a lot better off now. But what’s done is done, and all I can do is see how much I can get for them. Probably not much. In these days of Netflix, Sky and Amazon Prime, most films and TV series are available at the click of a button. No need to buy a physical copy to take up space when it’s all in cyber space.
Do we all do this? Be pack rats and
acquire stuff for the first half of our lives, only to spend the second half
trying to get rid of it all? But I do feel better for having had a bit of a
life laundry, the house feels bigger and all the drawer and cupboard space we’ve
freed up is useful, what with having a growing teenage girl in the house who
needs more clothes for her ever developing life.
Speaking of Miss F and her ever developing life, remember how a couple of weeks ago I told you we were trying to find her 150 hours of unpaid work in an animal environment to run alongside her college course? Well, I was beginning to despair we’d ever find anywhere, but then a new friend she’s made at college told her she’d recommended her to the owners of the farm she’s doing her own 150 hours on. The outcome of this recommendation was that Miss F began yesterday at a farm about thirty minutes outside of town. She’ll be doing 9am to 2pm every Friday, so that means I spend two hours in the car ferrying her there and back, but hey ho, the things we do for our kids, right?
I’m beyond relieved she’s found
something, and she seemed to really enjoy herself yesterday. Despite being full
of cold, she was determined to go – not wanting to let them down on her first
day – which I quite agreed with. Sometimes, a girl’s gotta do, what a girl’s
gotta do. They are primarily a stable, so lots of equine experience, and they
also breed border collie puppies, which is lovely, but at the same time a bit
of a nuisance.
You see, Miss F loves dogs, so the
chance to look after dozens of squirming adorable puppies is wonderful for her.
But Miss F also badly wants a dog of her own, she has always wanted a dog, and
every now and then carries out a renewed campaign of pressure to persuade me to
let her have a dog. So being surrounded by squirming adorable puppies has reignited
her desire to have one of her own.
Now, we live in a tiny house with a
tiny courtyard garden in the middle of town. I’m quite poor (see above about
selling all my goods and chattels) and I’m out at work a lot. None of these factors
are conducive to having a dog. Also, there’s the fact I do not wish to pick up
dog poo, ever, I just have no wish to do that. And I think that’s quite an
important consideration, this burning desire not to have to scoop up dog poo
and carry it in one of those disgusting squishy bags before depositing it in a
stinking bin, in the decision whether to get a dog or not. Because, and let’s sensible
about this, although the dog may technically belong to Miss F, it would be me who’d
have to pay for its food, insurance and medication. It would be me cleaning up
the house after it, and it would mostly be me having to take it for walks – and
that brings us right back to my statement – I do not want to pick up dog poo.
Miss F knows this, and for the most
part understands. There’s also now the fact that in less than two years-time
she’ll be off to university and then onto her life, leaving me – and the dog –
behind. So, I’d definitely have to pick up its poo then, and I don’t want to.
Yet still, we occasionally have conversations that go something like this.
“Mum.”
“What?”
“Can I have a dog?”
“No.”
“Oh please, I really, really want a
dog.”
“What sort of dog?”
“I want an Australian shepherd dog
with beautiful blue eyes, and I’d call it Blue, or something like that, and I’d
love it so much.”
“Blue is a stupid name for a dog,
and Australian shepherd dogs are enormous and need an incredible amount of space
and exercise. Be sensible, at least.”
“What would be sensible?”
“Well, if I was going to have a dog
with the kind of lifestyle we live at the moment, I’d have a little chihuahua
and I’d call it Betty.”
“Why Betty?”
“I like the name Betty. Betty is an
awesome name for a dog.”
“So, if I said I wanted a little
chihuahua and that I’d call it Betty, could I have a dog?”
“No.”
You get the drift? Driving her home
after her first session there yesterday, the whole “Please may I have a dog”
conversation restarted. To which the answer is still no, because, I really,
really do not want to pick up dog poo.
And now it’s Saturday afternoon
again, and I’ve just sneezed – twice – so it’s not looking good, but at least
my blog is written and once again I’ve gone from not knowing what to say to
actually talking quite a lot.
Hope you are all well, and that the
coming week is a good one for you. As ever, I really do appreciate any comments
you’d like to make either on here or on social media, and I look forward to our
chat next week.
I had four days off in a row this
week. Four days in which there was nothing urgent that had to be done, so I
planned a whole check list of those niggly little jobs I’ve been putting off
for ages. It was quite a long list comprising of emails to answer, phone calls
to make, and letters to respond to. Earlier in the week I’d received a letter
from H.M. Revenue Customs & Excise informing me of a completely unexpected
small tax refund! Whoop whoop! Which if I did nothing about, I’d receive in two
months, but if I went onto the website and claimed it, I’d receive it straight
into my bank account in five days. Hmm, which option shall I go for? So, I had that
to attend to as well, because obviously I’d rather get that money in five days.
I also wanted to do a complete
sweep of the house, going through every drawer, cupboard, storage basket and box
dividing everything into three piles – rubbish, so throw it away; good enough
to sell, so eBay it; and not good enough to sell but too good to chuck, so
charity shop it.
I was quite looking forward to it,
finally decluttering the house would make my mind feel more at ease, I thought.
And, of course, I had my blog to write, so would leisurely put that together
over the four days. Pacing my few tasks nicely, it would leave me with lots of
time to pootle about in the garden, read and spend time with Miss F.
I should have known really, shouldn’t
I?
Have you ever been in that situation when you grandly make the statement – “Oh, ifever you’re in my neck of the woods, do drop in” – and then they do! Well, that kind of happened this week. Obviously, being an author with public social media sites I have a lot of friends and followers on both Instagram and Facebook. Some stay mere acquaintances, whereas others become more than that, they become friends, even though you’ve never actually met them, and they tend to live on the other side of the world. One such friend has been following me on Instagram for I guess two years now and when she announced that her and her husband would be touring the UK and Europe for a year, I uttered the above statement.
A few weeks into their trip, she
messaged saying they might be passing by at some point but would let me know.
Then a week ago we had quite a long discussion about the possibility of them
staying locally, but prices for accommodation in the South of England are quite
high, so there was a question about whether her visit would happen or not, and
she ended with promising to keep me informed. She then vanished off radar for a
week, and despite a couple of enquiry messages from me, remained MIA.
Sadly, I concluded that the cost of
staying had rendered their visit impossible, and assumed I’d hear from her at
some point when they’d left the UK and were touring Europe. So, I made my plans
as above, and got home from work Tuesday evening looking forward to my long
weekend and enjoying a much-needed glass of wine as I relaxed with Miss F after
dinner watching Netflix and chilling.
So, you can imagine my surprise,
when a notification pinged, and it was my friend. Surprise surprise! They were
staying in the AirBnB next door and were at that moment having dinner at a
restaurant just around the corner and when could we meet up?! Gulp!
For a moment I panicked. Like most of
us oldies, once my plans are made, I dislike anything that upsets them. But I
rallied my Dunkirk spirit and issued an invite for coffee next morning,
thinking we’d figure everything out then.
And it was fine. Of course, it was fine. I really liked them, they were a delightfully kind and quirky couple. I hope they liked me. I took them on a tour of Bury St Edmunds, we had lunch in the cathedral garden and the weather was on its absolute best behaviour. It was beautifully warm and sunny, and my town put on its best “company” face. Wednesday evening, I cooked a traditional English roast dinner for them, and a fun evening was had by all.
Thursday the weather was even hotter, with skies of the bluest blue, more than enough to make several sailors several pairs of trousers! So I loaded them into my tiny car and took them to Ickworth Park, which is a lovely stately home and garden only a five-minute drive away.
It’s a beautiful place, with acres of parkland, ornamental gardens, a café and a stumpery, and of course there’s the house itself. Built in the Regency period, it has a stunning rotunda which sadly is being renovated at the moment so is covered with a very impressive amount of scaffolding, but still gave hints of how magnificent it is.
We got “lost” in the woods, picked
and ate wild blackberries as we walked, had a very large lunch in the orangery and
I introduced my friend to sticky toffee pudding, which judging by the happy
noises she made whilst eating it, she enjoyed very much.
We wandered around the inside of the
house, looking at all the fabulous artwork and antiques, and finished with a
stroll about the garden and stumpery. Before clambering back into my car and
trundling home after a full day of walking which had left us all exhausted.
Amazing fungi seen in the woodland
Thursday morning, I ran them to the
station, and we said goodbye with promises to stay in touch and meet up again.
The staying in touch bit I’m sure we will, but as to whether we’ll ever meet
again, who knows if they’ll ever be in my “neck of the woods” again, or if I’ll
ever be in theirs. But, like I said, who knows. Life is large and full of
surprises.
Talking of surprises, this is the
conversation I had with Miss F on Wednesday afternoon as I was cooking the meal
for us all.
“It’s lucky they’re coming tonight
and not Friday.”
“Not really, why? It wouldn’t have
made any difference.”
“Sure, it would, I mean, it would
have been awkward, what with having all my friends over for a sleepover.”
“Wait! What? Sleepover? What
sleepover?”
“The one I’m having Friday night.”
“Well, when were you going to run
it past me?”
“Mum, I did, ages ago, and you said
it was fine.”
Now, Miss F is always doing this to
me, springing a surprise on me and claiming we’ve already discussed it at some
length, and I’ve agreed to it. And whilst it’s true I do have vague memories of
chatting about a possible sleepover, nothing had been concretely agreed and it
hadn’t been written on the calendar. My calendar, which hangs in the kitchen,
is like the Bible to me. If something is written down on the calendar then it
is real, it is actually going to happen. If it’s not, then as far as I’m
concerned, it’s still only a vague concept liable to the whims of life.
like something out of pre-history – the stumpery at Ickworth Park
So, Friday rolls around, I run my
friends to the station and then immediately have to start thinking sleepover.
How many girls? What time are they coming? Where are they all going to sleep?
We had to rush up town to buy a new blow up mattress as our old one had sprung
a leak and kept deflating. Miss F’s old sleeping bag had finally been thrown
away the year before, so a new one of those had to be purchased as well. Then
there was the question of food, like most parents of teenagers I’ve given up on
the trying to get healthy food into them all the time shenanigans, so I just
gave Miss F £15 and sent her to Iceland (cheap frozen food shop for all non UK
residents – I mean, I didn’t send her to the actual country of Iceland – it would
have cost a lot more than £15 for a start) to buy all the pizzas, ice cream,
fizzy drinks and snacks she felt one small group of girls could possibly consume
in one evening.
Then we were occupied with blowing
up a reluctant mattress, trying to find enough pillows for everyone and clean
bed linen. Miss F’s suggestion that they occupy all the bedrooms and leave me
on the sofa bed downstairs, I nipped firmly in the bud. It’s not very
comfortable, and I didn’t fancy the chronic backache sleeping on it would
cause, also, as I had no idea what time they’d finally hit the sack, the
thought of not being able to go to bed until they did was not an appealing one.
So, a compromise was made, I would sacrifice
my bedroom. Two of the girls could bunk down in my big bed, with a third on the
now blown up mattress – luckily numbers had been whittled down to just four
including Miss F, so that would leave her in her own room, and me on the day
bed in the office. It’s actually a really sweet and cosy little room at the
back of the house. It’s overlooking the garden so it’s quiet, and as it’s over
the kitchen and set back from the other bedrooms, I was hopeful I wouldn’t be
disturbed too much. The day bed turns into a proper single bed with a very
comfortable mattress, so I felt I’d be better off in there and could go to bed
whenever I wanted to.
Dragon bones?
It all seemed to work out very well. They completely trashed the kitchen putting extra toppings on the basic cheese pizzas Miss F had bought and cooking them, and I then cleared it all up once they’d vanished back into the lounge to stuff their faces, watch films and play games. I made it until midnight, curled up on the sofa in the dining room so out of their way, but on hand if needed. Happily settled with my kindle and my tablet, I finished a book and caught up on notifications on social media until the clock struck twelve, my coach turned into a pumpkin and I toddled off to my little bed, which looked very inviting in the lamplight. I read for a few moments, but the excitement and exertions of the past few days finally caught up with me and I fell asleep, not hearing a thing until I woke next morning at 8.30am, an unbelievably late hour for me! The length of my sleep proving just how exhausted I was.
Nobody else emerged until an hour
later, and it transpired they hadn’t gone to bed until almost 3am! This made me
doubly glad I’d turned down the offer of the sofa bed!
Question: Why is it called a
sleepover when nobody actually gets any sleep?
But they all seemed to have had a
good time, eating enough carb crap food to clog their systems for a week, and
drinking enough fizzy to launch the Hindenburg!
Fabulous antique desk used by the housekeeper in days gone by
And now it’s Saturday afternoon
again, and I am writing my blog at the last minute, again! One day I will get organised
and write my blog earlier in the week, maybe even prepare several blogs in
advance. This is not that day.
And what about the tax refund
claim, I hear you cry. Next on the list, my friends, next on the list.
Slightly shorter blog this week,
but at least I’ve made up for it with some pretty pictures of Ickworth Park,
which I hope you enjoyed seeing.
And don’t forget, if you’re ever in
my neck of the woods, we really must meet up!
This week Miss F had
her induction week at college, which I’m delighted to report she enjoyed
enormously. Her course proper starts next week for her and I think she is going
to have a simply marvellous two years. When I look at all the plans they have
and all the amazing animals that will be available for her to care for and
learn about, I must admit to being a little bit envious!
The only fly in the
ointment is that we have to find her a one day a week unpaid work placement in
the animal industry to run alongside her two-year course. You’d think it wouldn’t
be a problem, after all, there are a few vets and pet shops around so surely someone
must want a keen, bright, hardworking college student to do all the grunt work
for free. Well, you’d think… but, looking into it, there aren’t actually that
many places willing to take on under 18 years olds so spaces are rare, take
into consideration there are another 120 students all looking for the same
thing, and you begin to understand why it’s not that simple.
On Friday, I loaded
her into the car clutching a folder containing copies of her very professional
looking CV and references from her old Head of Year at her previous school, and
the owner of the hedgehog hospital where Miss F has volunteered this past year.
And before you ask, no, her work there doesn’t count, sadly it doesn’t meet the
rather exacting criteria demanded by the college.
Gamely, we drove all
over town visiting any animal-based workplace we could think of – which added
up to four vets, one large pet store, one small pet shop, and one aquatic and
reptile store. All were very kind to her, some took her details and promised to
let her know, some gave her a name and email address to contact, which she did
as soon as she got home. Now, we can only wait and hope, and try to think of
other places further afield to try if these all come to nothing. A position
within either walking distance, or close enough for me to drive her there
before I have to be at work, is desirable. Any further afield and issues of
transport and a practically non-existent bus service come into play.
It’s a really big
deal. If she hasn’t managed to do at least 120 hours of voluntary work in an
animal-based environment by next June, she’ll be kicked off the course. No ifs,
buts or maybes, no consideration given as to how well she’s doing on the course,
if she doesn’t have those hours under her belt, she’ll be given her marching
orders. It seems really harsh, but we still have almost a year and I’m sure
something will turn up somewhere, it always does.
As well trying to
find a voluntary role in an animal workplace, she’s also trying to find a
little part-time job to earn herself some spending money and take the pressure off
me to always have to pay for everything she wants. The college course is only
on three days of the week, her voluntary placement (should she get one) will
only be for a few hours a week, so it leaves plenty of time for a Saturday job.
Unlike the voluntary
placement, this job can be anything, so we had fun Friday afternoon going
through all the “Help Wanted” adds and applying online (as it seems that’s how
it’s done nowadays). Luckily, we live right in the middle of town and a minutes-walk
away is a large shopping centre with lots of shops all looking for part-time
assistants. She’s applied for about a dozen to start with in a wide range of
retail establishments. We looked at waitressing work, but they all seemed to
involve working until really late in the evening, which I wasn’t too keen on,
and given Miss F’s ability to trip over thin air, we decided not to apply for
any this go round.
Helping her apply,
preparing her CV for her, and aiding in finding the right words to pad out her
almost non-existent experience, I couldn’t help but be reminded of my first
job, all those years ago. In 1981 I was 14 years old, and one Saturday my mother
dragged me out of bed early, made me put on my smart skirt and jacket, drove us
to town, then proceeded to march me all the way around it forcing me to go into
every shop we passed enquiring if they had any need of a Saturday girl.
Scarlet with
mortification, by the third or fourth shop I had gathered myself together
enough to actually raise my voice above a mumble and look the shopkeeper in the
eye when I enquired. Some said no, some took my details, some were dismissive,
one or two were downright rude, but with my mother’s foot planted firmly on my
backside, I persevered, until we’d enquired in some forty or so shops.
We drove home seemingly
unsuccessful and I went to get changed, completely fed-up and convinced I was
so useless that no one would ever employ me. However, later that afternoon the
phone rang, and it was the manageress of a toyshop in town. Could I start next
Saturday? I could and I did, and for the next three years until I left school,
I worked at Dudley’s Toys at the corner of Hatter Street every Saturday and in
the holidays.
I loved it. I can
honestly say it’s one of the best jobs I’ve ever had. Marina and Cecily, the
two delightful elderly ladies who worked there, were the sweetest and kindest
women possible, and took me completely under their wing. I was the “young legs”
in the shop, the one who climbed down the steep steps to the cellar to bring up
stock, who braved ladders to reach the highest shelves, who ran to the bank and
the post office, and unpacked and priced new stock that arrived twice a week
off the back of a big lorry – oh that old-fashioned pricing gun, I loved using
it. Trigger happy, I could price up a whole box of Sindy accessories in under
twenty minutes, and I still remember the very satisfying thunk thunk noise it
made as I lined up the packets and speed shot them with the little sticky price
labels.
Working with toys
and children, seeing the happy faces of the kids as they piled into the shop
with their pocket money to either blow it all on something from the range of
lower priced items, or maybe to spend birthday and Christmas money on something
bigger, or maybe to show mum exactly what it was they were hoping Santa would
bring that year. We also ran a savings club for children who were saving for something
extra special, but maybe didn’t have the willpower to do it at home. A big red
book was kept under the counter, satisfyingly large and important looking, it
was solemnly brought out when a little saver came in clutching that week’s
pocket money. Carefully, I’d write their name down in the first column, how
much they were depositing in the next and how much further they still had to go,
they would then sign it to agree. I remember the joy when they’d finally saved
enough, and the toy was theirs
One adorable pair of
twin sisters both desperately wanted the “real life” baby dolls we sold,
complete with a bassinet, clothing, and feeding and changing accessories. They
were expensive, and they wanted one each, so every week they would come in and
hand me almost all their combined pocket money. Eventually, they’d saved enough
for the first doll and had somehow worked out between them whose doll it would
be – the other would be allowed to play with it but would always know they weren’t
the real mummy. Eyes gleaming, they took the doll home, only to be back the
following week to start saving for the other.
I was working in the
shop when the Star Wars craze was at its height. I hadn’t seen the first two
films, much to my disgust. My mother made it plain she had no interest in “stupid
science fiction stuff” and I’d had no one else to take me. I think I was the
only person in my school who hadn’t seen Star Wars and its sequel, The Empire
Strikes Back. However, the third film was out that summer and as I had a
boyfriend by then and money of my own, nothing on earth was going to stop me
seeing Return of the Jedi. Of course, the shop sold the figures and
collectibles, as did the other two toyshops in town and quite a few places like
Boots and WH Smiths as well. However, nowhere had anticipated quite how in
demand these figures would be, and one week after the film opened in the tiny
cinema in town – the queues stretched into infinity and as the cinema only
seated about 150 a lot of people had to wait for the next showing – everywhere,
including us, had run out. Not a single figurine was left, even the less popular
ones had all been snapped up by kids desperate to buy anything related to the
film.
It was the summer holiday, so I was working extra days and on the Friday afternoon, much to our surprise, three large boxes arrived that we hadn’t anticipated. Upon opening them, we discovered it was Star Wars figures, lots and lots of them, and not just the “third alien from the left” bog standard ones, but the main ones too. Luke Skywalker, Harrison Ford, Princess Leia, Dath Vader – they were all there. Somehow, our order had got through and we got the last consignment in the warehouse. As far as we knew, we were now the only suppliers of these highly desirable collectables in town. Taking my trusty pricing gun in hand, I made short work of pricing them all up, and promised to get them all out on display as soon as I got to work in the morning,
Travelling into work on the bus the next day, it was packed with the usual hordes of children heading into town on a Saturday morning and looking forward to hanging around with their mates, going down the park to play on the swings or going to the cinema. Idly eavesdropping, my ears pricked up when I heard one young lad moaning to the others how he’d been saving all his pocket money to buy Star Wars figures but, of course, as they were currently rarer then hens teeth, he hadn’t been able to buy any.
“We’ve got some for
sale,” I casually mentioned. There was an instant hush over the whole back seat
as every boy stopped what they were doing and looked at me.
“What?”
“Yeah, I work at Dudley’s
and we had three big boxfuls delivered yesterday. I’m going to put them on
display as soon as I get to work today.”
“Really? You’ve got
Star Wars figures?”
“Yep.”
“Ah, I bet you’ve
only got the rubbish ones, that’s all anyone’s been able to get for weeks.”
“Nope, we have the
good stuff, Luke, Leia, the droids, Yoda, ewoks, all of them.”
The bus then pulled
into the station and I got off, dismissing the incident from my mind I hurried
to work and proceeded to get all the figures up on the racks with a few minutes
to spare before opening time. Letting up the door blind and turning the sign
from “Closed” to “Open”, I heard Marina exclaim in surprise and hurried to see
what was wrong.
There were hundreds
of them!
Somehow, the jungle
drums had been beating and it looked like every single kid in town was now in a
queue outside our shop. Bearing in mind this is long before the advent of mobile
phones, somehow the news had travelled that Dudley’s had Star Wars figures and here
they all were, jingling their coins in their pockets, all patiently queuing and
waiting for us to open.
By the time I went
home that evening, every single figure – even the rubbish ones – had been sold.
It was another two months before the supply problem was resolved and we all got
Star Wars merchandise delivered again, but by then the impetus was over, the craze
had abated and never again did we have such a morning as we did that Saturday –
when we were the only shop in town with Star Wars figures.
I truly loved my
first job, it set such a high standard that no job ever since has ever really
reached it. But sadly, all good things must come to an end, I left school and
had to find “proper” employment, which I did, but that was a whole different
experience and one I’ll maybe save for another blog.
If anyone is wondering how launch day for book nine went, the answer is very well. Despite not having any money to spend on advertising and promoting, Chaining Daisy smashed into the top one hundred bestsellers in its category and reached number 51, which is an incredible achievement. It also ranked number six in the hot new releases chart.
After being published
less than four days, Chaining Daisy has an impressive six 5-star reviews on Goodreads,
and people seem to be really enjoying this gritty, heart-wrenching read.
But it’s getting
late – both cat and child have appeared from nowhere plaintively demanding food
which I must supply. Oh, and you’ll be pleased to hear Skittles seems to have
recovered from her road trip hell as talked about in last week’s blog.
Hopefully, she’s learnt her lesson.
Lovely chatting to
you again, have a great week, and I’ll see you all next Sunday for another
Little Bit of Blake.
It’s been a really busy week. As many of you may know, book nine, Chaining Daisy, is being released next Wednesday, and those of you who understand a little about the life of a writer will know that means manic and frenzied preparations are going on all around.
I did have every intention of still blogging, I even had a subject matter in mind, but as the days crept by I’ve been caught up in a tsunami of interviews, prepping promo posts, setting up the eBook for pre-order on Amazon, checking one last time that everything is perfect, arranging for reviews to be posted on launch day and generally soliciting help and support from whomever is prepared to offer it, time got away from me and suddenly it was Saturday afternoon and the blog was still unwritten. No problem, I thought, I know what I’m writing about so it’ll only take an hour or so to hammer out my words of wisdom and upload it onto the blog site.
I should have known really, shouldn’t I?
At about 2.45pm Saturday the phone rang, and a conversation ensued that went something like this:
“Hello, is that Ms Blake?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, good. Tell me, has your cat gone missing?”
I paused to think about this, because the word missing is very subjective. True, our dear little black moggy Skittles had been missing in action since the previous day, but she did sometimes do this. She’d worry us silly by not appearing at mealtimes and have us searching the street and the neighbours gardens, only to saunter in without a hair out of place and declining to answer when we asked where she’d been.
“Well, we haven’t seen her since last night. Why? Have you found her?”
“Yes, she got into the bonnet of a car and went for a little ride.”
“Oh, ok, where exactly did she go for a ride to?”
“Ely.”
Now Ely is a town about a 50 minute drive from us and Skittles had ended up a fair way from home. So, Miss F and I pulled on our shoes, got down the cat basket and went on an hour and a half round trip to collect our nomadic feline from the vets where she’d ended up.
Needless to say, Skittles was VERY pleased to see us, and the vet told us some of the tale. The rest was filled in by the delightful lady whose car it was our kitty had hitched a lift in – the vets gave me her number so I could phone and thank her. Apparently, she’d come to Bury St Edmunds on Friday to do some shopping and had parked in the car park at the top of our street.
Leaving Bury late Friday afternoon, she’d driven home to Ely, then had driven to Wisbech, then home to Ely again – a round trip of approximately 100 miles. Saturday morning, the lady noticed the bulb in one of her headlights was gone, so went to replace it and was very surprised to find a little pair of dark eyes looking back at her. Help was summoned as Skittles was well and truly wedged in and showed no signs of coming out – whether she was trapped or just so frightened she couldn’t move, I don’t know. Bits of the engine were removed and hey presto, the cat was free.
But this lovely kitty guardian angel didn’t just let her run off, she phoned her local vet who told her to bring this little black hitchhiker in to be checked for injuries and to see if she was microchipped.
Luckily, very luckily, Skittles is, so the vet then made the telephone call I recounted above.
When I think of how this tale could have ended my heart goes into my mouth. There are a lot of moving parts in an engine, so Skittles is very lucky she wasn’t ripped to shreds. Being driven at 70mph down the motorway, she is also extremely fortunate she didn’t fall out onto the road and get run over by the cars following. She’s lucky the lady who found her didn’t just release her – so far from home there’s no knowing what would have happened to her. She might have been found and taken to a vet or the local RSPCA, but then again she might not have been. Finally, she’s very lucky that we had her microchipped so the vet simply scanned her and found our contact details.
But she’s home now, and has been cuddled, fed and watered. We’re going to keep her in for a couple of days to make sure she’s not too traumatized by her experience, so I’ve had to go and buy a litter tray which she eyed with disgust, before bashing at the locked cat flap and plaintively demanding her release.
Will she learn from this? I hope so! Heaven only knows where she might end up next time.
I’m sorry this is such a short blog, but under the circumstances I think I can be forgiven. If anyone is interested, Chaining Daisy will be released as a stunning paperback, an ebook and will be on Kindle Unlimited next Wednesday.In the meantime, it is available to pre-order at a special introductory price.
The sequel to Becoming Lili, it reduced one editor, three beta readers and two arc readers to floods of tears, and even made me cry when I was writing it, so if you have read Becoming Lili and want to know how the story continues for Lili and her friends, then why not buy yourself a copy.
Chaining Daisy – Book Two of the Perennials Trilogy and the beautiful sequel to Becoming Lili
I hope you have a great Sunday and I’ll see you as usual next week, when I promise things should be back to normal – well, normal for me!
This week my daughter, Miss F,
turned 16. Like most parents of teenagers, I look at her and wonder where on
earth all those years went to. For fifteen of them, I’ve been a single mum and
raised her totally alone with no help from my ex-husband. Whilst this was not
exactly what I signed up for, as a wise woman once said – “It is what it is” –
so I just had to knuckle down and deal with it.
They’ve been eventful years, in
which she’s grown from a tiny baby with the smallest feet ever, to a lanky
teenager needing size seven shoes! There’s been a great deal of hardship and
sacrifice along the way, but there’s also been side splitting, roll about on
the floor moments of laughter as well.
When my daughter was very young and
had newly started nursery school, she had yet to learn the art of diplomacy.
That sometimes you need to think before you speak and not blurt out things
you’ve heard mummy say to a friend when she thought you weren’t listening. A
perfect example of this was the case of the classroom assistant. A lovely lady,
she nevertheless had the ability to not only talk all four legs off a donkey
but persuade it to go for a walk afterwards.
Any parent unfortunate enough to be
cornered by her in the playground would stand there, eyes glazed, as she
rattled on about anything and everything. Bound by British politeness and a
urgent desire not to piss off one of the people who looked after their precious
small human all day, the hapless parent would nod and agree, desperately
sneaking looks at their watch and seeing the other mummies and daddies
scuttling by at speed, thankful for once it wasn’t them caught in the small
talk limelight.
One morning we entered the
playground and before I could stop her, Miss F ran over to the classroom
assistant crying out “Mrs S, Mrs S, stick out your tongue!” Confused, Mrs S
looked at her and enquired why Miss F wanted her to stick out her tongue, to
which my darling daughter shrieked at the top of her lungs, “Because I want to
see if it’s hinged in the middle the way mummy says it is!”
Mortified, I tried to apologise and laugh it off, but this lady was not to be mollified. She gathered up her dignity, swept all the children before her into class, and NEVER SPOKE TO ME AGAIN! I was the envy of the playground. No more sneaking in and hoping to be able to drop and collect without being stopped, I sauntered in as casually as I liked. I was concerned she might take it out on Miss F, who was innocent of any crime other than that of being a parrot, but another teacher – who found the whole thing highly amusing – told me apparently Mrs S had loudly declared that “Really, in these cases it is always the parent who should be blamed.”
We survived the early years quite
nicely. Potty training and weaning came and went with no real problems – mostly
because I was quite a laid back mum and didn’t pressure her into them until she
was ready and wanted to do them. Her flappy mouth though continued to be a
problem. Seemingly with no filter, she’d say exactly what was in her mind,
regardless of the consequences.
Trying on a pair of trousers one day in a changing room in Next, I looked at my six-year-old who’d been bribed to be good with a packet of smarties and asked – “Do these trousers make mummy look fat?” Giving the question her full concentration, she studied me intently, head on one side, before announcing loudly and with complete candour – “No mummy, it’s your fat that makes you look fat.” Snorts of laughter erupted up and down the length of the cubicles. Needless to say, I did not buy the trousers.
She was quite a studious child, and as books are obviously very important in our house, reading and writing were skills she was keen to learn. I remember one day she ran through to me, all puffed up with pride and declared “come and see, I’ve just written my first word.” Thinking to myself this must be one of those parental moments all the books tell you about, I ran to see. Well, her “word” began with an Z then a Y then a K then an X and progressed from there. I squinted at this word that quite legitimately could have been the name of a firm of Polish builders, before gently asking what it meant. Looking at me as if I was the stupidest person on the planet, she replied – “Well I don’t know! I haven’t learnt to read yet!”
This notion she had the dimmest
mother in the world is one that seems to have persisted. Driving her to an
after-school club one day she suddenly asked how hard it was to drive. I replied
that it was quite hard. You had to pay attention, learn all the rules of the
road and what all the signs meant, and then when you’d passed your test and
could drive alone, you always had to be aware of what you were doing and what
was happening on the road around you. That, in conclusion, it was quite a difficult
thing to do. She considered this, then asked – “Well, how did you manage it
then?”
And then there were those
after-school clubs. Oh, we did them all. Swimming – all the way from tadpole
group at pre-school age, right up to marlin group in middle school. Every week
we’d hurtle like a rocket from her school which was one side of town, to the
swimming pool, which was right the other side. Having only 15 minutes to get
her there, changed and in the pool, the drive was always a flurry of her
changing in the back of the car, whilst I risked life and limb and probably
violated a few traffic laws negotiating school run traffic and all the other
manic mummies trying to get their offspring to their extra-curricular
activities. We were always late by a few moments, always got a look from the
instructor, and once it was suggested we transfer to the later class. But I
didn’t want to do that, it would have meant hanging around the leisure centre
for 45 minutes because there was no point going home first, and then we
wouldn’t have got home to have dinner until gone six o’clock. Nope, I
stubbornly refused to change, and so we managed, week after week, always being
a few seconds late.
Then there was ballet. Miss F
started taking ballet classes at age two. A serious drain on our finances, we
managed to pay for them because I thought they were what she wanted to do. For
seven long years she’d don a pink tutu once a week and lumber around like a
heavy-footed pixie. Until she finally admitted she hated ballet, was crap at
it, and had only carried on with it for so long because she thought I wanted
her to do it! But she’d rather leave so she could take up archery instead
please. When I thought of all the hundreds of pounds wasted over the years on
lessons and ballet kit, I wanted to cry, but hey ho, such is the life of a
parent.
Archery I didn’t mind. The classes
were supplemented by the school and all the equipment was provided. She stayed
late after school once a week, so it meant I merely ambled along after all the
school run traffic had cleared and picked her up. The archery craze lasted
precisely one term and was dropped in favour of rugby. I had no problems with
her playing rugby – hey, my girl can do whatever a boy does – but by now she
was wearing glasses, so I was a bit concerned about them being broken. As it
turned out, I was worrying about the wrong end. Involved in a tackle once day,
a ligament tore in her leg and that was her benched for the rest of the term
and me having to drive her to and from school every day. And that was the end
of rugby.
She sang in the girls’ choir at the
local cathedral for a few years, and I lost count of the number of Evensongs,
performances and carol concerts I sat through. That lasted about three years,
before she got bored with that as well.
Ask any parent, and they’ll tell you the loudest sound on the planet, is that of a young child saying something hugely inappropriate in the worst place they could possibly say it. Once, we were picking up a few bits and pieces at our local branch of the upmarket grocery store, Waitrose. A tad more expensive than other supermarkets, it is right on my doorstep, so we’d sometimes shop there rather than get the car out. When Miss F was practicing her reading, she’d like to carry the shopping list and read out each item to me in turn. We were in the last aisle, the bottled drinks aisle, and she informed me proudly there was only one item left on our list. I asked what it was, and in a voice loud enough to summon the cows’ home, she announced – “COCK, MUMMY. YOU HAVE TO BUY SOME COCK!”
My eyes bugged. My face went bright
red. My mouth opened and closed several times because I had no words. All
around us, eyebrows were raised, mouths quirked into grins and a nearby shop
assistant told me – “You won’t find any cock in here dear, try Tesco.”
Snatching the list away, I exclaimed, “COKE! I have to buy cocoa cola!” For
months afterwards, every time we went back, I swear the assistants would all
smirk knowingly at me.
That same branch of Waitrose used to have those little trolleys for children to push around behind their parents as they did their shopping. A hellishly bad idea, I can only assume they were the brainchild of a committee of childless idiots, and luckily, they didn’t last long. Of course, Miss F thought they were brilliant and absolutely insisted on having one every time we went shopping. One day, I was doing quite a big shop. I’d had an unexpected windfall and was having a little party to repay all the various invitations Miss F and I had had over the years.
Wandering around the shop, Miss F clanked her little trolley behind me, ramming it into the back of my legs every time I stopped, crashing it into a display of tinned goods and sending them flying, and nearly kneecapping an elderly lady. We finally reached the last aisle in the shop and I loaded up the remaining few things on my list into her little trolley because I had no room in mine. Making our way to the check out, I noticed a few people looking askance at us and it suddenly dawned on me that the last aisle had been the alcohol one!
Yep, you’ve guessed it, Miss F’s
little trolley was now full of bottles of wine, beer and a bottle of port all
rattling away merrily, with Teddy riding high on top. I stopped, realising how
bad it looked and hustled her away behind the freezers, where I picked all the
most innocent things out of my trolley and swapped for the bottles and tins of
booze in hers. Bad Mummy!
One day she came home from school full of the history lesson they’d had about Tudor times, and how King Henry VIII had broken from Rome and created a new religion so he could marry Anne Boleyn. I’m very interested in British history, so we chatted about it for a while, before she asked – “Mummy, is our current Queen a prostitute?” I replied – “Yes, dear, but don’t tell Philip.” Of course, she meant protestant.
Looking back over the years, I remember more laughter than tears, and I really wouldn’t have changed a thing. Well, a bit more money and a bit more time would have been nice, but we managed. And now she’s 16. Regular readers of my blog will know we had her prom a few weeks ago and her Sweet Sixteen birthday party. She’s growing up so fast it leaves me breathless. She’s done with school and is preparing for the adventure that will be college.
Being a single parent is hard, let
no one tell you otherwise. You have to be good cop/bad cop, and everything is
on your shoulders, and it’s one of those jobs that you don’t know you’ve got
right until it’s too late. I think I did ok, looking at the wonderful, kind and
hardworking human being she has become, I don’t think I did too badly at all.
But, at the end of the day, I did my best, and that’s really all anyone can ask
of you.
Having fun with filters on her new phone Christmas 2017
Thank you once again for joining me, as always, I’d love to hear your thoughts and comments on this or any of my blogs, or if you simply have something you want to ask me or have a suggestion for a future topic.
It’s late
Saturday afternoon, in fact it’s almost at that point where we can legitimately
declare it Saturday evening and be done with it. I’m late writing this blog –
even for me this is pushing matters right to the wire. It’s been a long,
exhausting week of overtime, and trying to republish one of my books “Becoming Lili”.
The book has merely had a bit of a freshen up comprising of a good edit, new
font and formatting, and beautiful line illustrations and chapter heading
graphics throughout. Simple, you’d think, and something that wouldn’t cause any
undue stress and bother. I mean it’s basically the same book as it was, a book
that has sat quite happily on Amazon for the past two years. But, as I get
older, one thing I’ve learnt is that nothing is ever simple. However, it was
finally done to my satisfaction and I could mentally tick another thing off my
to-do list.
I genuinely
had no clue what to blog about this week, not a glimmer of an idea twinkled in
the dimmest recesses of my brain, and I half wondered whether to not bother
this week. But… I made a promise, to myself and to you, that I would always
write something. Then on the drive home, I heard a comment made on the radio
that set me thinking – “You know you’re getting old, when…”
When what?
What one circumstance or event has to occur before you throw your hands up and
admit that, yes, you are old! I turned 52 last month, not old, not really, not
by today’s standards, but not young either. Realistically I am well over
halfway through my life, and there is a sneaking suspicion that it’s all
downhill from now on.
So, what characteristics
do I feel put me squarely in the “mature” bracket, rather than the “spring
chicken” one? Well, for a start, sleep has become both more precious and harder
to obtain. When I was younger, I could exist on very little sleep for days on
end – I remember one amazing weekend when I practically turned nocturnal, but
that’s a subject for another blog perhaps – and then binge sleeping once all
the partying shenanigans were over. Exhausted, I literally fell into bed and
slept the clock round. I can’t do that now. The ability to turn sleep into an Olympic
sporting event sadly eludes me, and no matter how tired I am or how little
sleep I had the night before, my body is awake and ready for action at 6am –
plead though my brain might for a lie in, nope, insists my body, plenty of time
to sleep when you’re dead, up and at it, there’s stuff to be a doing.
I also used
to be able to sleep anywhere. Out with friends, we’d all pile back to one or
other of our homes and sleep where we dropped – spare bed (if lucky), blow up
mattress, sofa, sun lounger, duvet on the floor, in a chair, even the bathtub.
But now, I will pay any taxi fare, walk almost any distance or overcome any
obstacle to simply GET HOME to my own bed, and my own bathroom in the morning. Because
that’s another thing that marks you as getting older, your tolerance of changes
in routine and your greater reliance on bathroom habits.
I find as I’m
getting older, I am both less concerned and more concerned about stuff. In my
teens I cared deeply about everything – the planet, animals, social injustice –
all would arouse my crusading zeal and I’d march, campaign and petition to
right the wrongs of the world. Now, well, it’s not that I don’t care about
those things anymore, because obviously, I do. It’s just… I have so much other
shit to worry about that sometimes I am guilty of merely shrugging my
shoulders, because really, what is the point of it all? Me getting my knickers
in a twist won’t change a thing. On the other hand, my local supermarket
rearranging all their shelves so I can’t find any bloody thing will leave me
almost incandescent with suppressed rage. Storming round the shop, tight lipped
and muttering, trying to find an elusive shop assistant so I can ask with
barely concealed sarcasm – “Ok, I give in, where have you hidden the pasta this
time?”
I think as we
get older, small things are more likely to make us flip than big things,
because it’s all too much sometimes. You’re running late, someone had used all
the milk so you couldn’t have a cup of tea, every single traffic light was red,
and then some ignorant arsehole cuts you up on the roundabout and you want to
kill them, because it’s all just TOO MUCH. All the little things that occur to
niggle and annoy seem to happen all at the same time, and always when you’re so
busy you simply don’t have the time to be mellow about them.
You know you’re
getting old, when silly stuff becomes more precious – your special tea or
coffee cup, being reduced almost to tears because the shop is out of your
favourite breakfast cereal, your comfy slippers, and don’t even get me started
on your special pillow.
We get more
tired, and we definitely get more set in our ways. In my pre-child days, I
loved it when a friend would call out of the blue with an invitation to go and
do something then and there. Now the very thought of it reduces me to a nervous
wreck, screaming inside that – “no, I had my evening all planned, thank you
very much, and I really don’t want to just jump in the car and go and see if we
can find a nice pub to have dinner at” – but on the rare occasions this
happens, of course, I swallow that voice down and go and always have a nice
time, but there is that reluctance to break out of the norm.
You know you’re
getting old, when you don’t have time to be ill. I remember last year, when we
were on the final countdown to Christmas, waking with a scratchy feeling in the
back of my throat. I literally threatened myself “I don’t have time for this!”
swallowed a truckload of drugs and just struggled on regardless, because I
simply did not have the time to indulge myself by being ill.
I’ve always
loved my home, but as I’ve got older, I’ve found myself becoming almost hermit
like. In fact, one of my fantasies is something happening that necessitated me
having to stay at home for a whole month. The thought of being able to stay
home and catch up on all the things I need to do, then have time to merely
relax and read… bliss!
But most of all, I think us women know we’re getting old, when we open our mouths and our mother comes out! That’s when you know you truly are beyond all help….
Short blog
this week, and no pretty pictures. I am sorry, but time simply hasn’t been my
friend this week. Still, as ever, I would love to hear your thoughts and
comments.
Enjoy your Sunday,
and I look forward to chatting with you again next week.
I’m a writer. Ever since I could
pick up a pencil and scribble down stories for my dolls to act out, I’ve written.
It never occurred to me I would ever someday be published – self-confidence has
always been my downfall, the feeling that I’m simply not talented enough, not
clever enough, generally not good enough full stop, to achieve anything has
always niggled in the back of my mind. So, I contented myself with writing
funny poems to go in birthday cards and writing stories to please myself.
Thirteen years ago, I was asked by
a friend to attend evening classes on creative writing at our local college.
Intrigued, I went along, and a lightbulb went off in my head. “Yes!” my inner
voice shouted. “This is what we’ve always wanted to do, but never had the
courage to try, this is it!” I went home that evening, head brimming with
ideas, and the next morning wrote 5000 words of a novel. Reading it back to
myself, I realised with growing excitement that it was good, no, it was better
than good.
To give some background to this
story, I was going through the divorce from hell. All my choices had been taken
away from me and I was angry, frustrated and shell-shocked, but I’d been left
with a very young and vulnerable child, so had to keep all those emotions
firmly bottled up inside. I desperately needed an outlet, a safety valve to
purge all that negativity. Writing provided that outlet. During the six weeks
of the course, I wrote furiously every spare moment I could, the story pouring
from me in a dark, twisted, cathartic purge that left me drained but also
cleansed. The resulting novel was a gritty, shockingly sexual read that I’m not
sure will ever see the light of day. If it did, let’s just say it would stomp
all over 50 Shades of Grey and steal its lunch money!
100% enthusiastic about = something we think will make us money!
I was completely new and naïve to
the world of writing and publishing and made the mistake of thinking because I’d
written “The End” that meant my book was ready for the outside world to see. Of
course, looking back now I know it was nowhere near ready. What I should have
done was put it away somewhere whilst I started work on my second novel, then
perhaps six months later gone over it thoroughly, maybe even had it edited. But
no, I hopefully sent out the opening chapters to almost every single literary
agent I could find listed in the 2004 Writers Handbook.
To my complete surprise, after only
six attempts I was successful in acquiring an agent and was over the moon in
ecstatic certainty this was it! I’d done it! That a publishing contract wouldn’t
be far behind and my life as a full-time author would soon commence.
Of course, I was being naïve. Of
course, I was being stupidly optimistic. Of course, life is never that kind. Or
at least not to me it isn’t.
There’s that word “enthusiastic” again
My agent sent out copies of my
books to ten publishing houses on her books, and all ten came back with the same
response – “it’s interesting, it’s well written, it’s a powerful rollercoaster
of a read, thank you for considering us, but no thanks” – Gutted, I was reassured
by my agent we’d do better with my second novel which I had by now finished.
Confidently, I sent her a copy. She hated it and dumped my arse.
And that was the closest I ever got
to having an agent and being considered by a publishing house. For those of you
who are interested, the second novel I submitted to my agent was “Becoming Lili”.
But she considered it too provincial and boring to have any chance of being a
commercial success.
And that’s the bottom line of
achieving a publishing contract. Agents and publishers are looking for what
they feel they will have the best chance of making money from. They’re not
really interested in finding unusual and off-the-wall new authors and they don’t
want to take on anything that needs a lot of work to make it commercially
viable. The beginning, middle and end of what they are looking for is monetary
reward.
This is actually a really nice one – if rejection can ever be nice!
But I didn’t realise that then, so
I kept on trying, and trying, and trying. And I kept on writing, and writing,
and writing. During that long decade I churned out another four, full length
novels, a dozen short stories and several poems. And the rejection slips kept
arriving. Every year I would buy the latest copy of the Writers Handbook and would
work my way through every single agent and publisher accepting unsolicited manuscripts.
Even the postman got so used to them he’d look crestfallen every time he handed
me back a large, self-addressed envelope – “Here’s another one come back, love.
Shame, better luck next time.”
It was soul-destroying. I’m a stubborn
person, so I grimly kept going, allowing myself to hope each time I’d posted
off yet another query letter with yet another three opening chapters of yet
another book to yet another agent. As the days and weeks ticked by, that tiny
hope would steadily grow into a “maybe this time” belief, only to be dashed to
smithereens the very next day when the postman would yet again knock at the
door.
Guessing that’s a no then
Some of the rejections were standard
“no thank you” ones, some were rude and even hostile, most were reasonably
polite and one or two were quite nice – well, as nice as a rejection can ever
be – encouraging me not to give up, and that although my work wasn’t suitable
for them it wasn’t without merit and I should try other agents.
The worst one I ever received I
cannot reproduce here, as the name of the agency (and it’s rather a famous one)
is watermarked throughout the letter. They basically told me I couldn’t write
for toffee, that I shouldn’t give up the day job and just write as a hobby. Whilst
I was reeling with shocked hurt over their bluntness, they continued that
however, if I wished to purchase a book from them about how to successfully
submit your book to agents, then it was a snip at £10.99 plus P&P and if I
sent them the money they would send me a copy. By this time, my anger had risen,
and I wouldn’t have purchased a glass of water from them if I was on fire.
Furiously, I pulled the sample of my apparently crap writing from the envelope
only to find it WASN’T MY WORK! That’s right, they’d sent me back the opening
chapters of some other poor schmuck’s book. Curiously, I read it, and do you
know, it wasn’t half bad. If by some strange coincidence you are the writer of
a gritty, compelling book about a lesbian police inspector struggling to make
it in a misogynistic, male dominated world, drop me a line, because I’d really
like to know how that story went.
Rejection for Erinsmore – at least this one has my name on it
If it wasn’t for tiny successes
achieved along the way, I really believe I would have given up, but those brief
blips in a sea of rejection made such a difference. My local paper printed one
of my poems; I came runner up in the Readers Digest 100-word story; one of my
poems won a competition and was included in an anthology.
In 2007, I entered the L. Ron
Hubbard Writers of the Future 17,000 word novella competition and was placed in
the top four in my category in the world. That was a seriously big boost, because
it assured me that yes, I could write, because a panel of top judges had said
so. The novella was called “Lifesong” and some of you may have read it.
Finally, in 2014 I was picked up by
a small press publisher and again thought I’d made the big time. They liked “The
Book of Eve” and had agreed to publish it. But of course, once again my naivety
let me down. Small press, whilst I’m sure there are some good ones around who
genuinely care for their authors and do all they can to promote their books,
are a bit of a gamble. A gamble I lost.
This particular publisher took away
my copyright for five years, let me have no real say on cover, format and
general look of the book, I have no say on sales platforms or pricing, and I am
never allowed to hold a sale or giveaway on my own book. They take 50% of my
royalties and withhold the rest until I’ve reached a certain threshold. They also
do no promoting or marketing of my book whatsoever.
This is an untenable position to be
in. To have given up so much and received so little in return! Valuable and
very hard lesson learnt, and to all newbie authors out there considering the
small press option, please do your research thoroughly.
In the beginning, the book sold quite well. Family and friends, word of mouth, of course you shift a few copies that way, but without marketing to reach a wider audience the sales dwindled and then stopped completely. At the same time, I got sick, very sick. Too ill to think about anything, let along flogging the dead horse that was my novel, my life now centred around hospital appointments, blood tests, MRI scans, medication and the long, painful struggle back to health.
It was Christmas 2016, “The Book of
Eve” had been out for two years. I hadn’t received any royalties for over a
year and sadly decided a writing career was not for me. After so many years of
illness and not writing a single original word in all that time, I wondered if
I still had the ability to create, and even if I did, what was the point? No
one was interested. Certainly, no agents or publishers were.
The fate intervened in the shape of
an old friend. I’d first met Becky on that creative writing course all those
years earlier. We’d stayed good friends, but during my long years of illness I’d
become very hermit like and lost touch with a lot of people, her included. Then
she contacted me, could we meet? She’d seen that “The Book of Eve” had been
published and wanted to talk. She too had had a novel published, although she’d
gone a different route and published independently. Had I considered doing the
same with my other books? I hadn’t, it hadn’t even occurred to me. Being so isolated
I’d had no idea the publishing world had moved on from the seedy, expensive
days of vanity press, and that the internet and Amazon self-publishing had
opened up a whole new world to wannabe authors.
The rest, as they say, is history. Encouraged and helped every step of the way by Becky, I dipped my toe in the water with “Lifesong”, which was released as an eBook in February 2017. Followed by “Becoming Lili” in April 2017. Then I decided to gather all my short stories, flash fiction and poetry into one collection – including Lifesong – and “Eclairs for Tea and other stories” was published in June 2017, followed by “Lost & Found” in September 2017.
Inspired, the voices in my head
started clamouring for attention again and I wrote the sequel to “Lost &
Found” – “Fixtures & Fittings” – and released it in December 2017. The
following year saw the release of “Erinsmore” in May 2018 and “The Forest ~ a
tale of old magic ~” in October 2018.
All eight of my books published to date…
Don’t get me wrong, being an indie
author is hard work, really hard work. It requires dedication, commitment, perseverance
and a really thick hide. It involves you learning to do things you never
imagined you could, and the returns can be disappointing. Not many indie
authors make enough from their writing to live on, certainly not at first, and
I’ve known writers to simply give up, crushed by the never-ending pressure.
But, the rewards can and do make it all worthwhile.
One huge benefit, of course, is
that you get to keep all of your royalties – no sharing them with greedy publishers
who do little or nothing to earn them. You also have full control over the
whole process and can make your own mind up about pricing and where you wish to
sell your product.
I remember reading an article on
J.K. Rowling, about how she’d submitted Harry Potter to twenty-one agents and
had been rejected every time, that she was on the verge of giving up when the
twenty-second agent accepted it. I remember how my lip curled with derision and
I couldn’t help but give a wry bark of ironic laughter and the muttered comment
– “lightweight”.
Ask almost any indie published
author and they will tell you that no, being indie published and having to do
it all yourself isn’t exactly the dream, and that if the right agent/publisher
came along with a tempting enough contract, most of us indies would probably
jump at the chance. But, in an increasingly competitive market where even the
Top Four publishing houses don’t bother to promote new authors, the perks of
being traditionally published are diminishing. And at least as an indie author
your books are out there, being read and reviewed by someone. Even if only half
a dozen people have bought your book, that’s half a dozen more than if you’d
let it languish on a hard drive somewhere.
Again, a reasonably encouraging and polite rejection
I read a lot of posts by newbie,
would-be authors grandly declaring that they’ll never “lower” themselves to go
indie and acting like it’s their choice whether to be indie or traditionally
published. I smile sadly, and shake my head, knowing that life and constant
rejection will eventually knock some humility into them. They’ll realise, as us
more battle-weary and seasoned authors have, that ultimately it is not your
choice at all. Oh, it’s your choice whether to try to be traditionally
published, but, at the end of day, it is down to the agent or publisher you are
submitting your precious book to. That it all hinges on whether they feel your
book is “commercially viable” and how lucky you are to hit on the right agent
who clicks with your book, and that sometimes something as mundane as whether
they have indigestion from lunch will affect how favourably they view your
submission.
So sure, aim for the stars, but in
the meantime, don’t dismiss the indie option, and never look down your nose at
an indie author and dismiss them or their work as being “unworthy” of being
traditionally published. Most were merely unlucky. After all, the odds of being
picked up by a decent publishing house are higher than those for winning the
lottery, and you would never deem someone who didn’t win the lottery as being “not
good enough to win” you’d merely consider them unlucky.
Indie authors are the hardest working people I know. Most are holding down jobs at the same time as trying to write the best books they can. They are running homes and raising families, whilst being editors, cover designers, formatters, promoters, marketers and social media experts. On top of this, many are also being incredibly supportive of other indie writers – beta and arc reading, buying, reading and reviewing their books, and helping to spread the word about book launches, sales and giveaways.
Apparently this person felt The Forest ~ a tale of old magic ~ had sci-fi elements to it! Anyone who’s read it will know how ridiculous this is!
It is a wonderfully encouraging
world; one I consider myself fortunate to have stumbled upon. So, to all my
friends in this crazy, exasperating, exhausting indie life we have chosen, you
are the best. Never give up, because you have so got this, and I applaud and
salute every single one of you.
Thank you once again for joining me
for our Sunday morning chat, and I look forward to meeting with you again next
week.