sting in the tale

I've moved

2011-06-13T20:40:00.000+01:00

to http://laura-wilkinson.co.uk/

please follow my adventures (ahem!) there.

Baking bread and other arts

2011-04-18T10:08:00.000+01:00

Well, well, it feels like yonks since I was here, at my little blog, rambling about writing, living, creating and other nonsense.

And indeed it has been a goodly time. They’ve been odd months: busy, unsettled, flitting from one project to the next without feeling like I’m getting my teeth into any one in particular, with the exception of BloodMining.

So…February I made a tentative start on novel #3, interrupted periodically by minor fiddling with the third draft of novel #2 and considering submitting it. Praise be, I decided against.

March I spent redrafting BloodMining for my editor, Gill, and deluded though I may be it feels like a better book. I’ve yet to hear back from her, so let’s wait and see, eh? During March I was also busy submitting some shorts to exciting places like Ether books, and I even had a go at a piece of flash. To my surprise and delight ABCtales editor Tony selected it as a story of the day. God love ‘im.

April began with a strong desire to get back to novel #3 and I’ve managed to squeeze out another chapter. However, novel #2 – once again unnamed having decided that my second title was as rubbish as my first – has pulled me back big time. A character from novel #3 – one whose company I’m enjoying tremendously but don’t yet know intimately – likes to bake, especially bread. She enjoys kneading and pulling and stretching a stodgy, indigestible lump of dough and turning it into something delicious and satisfying. I feel that this is what novel #2 needs. The raw ingredients are there; I need to bash it around some more and bake it in a pre-heated oven for just the right amount of time. So novel #3 is on the back burner again (ouch). Also, it’s holiday time and almost all of my time is absorbed with the kids. When I begin something, like this, I’m interrupted constantly and frustrating though this can be I’m very aware that I ignore the little blighters more than I should, so I’m considering not even trying to write any fiction this week and giving myself over to the Gingers. Perhaps they deserve it.

diversion at the dentist: stone #28

2011-01-31T16:42:00.001Z

A fountain of water before my eyes, only partly obscured by latex clad fingers. I glance up to see a glassy eye looking down on me. Large, green, focused. I feel miniscule, a helpless object awaiting dissection. I close my eyes and the noise of the drill engulfs me.

stone #27

2011-01-29T19:36:00.000Z

Floating backwards and forwards on the playground swing, my stomach churns. Before this queasy, motion-sick woman arrived was a girl who twirled and whirled and somersaulted her way into adulthood.

stone #26

2011-01-29T19:29:00.000Z

My son and I are collage-image seeking. Scouring the pages of National Geographic I happen upon a place so magnificent I stop breathing for a moment: the Kansas Prairie. I am reminded of the wonder of this world, and realising I will never see it all I experience a sensation akin to loss.

stone #25

2011-01-28T18:32:00.000Z

The air bites at my cheeks, whistles round my ears, brings tears to my eyes. I don't care; the sun shines. Grass is rendered a blinding green, my shadow sharp as I follow it home.

insomnia in suburbia: stone #24

2011-01-27T15:42:00.002Z

Lying awake in the dead hours I feel like the last person on earth. Husband away, no rise and fall of shallow breathing beside me. I move to the window and pull the curtain aside. The street is empty; not a cat or a fox to watch. All is quiet. No drone of engines, sirens and helicopters. No all night party beats. No drunken staggering, no cans rattling along the pavement. The city was never like this.

stone #23

2011-01-25T16:02:00.000Z

behind the grey shroud lies another world
a splintered sky, a sliver of topaz
pushing its way through

stone #22

2011-01-25T15:56:00.001Z

Eight years old: split lip, warts, lice, red eyes. You can't read; you find it difficult to make friends. Best years of your life? Let's hope not.

silver screen: stone #21

2011-01-23T16:30:00.000Z

rustling and anticipation fills the air
adverts over, ice cream vanished, the curtains close and open
we submit to another world

stone #20

2011-01-23T09:31:00.000Z

A tang of chemical air, ripples of slippery flesh, splashes of laughter and zest in the atmosphere. A summer world inside a concrete box.

boy sounds:stone #19

2011-01-23T09:25:00.000Z

Noises the boys make as they play warm me in a place so deep it's easy to forget its there. Words are few, but there's a universe of emotion in those whooshes, peryawwws, neeooows, kerwhizzes, and chchchchchs.

stone #18

2011-01-21T19:19:00.001Z

Cold seeps like ink into blotting paper (remember that?). It steals away toe tips and fingers' ends, pilfering sensation, depositing a sting residue. Radiator metal heat pulses against spine bones, unable to spread like molten lava, a hot core only.

thank you ABCtales (again)

2011-01-21T18:09:00.001Z

Another short of mine has been chosen as the ABCtales Story of the Week. A joint honour this time, but having read the other story, I'm humbled. Editor Tony Cook says, 'it's sexy, witty and wise.' If you're an ABCtales member you can read it here: http://www.abctales.com/story/lwilkinson/buried
If not, you could join this dynamic community, or read it here on the stories page (there'll be more to follow...)

more like a boulder: stone #17

2011-01-20T19:43:00.000Z

Today’s stone is so large that it’s more accurate to call it a boulder. Apologies for breaking the rules…

I don’t write crime and have never had any desire to do so. Until now. Maybe.
I’ve been thinking about the strange encounters police officers experience in their day-to-day working lives. I’m not talking about the big stuff – murder, robberies, assault – but the little things.
Why? At 6.30am I awoke to the sound of GingerTwo calling me. It is unusual for him to wake up at such an ungodly hour, and it is doubtful I would have arisen with quite so much haste had I not thought I heard a single tap at the front door. Dazed and bleary-eyed, I stumbled downstairs, clutching GingerTwo’s sticky hand, wondering if I’d imagined it.
As we crossed the hall, it came again: a distinct rapping at the door. I peered through the window at the bottom of the stairs. Two police officers, one male, one female, shuffled on the doorstep. Without a second thought I flung open the door. A look of horrified bemusement washed over the young (yes, yes, I know…) man’s features; I was in a t-shirt and knickers. He spoke. But, realising the sight I presented, I did not hear the words and replied, ‘I’m half naked,’ before turning to climb the stairs in an attempt to retrieve another item of clothing.
As I went he said, ‘Are you *****’s mother?’ Perhaps he thought I looked too young to have a teenage child? Okay, okay, this is nonsense, but it was worth a try… When I replied that I was not, that ***** lived at number *, they both bumbled profuse apologies, and made their way to the correct house.
So all day I’ve been pondering. Like doctors, police officers encounter people at their most raw, sometime most guileless. They see us without our clothes on, both literally (in my case) and metaphorically. No wonder so many authors write about them.
The young person in question is perfectly safe, had come to no harm. I wish the same could be said for the young copper. I doubt his eyes stopped smarting all day.

stone #16

2011-01-19T19:27:00.001Z

Peering through a window drenched in condensation we sit under a fat moon. Dressed in circles of blue-green, red and yellow, like slick on oil, a fading rainbow, she presides over the deepening sky. Full moon, full moon! the wereboys howl, enchanted by her spell.

stone #15

2011-01-19T16:00:00.000Z

against a welcome sun sky
the roofs look redder than
I have ever seen them before
like lego

tax confetti: stone #14

2011-01-17T19:56:00.001Z

The big man and I are grappling with end of year accounts. Like newly weds on church steps we are surrounded by scraps of paper. Neither of us is particularly numeric, nor are we keen on this dreary, if important, task. There is something very wrong; the figures are ridiculous. We catch each others' eye and grimace. He is a little boy again, confused but amused. We've been caught out being silly, slow. I write 'must try harder' on a piece of tax confetti and we fold together, laughing.

heavy: stone #13

2011-01-17T09:33:00.000Z

Bound by fear, face down on the bed, the duvet oppressive despite its weightlessness. I am crushed; aware of my knees, elbows and chin pressing down. Indentations on the mattress. I will push the fear away; I am strong, heavy, existent. See the marks I make.

stone #12

2011-01-16T18:44:00.000Z

A horse wrapped in a duvet, belt buckled tight at the neck, watches the small dog jumping and yapping. A city dog that has never met a horse before. A sea-green coated creature with hot breath held up by stick legs in shoes.

dreaming

2011-01-16T12:52:00.002Z

There's a chance I might have to rename BloodMining, so I've been playing on Wordle again.

oh dearie me

2011-01-15T17:52:00.000Z

Target: a month without alcohol
Time: January
Progress: poor

On Thursday evening I fell off the wagon. More like pole vaulted off it. A colleague had a do. I'd like to be able to say that everyone was drinking, but I can't. There were a number of drivers in the party; I wasn't one of them. I ordered a small (how restrained of me) glass of Shiraz. It looked small enough in the pint pot cunningly disguised as a wine glass, though I'm hazarding a guess that it was at least 175ml, maybe even 250ml. Nevertheless, it appeared so small in situ that I'd guzzled it before the starter arrived. Then I ordered another. I fear I'd have had a third except that being a school night the evening drew to an early close. Having capitulated, last night I went hell for leather and drank half a bottle of Merlot; I feel a bit ropey today. And very ashamed. I'm so much more productive and creative when I'm not drinking, you see, and while I'm busy on draft three of novel #2 - now renamed Parade - I am dying to begin on novel #3 too. Some say write about what you know... Should I bring my experience of my relationship with alcohol into the next book? Personally, I prefer to write about what I don't know. So perhaps my protagonist will be a teetotaller, whose idea of a good time is a mug of darjeeling and a copy of Jane's Book of Fighting Ships...

Nervy: stone #11

2011-01-11T17:04:00.000Z

Synapses: beautiful, like an open palm, like an exploding firework, a shooting star, coral in the reef, an alien insect. Messengers in the machine that is the body.

Dress dilemma and a lovely lunch

2011-01-10T15:59:00.001Z

Had a good meeting with members of the Bridge House team in Bangor today. They were professional, friendly and enthusiastic, and they treated me to lunch, which was definitely an unexpected treat. Recently, I’ve read Jane Wenham-Jones’s excellent and humorous wanna be a writer we’ve heard of, and she recommends that new writers take their publisher to lunch to ensure loving attention to their book. This works at large houses where your publicist may have ten or twelve books to look after at any one time… but I’m BHP’s first novel, and it seems that they’re going to work very hard on it.
Anyway, I was more nervous than I expected to be and had a minor what-the-hell-will-I-wear paddy. Writers are meant to be exotic, eccentric creatures, aren’t they? And the truth is I’m neither. At a writerly event last year the room was swarming with birds of paradise floating around in plum and turquoise velvets, flowing capes and oversized, feathered hats, silver-tipped canes (honest), and statement accessories. I looked like an estate agent who’d stumbled into the wrong party. In the end I went with tried and tested just be yourself and donned my usual get-up of jeans and smart(ish) top, finishing off with my fake fur yeti coat. No one laughed when I walked in, and I was comfortable. So all’s well.
Timelines for editorial, design and marketing were agreed, and I was delighted to discover that I’ll have some say in the look and feel of the cover. Hurrah! Another benefit of a small house. I have friends published by biggies who loathed and despised their covers, back cover blurbs, straplines etc. And I might too, but I’ll only have myself to blame…

Misunderstood: stone #10

2011-01-10T15:48:00.000Z

My boy bursts through the door, breathless, cheeks stung pink from running in the crisp air, dark eyes wild. In the mornings he walks to school, slowly, but he always runs home. And I ask how his day was, as I always do, and he says, ‘Fine, fine,’ as he always does; the conversation closed. And I wonder, not for the first time, not for the hundredth time, how hard it must be to spend six hours in a place where you are misunderstood, underrated and miserable. Later, we will talk. Now, we cuddle.

happy men and sheep - two stones

2011-01-09T18:25:00.000Z

No laptop yesterday, so two stones today:

stone #8
The trolley dolly on the train - a rough-cheeked fellow in a blue uniform straining across his belly - fights January malaise. The squeak of tired wheels, a bitter draught, and a cry, 'Ice creams!' Silence. 'Coffee! Water hand-filtered from the granite rock of the Pennines!' The blue air carries no reply. He pushes on. Squeak, squeak. ‘Ice cream! Vipers’ noses, sea snakes’ venom…’ His happiness as robust as the travellers’ torpor.

stone #9
Sheep are jumping in the field. Sheep, not lambs. It is only January. I have never seen this before, or noticed. Sheep are dull, empty-headed creatures, or so I thought. I have been tricked; there is more behind those stone eyes. Mischief, unbridled joy.

stone #7

2011-01-07T15:52:00.000Z

Snow has fallen once more. I watch the birds in my mother's garden in Wales, and I am reminded of school children in a playground. The majority: chaffinch in their blush uniform, hopping and pecking on the white lawn. A lone wagtail hovers beneath a shrub, sheltering from the crowd, the unpopular kid with bad clothes and an unfortunate tick. Starlings, the bullies, muscle their way through the throng. A wood pigeon perches on the wall, like the lunchtime supervisor, keeping a watchful eye.
Of course, the birds are scavenging for scraps in the frozen landscape; the price of a picture postcard snow scene: starvation.

stone #6

2011-01-06T15:59:00.000Z

family ungraceful
air swimming
across the icy white
blades flash limbs twist

stone #5

2011-01-05T17:47:00.001Z

biting wind sweeps the lonely park,
sitting above the drone of the leaf hoover
birdsong enchants a child

not a resolution, but...

2011-01-04T18:49:00.001Z

I'm giving up alcohol for the month. Totally. Honest. I have tried this once before and I got to January 28th - not bad, eh? As last time, I am finding that as my alcohol consumption falls my chocolate consumption, which is already shockingly high, rises. So I am faced with a health dilemma: stronger liver versus rotten teeth and spots. And no one sees your liver... Wish me luck; looks like I might need it.

stone #4

2011-01-04T16:46:00.001Z

sticky farts, sweet flesh tang
of the room with doctors on the wall
beneath a cotton mound
apricot curls and shiny cheeks emerge
blinking

Stone #3

2011-01-03T15:13:00.001Z

small child yelling bored! bored! bored!
boring a hole in my head
the sea beckons

Funny old life

2011-01-03T13:42:00.001Z

Over Christmas a relative asked me the road to publication question, followed by the ‘what’s it about’ one. I realised how little practised I am in both, and thought I need to get some practice in. To the second I managed to bumble it’s about a woman who discovers that she’s not who she thinks she is when her son is diagnosed with a hereditary condition. To save his life she must unearth family history and secrets. I finished with a regrettable; it’s a kind of identity quest story. I think it’s better summed up thus: A former foreign correspondent must uncover the truth about her origins. Her son’s life depends on it. The first question was much easier to answer, if considerably more long-winded, and the answer is, I think, a great example of how life can take the most unexpected turns.
It's almost two years ago to the day that I printed out the first draft of my novel, BloodMining. It took twelve months to write; snatched hours in between working full- time and looking after my two little lads, GingerOne and GingerTwo. Although it was ropey I felt I'd achieved something. Like so many people I’d harboured an ambition to write a novel for years. I wasn't sure I could do it. I'd written non-fiction for much of my adult life, but fiction is SO much harder. But after penning a handful of short stories with minor success (they seemed manageable with a new born baby - GingerTwo – JK Rowling I'm not) I thought the time had come.
The first draft took twelve months, but it was a complete novel. I spent a further eight months redrafting and editing until it was in a state that I was, if not exactly proud of, not desperately ashamed of. I joined a writers' group and showed chapters to 'proper' authors: people who had masters’ degrees in creative writing and even had books of their own published. They were encouraging, and so I entered a debut novel competition. To my surprise I was long-listed. I wrote another draft and sent the first 10,000 words and synopsis to Roz Hart at Real Writers. Her comments blew my socks off. Once I’d finished basking in her praise (thank you, Roz, it meant the world to me, still does) I addressed the concerns she’d raised, those that resonated. When I set off on the journey I did not write with publication in mind, but I started to think maybe, just maybe...
So I wrote to half a dozen agents. Most said no immediately, but two were encouraging and asked to see the entire Ms. Whey-hey! In the end they both declined to represent me, but offered enough kind words to make me think it’d be worth battling on. In the meanwhile I entered two other competitions and this time I was short-listed in both. I wrote to another three agents and a handful of independent publishers. Although the odds are stacked against (independents publish, on average, just six novels a year) independents are more likely to take on unusual or first time novelists. Again, two came back asking to see the entire Ms. And again, both said that although they admired the book they didn’t love it enough to spend a not-inconsiderable sum of money and months of hard labour on it. I heard back from one competition: I had not won.
Pessimism set in. I re-read the book and was dismayed to find all sorts of things I hated about it. Some easily fixable, others more difficult to nail. It’s flawed, complete rubbish, I said. And by now I had almost completed the first draft of novel #2 and was having a whale of a time with it. Putting BloodMining in a virtual back cupboard, and consoling myself with the knowledge that few writers get their first book published, and how much I learnt along the way, I forgot all about it (almost).
Then one morning in October I received a call from the lovely Debz Hobbs-Wyatt at Bridge House. I’d won their debut novel competition! They wanted to publish the book! I was at work, in the staff-room, I had to sit down. For days I wandered round in a state of shock. I told few people; I didn’t believe it was real; I expected the ‘Gosh, I’m so, so sorry - we misread the winner’s name, it was Laura Wilson that won, not you,’ call. It never came and slowly, I came round to the idea that it was really going to happen.
Contracts have been exchanged, a designer has been appointed, marketing strategies are in discussion, I’m due to meet my editor, Gill James, this week, and I still can’t believe my good fortune. Thank you Bridge House for taking a chance on me.
If there’s a lesson here I guess it’s to take the work (as opposed to yourself) seriously, be critical, take criticism from those in the know, learn from it, be persistent and, possibly most importantly, keep writing.
I’m looking forward to another draft of BloodMining, and once that’s done doing the same for novel #2 and getting started on novel #3. I have lots of ideas, lots of background reading to do, and I’m excited about writing it. What more could I ask for?

Two for one

2011-01-02T12:05:00.000Z

Oops, though I wrote my small stone yesterday, I forgot to upload it (yes, it was a good new year's eve). So here are two:

sinking into mashed potato
comforting tired bones

iridescent sky
sunlight bouncing off car bonnets
ignites such joy

And for every stone I'll be putting up pictures of some of my favourites things... which may, or may not, have anything at all to do with the stone

Old-fashioned diaries

2010-12-20T09:40:00.000Z

Although I’m a fan of technology and use outlook more than any other calendar, I absolutely have to have a paper diary to carry round with me. Also, it doubles as a mini-journal, and reminds me to take notes whenever an idea or thought strikes (not as often as I’d like). No matter how great an idea I find if it’s not committed to paper there’s a strong possibility that it will slip from my mind, and I’ll be wracking my brains later trying to retrieve it. My Mslexia diary arrived on Friday – well done Mr Postman, as it’s very icy here on the hill – and although I find the head girl tone of the magazine irritating on occasion I one hundred per cent love the diary. The first I bought in 2005 when, after years of writing non-fiction, I committed to writing fiction. Buying the diary was a symbolic gesture to take my work seriously (if not myself). I have six of them now, and they remind me how far I’ve come and how far I’ve yet to go. GingerOne and Two are off now so chances are I won’t blog again before Christmas. So Merry Christmas everyone and here’s to 2011.

Sunday morning distraction

2010-12-05T10:49:00.001Z

Sunday morning’s a great time for pootling. GingerOne and Two are playing on the Xbox and PS2 respectively and I’m catching up with fellow bloggers. I’ve just read writer Sarah Tanburn’s latest and I’ve generated a word cloud via Wordle for my WIP. Here it is (below). Fun, huh?
On a different note another of my short stories has found a home in Scribble. I received a letter from editor David Howarth yesterday. Scribble was a Best Short Fiction Magazine Winner a couple of years ago, ‘For consistent quality of content and production.’ Oo, erh, missus.

Wordle - Broken

2010-12-05T10:47:00.000Z

Wordle - Broken: ""

Snappy Synopses

2010-11-15T13:40:00.000Z

Bloody difficult, aren’t they? I’ve spent another two hours on the synopsis for my work-in-progress this morning and I’m still not sure if I’ve got it right. At least it’s an improvement on my earlier attempt. Well, I say that now; ask me again in a couple of days and there’s every chance I’ll contradict myself.

Met the delightful Julia Crouch again at a mutual friend’s birthday party yesterday and had a look at the cover of her forthcoming debut, Cuckoo. Having seen earlier drafts of the first two chapters I can’t wait to read it. The hardback is out in March I believe. Of course Julia, of the three book deal with Headline, has no need to rustle up dreaded synopses any longer. Well done her; good to see talent and success coming together. Anyway, there are some reasonable synopses how-to guides out there but none better than that offered by writing coach Jacqui Lofthouse. If you’re not on Jacqui’s mailing list already I suggest you sign up now. She offers a plethora of solid and inspiring advice on all manner of writing dilemmas for both would-be and experienced authors.
I’ve heard from Bridge House again and it looks like we’ll be meeting to discuss editing next month. I’m looking forward to talking things through with editor Gill James; I’ve lots of ideas for BloodMining and I’m sure she will have too. I can’t wait to get going and still can’t believe that it’s going to be published next year. Exciting and terrifying.
Until then, back to novel two, and staring out to sea.

So close and yet so far, and other clichés

2010-03-15T18:33:00.002Z

I heard today that my first novel, BloodMining, (yes, the one I'm trying to sell) was short-listed in the 2010 Cinnamon Press Novel Competition. I’m delighted and gutted all at the same time. Delighted (and a little amazed) that I made it that far, and gutted that I didn't make the final hurdle given that there's a cash prize and publication for the winner. Publication being the main thing, naturally, though cash isn't to be sniffed at in these recessionary times. Or are we officially out of recession by a cat's whisker now? I'm hoping that the novel isn't going to be one of those ‘also rans’, 'almost published' etc. By way of consolation judge and Cinnamon editor Jan Fortune-Wood said, ‘The writing in this competition was the best we’ve ever seen to date and all the novels in the final list of ten were of an excellent standard – any of them would have made it into the final five in previous competitions.’
Excuse me while I just scream… (the finals usually get published by Cinnamon)

Thank you ABCtales...

2010-03-13T18:30:00.000Z

for choosing my piece as your Story of the Week. It gave me just the lift I needed yesterday morning. I've been in a weird place this week. Not feeling great, health wise, and a big dip in confidence and faith in my work. In a dark moment I picked up the first novel and read a few pages. Ohmagod! Think it's more than deeply flawed; I will give it another once over when two more rejections come in, or once the first draft of number two is complete. Also, I am starting to feel that the second one is going the same way, after what felt like such a good start. I need to get a firmer handle on one of the supporting characters; I feel like I've lost her and it's troubling me. Anyway, what a moaning minnie I am today. Didn't get enough sleep last night after a very interesting art event - Pecha Kucha, meaning chit-chat in Japanese - curated by Blank Studios and the wonderful Blast Theory. No doubt all will seem brighter in the morning, and thank you again Tony - ABCtales editor - you made my Friday!

Can't stand up for falling down

2010-03-05T18:42:00.002Z

Well, here we are in leek and daffodil month and I’ve heard back from three of the six agents I wrote to in mid-January… All have said pretty much the same thing – No. Sign of how few new clients we’re taking on rather than your writing, personal, don’t give up, keep at it, other agents may feel differently… So with the three rejections before Christmas that’s a half dozen. Yackerty-schmackerty.

I understand that agents cannot, and will not, give reasons why something hasn’t ticked all the boxes for them, but it’s really hard to know whether or not to keep sending it out, especially given that, in truth, I’m not sure that it’s publishable. I’ve enough experience and I’ve had enough positive and encouraging comments from readers, writers and professional editors (not to mention the Virginia Prize long-listing) to know that I can churn out some nice prose when I put my mind to it, but whether or not I can produce a 100,000 word plus tale with a coherent plot, convincing characters that we care about, interesting ideas and that all important X factor remains to be seen. My big niggle is saleability, given that I’m playing with genre and I’m not Margaret Atwood or Susan Hill (I bloody wish), and agents and the big publishers like to put new writers in boxes. Ho-hum. Perhaps I ought to start approaching the independents given that although they publish far fewer books, they are said to take more risks (or some of them do). So, I’m sticking at it for some time yet – at least the entire year, I think - as well as scribbling away at my second novel, which I’m having far too good a time writing to trust it at the moment. There’s no pleasing some people, eh?
I read a Japanese proverb in this month’s Writers’ Magazine. ‘Fall seven times, stand up eight’. So here am I standing up for the seventh time.

Blogsplash - Fiona Robyn's Thaw

2010-03-01T08:06:00.000Z

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.

I'd like to add that I started the book yesterday and I am thoroughly enjoying Robyn's trademark lyricism as well as the cracking storyline. For me, there's nothing quite like owning a copy of a book, and you can get Thaw for under a fiver on Amazon. Go on... you know you want to!

Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.
*
These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It's a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we're being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.
The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they're stuck to the outside of her hands. They're a colour that's difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.
I'm trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I'm giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don't think I'm alone in wondering whether it's all worth it. I've seen the look in people's eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I've heard the weary grief in my dad's voice.
So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I'm Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I'm sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?
Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat; books you have to take in both hands to lift. I've had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I've still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.
Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about; princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad's snoring was.
I've always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I'll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say; 'It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for', before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It'll all be here. I'm using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I'm striping the paper. I'm near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I'm allowed to make my decision. That's it for today. It's begun.
Continue reading tomorrow here...

New Year, New Book

2010-01-14T10:28:00.001Z

2010... Year of the Tiger, and so it should be a good one for me. Let's hope so, eh? Now that the big thaw has started I can move around in less than six layers and, more importantly, I can feel the tips of my fingers, so I aim to bash away at the old laptop and get on with the next book. Working title Transformers.
Nice start to the year - two stories are to be published this month. The first, The Deepest Cut, here in Telling Tales magazine. The Long Mile Home is out soon in Beautiful Scruffiness magazine, edited by poet Katie Metcalfe. Details to follow...

Getting better

2009-11-15T18:27:00.000Z

Some uplifting news this week. My novel made the long list for the Virginia Prize for an (as yet?) unpublished novel. Obviously, it would have been much better to make the short list, but given that Part 3 of the book is in need of a face lift, I was cheered by this. Also, over fifty per cent of the short list are novelists with form - they have published books. All six on the short list sound interesting, and I wish the authors the best of luck for the ceremony in Richmond later this month. The winning book will be published by Aurora Metro in the Spring. As for me... I'm beginning another rewrite and will start sending out again in the New Year, all being well. So three lucky agents have something to look forward to in 2010 - Hahaha!!!

Boo-hoo-hoo

2009-11-05T10:45:00.000Z

Anne-Marie Doulton has finished my book and said 'no'. Her feedback isn't all bad, she said some very nice stuff, but in the end it 'wasn't quite as involving as (she'd) hoped', so I'm guessing this means that she just didn't love it? Oh, boo-hoo. At least she responded promptly and I can open my emails now without my stomach turning over with anticipation and dread. Back to the Writers’ and Artists’ Year Book. Of course, I'm really disappointed and beset with all those 'what if no one loves it' and 'what if it's crap' feelings, but I understand that rejection is the norm in this business and not the exception. The worse thing is that in a funny way I feel like I’ve let her down – the use of the word ‘hoped’ has sparked this I’m guessing – because I think that most people want to like stuff. Anyway, onwards... It’s my boy’s birthday today, so I have to get my ‘happy mummy’ face on. Kids are great for stopping self-pity and navel gazing.

Another day, another rejection

2009-10-29T10:48:00.001Z

Strange one this. Or maybe not? Maybe this is common. I don’t know yet.
Anyway, I received a ‘thanks, but no thanks’ from a small Kent-based agent the other day. So what’s odd I hear you cry? Well, I received the email at lunchtime the day after I’d posted my submission package… So they’d had it for a maximum of four hours.
Either this agent doesn’t receive the usual gazillion MS a day like most others say they get, and hence their slush pile is so miniscule (non-existent) and they have so little to do for their existing clients that they have the luxury of being able to read each submission as it drops onto their clear desk, or they bin them straight away, unread. If so, fair enough, but why not make it clear on the website that they are not looking to take on any new clients unless they are JK Rowling or Dan Brown? The email was so standard that I wondered if the package had been read. (It must have been opened, they had my email address). It wasn’t even topped or tailed. No ‘Dear Laura/Ms Wilkinson/Misguided Fool. No ‘Yours sincerely/yours dying of boredom having just read the turgid nonsense you laughingly describe as the opening chapters of a novel’.
Perhaps the work experience kid charged with the daunting task of ploughing through the slush pile read it, chucked it on the ‘You’ve GOT to look at this’ pile, but it slid off, unnoticed, onto the ‘Chuck IMMEDIATELY’ pile? Ha ha. Perhaps someone read the synopsis and thought ‘Cobblers’, or read the opening paragraph and thought the same? After all, I will choose a book in a shop in this manner. Who knows? Perhaps many agents are, as the fabulous Mr Edit says, plain rude? I’d like to think not. In optimistic mood, ‘til the next time…

The Whispering Wall

2009-10-24T13:34:00.003+01:00

A short story of mine, The Whispering Wall, is published this month, November Issue 09, in First Edition Magazine. You can find copies at all good bookshops. Well, WHSmith and Borders at least...

You'll find the website here - http://www.firsteditionpublishing.co.uk/

Good Golly Mrs Molly!

2009-10-23T16:50:00.005+01:00

The almost unbelievable has happened. One of my four applied-to agents has requested the entire manuscript. Says she likes the first two chapters, though they may need a little work (a very good sign I feel. I know the book is flawed and will be suspicious of any agent who doesn't request edits), and would be delighted to read more.
Ohmagod! I had to read and re-read the mail to check that I hadn't missed something, or that it wasn't a prank. I wanted to scream out loud and laugh and cry... I will NEVER, EVER laugh at those actresses who blub on the Oscar podium as they receive their award... I was pathetic.
Anyway, I whizzed over the remaining chapters and I wait with baited breath. Now this was two days ago and the euphoria has worn off. I am still a long way from representation, let alone publication and I am already convinced that she will say 'no' in the end. However, I have to remind myself that it is a good sign... If she likes it, others will, and having validation from an industry person is priceless. Unless she's completely bonkers, of course.

Fancy a literary splash?

2009-10-23T16:40:00.002+01:00

Fiona Robyn is going to blog her next novel, Thaw, starting on the 1st of March next year. The novel follows 32 year old Ruth’s diary over three months as she decides whether or not to carry on living.

To help spread the word she’s organising a Blogsplash, where blogs will publish the first page of Ruth’s diary simultaneously (and a link to the blog).

She’s aiming to get 1000 blogs involved – if you’d be interested in joining the splash, email her at fiona@fionarobyn.com or find out more information here.

Thank you!

----------------------------
http://www.fionarobyn.com/
http://www.plantingwords.com/

A Personal Odyssey

2009-10-19T18:33:00.014+01:00

I've not blogged for a long, long while but I am feeling the need once more. And why I hear you cry?

For nigh on two years I have used almost every bit of free time writing and, more accurately, rewriting a novel. Like many who write I harboured a dream of writing a novel for years. For many moons fear held me back. That and two young boys and a full-time job. I continued to write non-fiction - journalism, copywriting, reviews and the like - and even wrote a small selection of short stories, with a moderate degree of success. But the novel existed in my head only. Finally, I read Jacqui Lofthouse's marvellous The First 30 Days, a brilliant guide to ending procrastination and getting a thousand words a day down on paper, or pc. It worked for me. Less than twelve months later I had a first draft and another eight months on I had a fifth draft that I was, if not exactly happy with, at least not desperately ashamed of. No doubt it is flawed, but it is 100,000 words of a coherent story, and I'm proud of it.
The whole thing started as an experiment - to see if I could do it - and I was always open to the idea that I might not be able to. It was only when I reached the 60,000 word mark and realised that I knew, finally, where the story would end that I admitted that I would complete a novel. Good grief.
What a journey it was. I learnt so much and, most importantly, I enjoyed the process. So much so that I am starting my second book and seeking representation for the first. Hence the blogging again. I will record the next stage of my journey here on A Scorpion Scribbles...
The story so far.
I have submitted a one page synopsis and the first 10,000 words along with a brief covering letter to four agents. I sent my submission package to three in the first instance - around five weeks ago - and pledged that as the rejections come in, another package would go out. So, I have had one rejection so far. And if one is to believe the stories by literary luminaries like Sarah Waters and Joanna Trollope I have 29 or more to receive before the six figure deal is struck and the Brooker prize awarded (ahem)! Although it was disappointing it was at least not a rejection of the 'have you considered taking up horticulture as a hobby Ms Wilkinson?' variety. Onwards say I.
Of course, being human I am beset with doubt and easily depressed by (the increasingly frequent) newpaper reports detailing the death of the publishing industry and difficulties faced by debut novelists struggling to get published. But I am a realist, and do not dream of giving up the day job and revelling in a life spent at the pc pouring out bestseller after bestseller. It would be a dream come true to have the book published and read by more than a few hundred people. Keep your fingers, toes and anything else you can think of crossed for me.

I'll keep you posted...

A review of The Loudest Sound and Nothing by Clare Wigfall

2007-09-25T09:59:00.000+01:00

There is something of the fairy tale around the publication of Clare Wigfall’s collection of short stories – you can read about it on her MySpace site http://www.myspace.com/clarewigfall - and so it is gratifying to report that indeed there is magic in her words. If not happy-ever-after endings.

‘Safe’ is a haunting, menacing tale set in present day Britain about the mysterious disappearances of newborn babies and a plague of malevolent rodents, seen from a new mother’s point of view. There are overtures of The Pied Piper of Hamelin and Wigfall cleverly ensures that we are never certain how much of it is the product of a disturbed, or chronically sleep deprived, mind.In ‘The Party’s Just Getting Started’ Wigfall brings Adam, Eve and Adam’s first wife, Lilith, to modern day LA. ‘Night after Night’ transports us to shabby, post-war Bethnal Green where Joycie’s husband is arrested for a heinous crime. And in ‘The Ocularist’s Wife’ we are taken to a besieged nineteenth century Paris.

The sheer breadth of variety and style on display in The Loudest Sound and Nothing is enough to impress. On top of this striking diversity, you can add plaudits like beautifully crafted, an original voice, erudite and fresh. And this is a debut collection.All seventeen tales are meritorious, and deliciously surprising. Wigfall packs a mean punch into the shortest of stories - there is no excess flab in her work and she proves beyond any doubt (if you were ever in need of any) that less is most definitely more.

If you like resolution in your tales you won’t find it here. These stories are laced with ambiguity, and their depth and power lies in the silences, the ‘nothings’, which Wigfall leaves to her reader's imagination.Unforgettable, dark stories covering the prosaic and the extraordinary, often in the same breath. Wigfall is a talent to watch.

The Loudest Sound and Nothing by Clare Wigfall, published in paperback by Faber and Faber, £12.99

A review of Walk the Blue Fields by Claire Keegan

2007-07-03T15:51:00.001+01:00

Claire Keegan’s first collection of short stories, Antarctica, heralded her as a literary talent to watch. It won the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature and Keegan has been compared to Raymond Carver and William Trevor. Her second collection of short stories, Walk the Blue Fields, has been eagerly anticipated.

Keegan was raised in county Wicklow and all bar one of the seven tales are set in rural Ireland. But these stories do not speak of a pastoral idyll. The Ireland evoked here is dark and unsettled, the characters dislocated and alone, despite the proximity of others.

All the protagonists in these stories are well formed, despite the brevity of the narratives. She provides glimpses into significant moments in their lives rather than complete explorations and the short story form is perfectly suited to this. Keegan is dedicated to the form, it’s all she really wants to write, and this shines through her work. So though the reader is treated to a mere snapshot of characters’ lives, the impression left is deep and resonant. There is a haunting melancholy to Walk the Blue Fields.

In ‘The Parting Gift’ a young woman articulates her reason for leaving Ireland, and her familial home, for New York. It is a moving and disturbing piece made all the more so by Keegan’s use of the second person point of view. Lonely Martha is unhappily married to the forester, her only joy, her daughter, the result of a brief liaison with a passing rose bush salesman. Tension builds slowly and imperceptibly until everything comes tumbling down.

In the title story, an achingly beautiful piece, a priest marries a young couple and throughout the celebrations he is haunted by the memories of a love affair and the choice he made. When everything begins to close in on him, he leaves the party, and walks and walks. He stumbles upon another alienated character in the region, a Chinese healer and masseur, and his cathartic touch releases the priest from pain. “Why is tenderness so much more disabling than injury?”

The characters do a lot of walking in these tales – across the green fields, along beaches and in all sorts of weather - and it is an indicator of Keegan’s connection to the land, her truthfulness and her deep understanding of human nature. For in times of pain, anger and confusion how many of us have experienced the restorative power of walking?

Keegan is a true wordsmith and her lean, elegant prose has no need of fancy tricks. These tales are dripping in atmosphere and their austere, visceral touch stayed with me for a long time. Bleak though the stories may be the collection is not without humour. A talking dog, strange customs and odd human behaviour add a light comic touch.

‘Night of the Quicken Trees’ borrows from Irish folklore and is a personal favourite of mine. A damaged, barren woman moves into the dead priest’s house, burns all the furniture, makes a habit of urinating outside and embarks upon a strange relationship with the middle-aged bachelor living next door. A delightful, quirky story of love lost and found, magic and mystery. Quintessentially Irish, finely nuanced and unforgettable.

The priest in Walk the Blue Fields reflects on “How strange it is to be alive.” This superb collection captures this observation beautifully.

Walk the Blue Fields by Claire Keegan, published in paperback by Faber and Faber, £10.99

Ten Years of OK Computer

2007-06-22T10:36:00.002+01:00

One of my favourite albums of all time, Radiohead’s devastating dystopian masterpiece OK Computer, will be 10 years old this month. When I first read this, I could hardly believe it. But this disbelief is an all too common emotion these days… the relentless march of time really does appear to be speeding up, damn it. However, this anniversary got me thinking about my life back in 1997. And my golly, how things have changed. It feels like 20 years ago.

1997 was one of the wettest summers last century and on a very grey London day, in a bright silver, grey dress I got wed. Thom Yorke’s brooding, mournful voice and the multi textured musical sounds were a big part of the day (at least the reception) and indeed the rest of the year. And into 1998. I listened to OK Computer so much when I was pregnant with my first child that when he was restless and agitated as a baby it was Thom and co.’s sounds that calmed him down.

However, what struck me most about my life 10 years ago was just how small a part computers, and technology, played in it. I did have a pc – given to me by a techie cousin who is now persona non grata following a bitter family feud – one that even had Windows ‘95 on it. But it was something that sat in the corner of our tiny Brixton flat, dusty and barely used, looking out at our busy lives with its large grey eye, winking at us occasionally when we remembered to turn it on. It must have been quite lonely.

I typed the odd letter and article on the thing and understood from more up to date colleagues that you could do all sorts of wonderful things on it – like mail merging and spread sheets. But I had little need of such things. If I wanted to research something I had to trek to the local library, or Collingwood, holidays were booked at a travel agent and if I needed to know the time of the next train to say, Chester, I phoned national rail and a real, live person gave me the options. Friends telephoned – on landlines – and distant aunts and friends overseas received, mostly handwritten, letters.

I had never heard of email or the internet, let alone used it. I didn’t ‘discover’ email until around the millennium; it could well have been 2001 before I took to it in earnest. But take to it I did, like the proverbial duck to water. As did the rest of the world. Now I cannot imagine how I got by without it but I do find myself wondering how healthy it is. Like all things, best in moderation, perhaps. After all a telephone call can resolve some things in minutes – things that take up inordinate amounts of to-ing and fro-ing via email, or worse, text. I can type pretty quickly but I simply don’t have a well developed enough thumb to text that fast and can’t be fagged to get to grips with predictive programmes.

And I know it’s been said a gazillion times before but are we losing the ability to communicate properly – person to real, live person? Also, it’s not often said but computers do malfunction and break down and generally don’t do as they’re told. And we all know how infuriating that can be. There are online games which allow you to thump a pc, smash it to smithereens and I’ll bet some of us have given the real thing a beating. I’ve certainly smacked a few and raged at them. But I wouldn’t dream of smacking a child and yet, computers are still in their infancy. Who knows what they’ll be able to do in another 10 years time. Run our lives for us I expect. They could take over, they’re pretty close already.

So back in 1997 when Radiohead railed against the optimistic zeitgeist and sang of paranoid androids, subterranean homesick aliens, globalisation and being let down they were on many levels, particularly in relation to technology, prophetic. You have been warned.

Overdeveloped Arm Syndrome

2007-06-22T10:36:00.001+01:00

Am I the only mother to suffer from this affliction? Getting back into some kind of shape after the birth of a baby is a priority for many women. That and getting some sleep and time to ourselves (ha ha). But whilst we’re focussing on our tums, bums and boobs all kinds of weird things could be happening to other, often neglected, areas of our bodies.

I imagine my problem is mostly confined to women who, like me, have produced more than one thumping big baby. Both sons’ birth weights topped the 8lbs mark – my first boy was closer to 9lbs and my second only missed such dizzy heights because he was whipped out two weeks early. As toddlers they were best described as ‘solid’. Lugging them here, there and everywhere meant that there was no need to focus, exercise wise, on the upper arm area. They were weight training in themselves. In fact my youngest isn’t quite three so I’m still hauling him round when he decides that his (chubby) little legs cannot walk any further. He rarely gets into his buggy these days.

So what’s your problem you may be asking? Well, the easiest way to cart a small child round is to plonk him or her on your hip and support their back with your arm. As with other things, like handwriting, I tend to favour one side. And though I do shift them to the opposite side on occasion this is usually only once chronic stitch has set in. I’m right handed, or right sided, and I have noticed that my right arm, bicep to be precise, is considerably larger than my left. I’m lop-armed.

When I pointed this out to my fella he confirmed my fears, laughed and commented that I now resemble a Russian shot-putter. Actually, it was me that made the Russian shot-putter reference but the point is he didn’t deny it. My dilemma is whether or not to try and work my left arm up to the same level of beefiness as my right for balance? Or stick to wearing three quarter length sleeves in dark colours to disguise my problem? Much as I admire the fabulous Mrs Ritchie I really don’t want to be as muscle bound as she is in any area of my body. And whilst I’ve been obsessing about my chunky arm my stomach has started developing too – outwards. Yikes!

Age cannot wither her

2007-06-22T10:34:00.001+01:00

What a lot of brouhaha there’s been following the news that Sophia Loren will appear in next year’s Pirelli calendar. As you’d expect most of it has focused on the fact that La Loren is almost 72 years old, just a smidgen older than another Oscar winning actress Dame Judi Dench, and the last time she posed nude - that’s Loren and not our Judi you understand - was as a fresh faced and, crucially, unknown starlet aged sweet sixteen. It has since been confirmed that the iconic Italian actress will, very patriotically, be wearing a dress by Georgio Armani so the nudity thing ceases to be an issue. A piece in last week’s Grazia magazine shows that the age thing rumbles on …
I may be a dummy but I just don’t get it. Sophia Loren is drop dead gorgeous. She was as a young woman, as a middle aged woman and unsurprisingly – to me at least – is as a mature woman. The truly, classically, preternaturally beautiful tend to remain beautiful regardless of the unrelenting march of time – Honor Blackman, Julie Christie, Audrey Hepburn, Rachel Welch, Lauren Bacall, Twiggy and Cindy Crawford to name the first few that pop into my head. Of course they’ve changed a bit, but isn’t change good? Now I’m aware that some of these lovelies have been surgically enhanced but it’s been done subtly; they look like older glamour pusses rather than weird alien beings from Star Wars II like many American actresses who shall remain nameless. And the Pirelli calendar – probably the most famous and prestigious glamour calendar of all time – is all about honouring beauty. What ever its age. We should be celebrating this shift in our culture rather than slamming Loren for doing something supposedly undignified for a woman of her advanced years.
As Ms Loren said herself it’s fun and much more importantly it sends out a good message. Being older doesn’t have to mean that you cease to be attractive and sexy, stop having a laugh, hold back from new experiences, etc, etc. Signs of this shift are everywhere. Big companies are choosing older faces – Madonna for Versace, Jane Fonda, Andie MacDowell for L’Oréal, Elizabeth Hurley still holds on to her Estée Lauder contract, the list goes on. There are those who will argue that Loren is not representative of female OAPs and you know what, I’d agree. But hell, Penélope Cruz and Naomi Watts who also appear in the 2007 calendar are hardly representative of your average 30 something. The glamour and beauty industry is all about aspiration and aesthetics. If you’re in the public arena and easy on the eye you may get offered a beauty contract. If you’ve a lot to say or you write wonderful stories you may get published. Horses for courses. I for one like looking at beautiful images of gorgeous people, no matter what their date of birth.
And the best thing is that the Italian siren will appear in a normal Pirelli calendar, not a specially made for the oldies, making a political statement one like the Women’s Institute calendar of a few years back – spunky though it was. Beauty is not the preserve of the very young. Anyway, she won’t look like a wrinkly – she’ll be air brushed to within an inch of her life…

Wrinkle Free Future

2007-06-22T10:33:00.000+01:00

I was talking with a friend at the weekend. We were pondering the look of the future. Not clothes, or buildings or cars or anything. People – what people (westerners) might look like in, let’s say, 40 or 50 years time. Once the preserve of the very rich and famous, cosmetic surgery is now commonplace, even amongst mere mortals. We all know someone who’s been done – even if it’s a so-called non-surgical procedure like botox or a chemical peel.
My mate and I are rather old fashioned and like to think that we can hold out against the surgery tidal wave and grow old, if not gracefully, at least reasonably naturally. But we are of an age when we are starting to talk more and more (no, not quite incessantly) about the relentlessness of the march of time and the often devastating effects it can have on one’s appearance, and my motto has always been never say never…
Back to the future and last Saturday lunchtime’s idle chat. We talked products, procedures and surgery. Do any of them really hold back the effects of time? Hardly. I’ve never seen anyone who’s had surgery and genuinely thought they look younger after it (and God knows, I watch enough of those 10 years younger type programmes and read enough glossies). Better, mostly. But not younger. Even now in these medically advanced techno glorious times surgery only touches the surface and a good haircut, flattering, fashionable clothes and decent make up can work wonders. Costs a lot less too. Most people who have had surgery simply look like older people who have been Done. Others look plain weird. The exception for me is in dentistry and a good bleaching can take years off you – but do beware the Osmond’s style veneers. Very spooky, very American and very ‘Done’.
Of course not all cosmetic surgery is bad – breast reduction for the extremely well endowed can improve health, physical and mental, no end. Facial rebuilding following car accidents or disease offers the chance to look normal once again. But the key issue here is that on the whole the work needs to be done only once. Women who undergo breast augmentation in their twenties are looking at surgery every 10 years – when do they stop? At 50? 60? How do their breasts look then, with skin elasticity virtually nil and no silicon? When does one stop the facelifts? At 70? 80? Does your face hit your chest when you do? What are the effects of 60 sessions of botox on the forehead (first shot in your thirties or forties, twice a year)?
My friend and I agreed that one possible future is a society divided into the Dones and the Naturals, the smaller group forming a sub-culture all of its own. Maybe it will be hip to be natural… the toothless, grey and wrinkled will rise up and celebrate old age in all its ghastliness? Or what if those who hold out against surgical enhancement are in the minority? Will they be pushed out of sight, ignored and abused? Given that money will no doubt be a determining factor it could be yet another way of marking out the poor and powerless in our world? And given that we change our scapegoats regularly in 40 years time the bete noire of society won’t be asylum seekers but it could be Naturals…

Making Time

2007-06-22T10:32:00.002+01:00

I hate it when people say: “If you really want to do it, you can make time.” What a load of old cobblers. We use time, we can’t make it. And those who spout this kind of nonsense are not parents of young children who have jobs and any kind of a social life. Unless they are one of that rare breed like Mrs Thatcher who require five minutes sleep a night. Of course if I really want to do something, like most people, I go ahead and do it. But, and here’s the rub, something has to give. So by spending time writing that short story for the flash fiction competition I subject my family to a week of: living in a pig sty/having no clean clothes to wear/ no food in the cupboard/forgotten lunch boxes, money for the school trip etc/ repeated messages from friends asking why I’ve not returned their calls/ calls from irate clients asking where the latest draft of x,y,z is/ calls from the school/nursery asking why I‘ve not picked the kids up/ a mother who stinks with hair that wouldn’t look out of place on a yak (delete one item only). You get my drift.
And I’m pretty lucky. I’ve a bloke who is not totally adverse to washing dishes and putting the kids to bed. But the truth is that there simply isn’t enough time in the day to get everything done. How did we get to this point I often ask myself? We have all manner of labour saving devices. But we also have all manner of time gobbling gizmos – email, texts, answer phones, the internet. We’re expected to spend oodles of time improving ourselves in all manner of ways – as parents, as lovers, as home makers, as professionals, as friends. And if we’re to keep our friends we have to be totally up to date with Lost/Big Brother/Desperate Housewives. Schools and nurseries send kids home with enough paperwork for parents to read and deal with to require a small area of rainforest to be felled each week. Then there are the kids’ social arrangements and activities…And we spend more time with our kids than parents in the 70s ever did. I’m exhausted just thinking about it all. No wonder I haven’t had time to pen the 21st century version of War and Peace. And another thing, I’ve my blog to write…ahhhhh.

“There is never enough time, unless you’re serving it.” Malcolm Forbes, author and publisher.

Peevish Pensioners

2007-06-22T10:32:00.001+01:00

A friend who has been away travelling for six months returned home last week. Her aged father had not wanted her to go away at all so on her return she put aside personal needs and hoofed it back to her ancestral home. To her utter astonishment the old man did not enquire as to her well being or about her adventures in the Far East, Antipodes and Americas but proceeded to rattle on about his own (dull) existence. As she was recounting the misery of the visit it occured to me that his behaviour was far from unusual. Indeed I’d argue it was typical of the over 70s. Let’s face it how many times have you visited an older relative to spend two hours sat in an overheated room, sipping sweet tea listening to them narrate, in miniscule detail, the story of the operation that Mrs Jones from next door but two’s daughter (who you have never met) had on her gammy knee? Or something similar? Not only are some older people cantankerous old buggers they are self-absorbed and parochial in the extreme. Worse of all, they can be as boring as hell.
I have made my husband promise to organise my immediate euthanasia if I display any symptoms of becoming a self-obsessed old girl. Anyway, less about the old folk let’s get back to more interesting subjects, me…

Eat your heart out skinnies, baggies are back

2007-06-22T10:31:00.000+01:00

How I cheered when I read recently that skinny jeans are on the way out and that the boy-cuts’ star was in the ascendancy on planet fashion. Since the rise of skinny jeans the generational divide, leg wear wise, has been clearly marked. A few short years ago it was (almost) impossible to age a woman by her choice of denim – not so in the past couple. No mature woman of right mind larger than a size 6, except a blessed few including Kate Moss, would dare to venture out in a pair. Unforgiving and uncomfortable only fashion slaves in desperate need of an eye test and the criminally insane ventured into skinny territory. And let’s face it there’s a clue in the name, though really skinny would have been more descriptive. I have never felt more gargantuan than when, in a moment of utter madness, I tried on a pair of skinnies. Teenagers look fab in them even (strangely) those who commit the now unforgivable crime of being larger than a size 12. It’s their youth that allows them to carry skinnies off. Young fat is firm fat and older fat wobbles in a distinctly different, and much more unattractive, way.
So hurrah, hurrah for fickle fashion. Skinnies out, baggies in. I’ve been the proud owner of a pair of Top Shop boy cuts for two years now and they are without a doubt my favourite pair of jeans. I wear them a zillion times more than my boot cuts, straight legs, cropped, knee highs and so on. Comfortable, flattering and now edgy – what more could a mature girl want! Oh, banishment to fashion wilderness for leggings…

Football Crazy, Football Mad

2007-06-22T10:29:00.000+01:00

I am so bloody excited about my new blog that it’s verging on the tragic. Unless it’s my excitement at the forthcoming England match that’s spilling over into other aspects of my (desperately unexciting) life. Still haven’t done the mountain of washing up downstairs so perhaps not… The Beautiful Game – yes, once every four years I rediscover the artistry, grace and awesome loveliness of football, or is that footballers? I love David Beckham. His talent, his style, even his peculiar little voice. But I love the World Cup more. I love the excuse to loll around watching loads of telly, hollering and shouting at the top of my voice, drinking beer and behaving like a bloke. I love the rampant tribalism, the feeling of being part of a great big, massive gang with a mutual goal (sorry), the heady optimism of believing that we stand a chance of holding that little gold cup aloft. Although as my 7 year old son pointed out the other day, it’s not a cup at all, rather more like a strange tasteless ornament that your gran might once have proudly displayed on her sideboard. Whatever, it’s what the thing represents that counts. So what exactly does it represent? The best in the world? The luckiest in the world? And does it really matter? Well of course not, in the grand scheme of things – as, say, compared to global warming, the conflict in the Middle East, child abuse and so on. However, it’s bloody good fun and I’m all for that. There’s not enough of it around. Likewise optimism and community spirit. It’s not often we get to feel like we’re part of something bigger than ourselves, we’re all rather insular these days, and big footie competitions like the World Cup have the potential to bring us all together, albeit in a small way. And OK, it’s a total illusion – one that we’re all complicit in – but an injection of magic and faith into our lives is all right by me. As is the bonhomie. I enjoy chance conversations with complete strangers, the nod and wink you get from others who wear their (English) hearts on their sleeves, hats, cars and even flips flops. Yes flip flops. I saw flip flops in the shop window of Primark yesterday with soles decorated with the St George cross. What a gas. It’s rare for us Brits to speak with fellow members of the human race on buses, tubes, in the supermarket etc. unless the weather is uncommonly rubbish or good and I’m all for anything that gets us doing more of that. The World Cup also facilitates pride in England and Englishness – an elusive quality most of the time - and during the World Cup Englishness is defined by our national team and their achievements. It’s also been defined by the behaviour of our fans but let’s put the distasteful aspects to one side for a moment. Like the trophy itself the World Cup competition throws off a warm, golden light. It casts a spell. A trick of a tournament. We are one nation, one community. We are great. At least until we get knocked out following a penalty shoot out. Ouch. COME ON ENGLAND!

Supersmug

2007-06-22T10:23:00.000+01:00

I saw Supernanny on Channel 4 last night and as I watched the clueless couple and their offspring fighting tooth and nail I got that lovely warm ‘at least I’m not that hopeless at parenting’ feeling. I often tune in to ‘corrective’ reality TV programmes like Supernanny to make myself feel better about my parenting abilities, wrinkles, dress sense and so on. And there are lots of you out there who do the same if the ratings are anything to go by. For sure you can pick up the odd useful tip – God knows when Supernanny first aired ‘naughty steps’ sprang up everywhere in my neighbourhood – but mostly we watch to feel good about ourselves and either mock the poor suckers on the telly or experience the ‘there by the grace of God go I’ feeling.
Last night’s couple had two boys who were allowed to fall asleep on the sofa in front of the telly each evening. In this information abundant age it amazes me that some people simply haven’t worked out that a solid bedtime regime is good for kids, not to mention how good it is for parents who get some grown up time and with it a chance to hold onto their sanity. Do these people not talk to their own parents or friends with children for tips and handy hints? Do they not read the exhaustive manual that came courtesy of the health centre before baby was even born covering all manner of topics from tooth care to childhood illnesses and immunisation? Of course they don’t, but just about everyone I know does. Where do the production companies who make these programmes find their subjects, for they are nothing like anyone I’ve come across at the school gates? And that’s the key… On the whole those who appear on reality TV programmes are nothing like those who make or watch the finished products. Telly people even have a code when selecting participants… they are never PLUs – People Like Us. So there it is. Programmes made by the supersmug for the supersmug. Mind you, my seven year old kicked off big time this morning and boy did I struggle to bring him under control… not feeling quite so self-satisfied now. Must refer to that manual.