Monday 30 December 2013

A few thoughts - a fortnight after publication...

I've seen a lot of people over the Xmas period and obviously our book has come up in discussions – by which I mean I haven't stopped talking about it. As Lily Allen once tweeted: People say I'm self-obsessed. But enough about them. Anyway, having listened to our customer base, it's clear there are a few misunderstandings I'd like to attempt to address.



Firstly though, a huge thanks to those who have bought the book and reviewed it so nicely – you have no idea how much it means to us. And as for the people we neither of us know who have raved about it on Amazon, well that really is why we bothered to tell a story. To those of you who have bought the book and not yet read it, or have no intention of getting round to it, we thank you for our ten pence. We promise not to spend it wisely. For those of you with no interest I apologise once again for stinking up your internet without mentioning cats or food. Anne will rectify shortly.


Now for some thoughts:

1.  It is not romantic fiction. No bodices are ripped. There is no dark and handsome man with deep character faults some sadly deluded heroine/author thinks she can cure. It does not end happily. And it is not written for people with the reading age of 10. (Unless any of that is what attracted you to the book, in which case please ignore all I've just said and tuck in.) True, it is an unabashed love story, but a grown-up one for grown-ups. Ok, so it isn't One Day but that was roughly where we were aiming.


2.  It is not self-published. Yes, I realise it's not in Waterstone's, but we're at the cutting edge of future publishing, where books are digitally launched cheaply into the world to see if they will fly. The book does come with the seal of approval of one of the world's largest publishers, I promise you. We're not trying to force on you a piece of toot no-one deemed to have any merit. Not yet anyway. My Shropshire book will be self-published shortly...



3.  A 5 star review does not mean a 5 star review. I totally understand anyone who has problems with this. In a normal world even I wouldn't give Farewell Trip 5 stars. I reviewed films for fifteen years and only gave twelve films 5 stars. I've read thousands of novels and would rate fewer than ten that highly. But this is 2013. It's about PR, marketing and lies. Grade inflation is all. A four star review on Amazon doesn't mean it's a great read, one of the best books I've read for ages. It means “meh”. A three star review doesn't mean “read this book, I really liked it.” It means “what a bore”. The best way to think of a 5 star review is as the equivalent to a C Grade A-Level in 1983. And we really do need 5 star reviews if we're to get any traction. So can I ask those of you struggling with that conundrum to put 'helping friends' first and 'critical honesty' second. If it does reach an audience, and we need your help with that, don't worry there will be plenty of people out there ready to redress any grade imbalance.


4.  Yes, of course I wrote all the dirty bits.


Thanks.

Thursday 26 December 2013

The ninja of patience strikes back

I was moaning to The Patient One (aka Mr W) yesterday about blogging and how flippin hard it is.

"I really want to write posts," I alas and alacked to him "but I just don't have any original thoughts or ideas. Moan, moan, blah, blah..."

"Well, I think you probably do have ideas, but you don't recognise them as such." Explained The Patient One, patiently.

"Gary's really good at it and it's not fair and it's too hard." I self-pitied. "Moan, moan, blah, blah."

"Moan, moan and blah, blah to you too. Halt the pathetitude right now. It doesn't suit you."

I stuck my tongue out. The Patient One refused to succumb and rolled his eyes instead.

"Anyway, writing blogs aren't real writing. It's such a waste of time when I could be getting Eileen into a spot of bother with two gun-toting baddies." I gave it some welly with the pathetic face. To no avail. The Patient One has deep reserves and only gently advised me.

"Why don't you do what you do when you're doing real writing then?  Give yourself a time limit and just do it?"

God, don't you hate sensible advice? Especially when delivered by a ninja of patience. I responded with the usually infallible Eeyore face. That magnificence of a sad, misunderstood, world's against me and I can't do anything about it face.

"But Gary's so good and I'm so rubbish..."

"Oh for gods sake, stop bloody moaning and get on with it. You've written five novels, you can't tell me a simple blog post is beyond you."

Final score - Eeyore face 1 : The Patient One 0

Wednesday 18 December 2013

Farewell Trip and onwards






And so here we are. Carina UK has published our novel and it currently nestles inside the top 5000 in the Amazon best-seller charts! To infinity and beyond.

Early feedback has been lovely. I can't help but think it's only a matter of time till the naysayers and trolls arrive. Still, who cares? Some people I respect greatly have said how much they enjoyed it and how well written it was. That's enough for me.

For “two real writers awaiting validation” it feels like the end of the journey, or the beginning of the end, or the end of the beginning, or something. I'm fairly sure TS Eliot and Churchill put it better.

So we've decided to change the title of the blog, as you'll see. We feel validated and a big thank you to everyone who made that possible.

Instead let's get on with being real writers. Which as best as I can work out means moaning incessantly about a writer's life – problem publishers, absent editors, the lack of sales, the fake smiling at the success of others, the whole creative process, darling.

Can't wait...

Friday 13 December 2013

The Last Line of a Novel. Is it Important?

Our lovely Carina editor sent us through a copy of our book, exactly as it is to be e-published on Tuesday. It's a free copy to be distributed to bloggers and reviewers – in fact we are under strict instructions to give it to anyone willing to put a 5 star review up on Amazon in exchange. So anyone easily bribed, do let us know!

So, I spent a few hours reading my own book on Kindle, which is more than I have anyone else's book. And it seems to scrub up OK. I don't know if I've just read and rewritten the start so many times that I'm blind to it, or whether it just took us 50 pages to find our voice and stride, but the book doesn't seem to get going until Paris. But then it definitely goes boom, or kapow, or at the very least a little bit whee and pop.

I was actually quite gripped by some of the later bits - Karin's stuff mainly, some of which I'm not entirely sure I'd read before. That's teamwork for you, the Twynam way. I even cried at a bit.

And so I reached the end thinking, oh well it may disappear without trace, but I'm pretty pleased with it. Woody Allen is famously dismissive of his films. He says they never come out how he saw them in his head. Broadway Danny Rose did, but little else. Well, I'd say this came out even better than I saw it in my head, sketching it out when walking on the Long Mynd with Anne about two years ago and for that Karin should be mighty proud.


The only thing is, I reached the end and they've missed out the very last line. I think a proof-reader has been over zealous. It is a strange line. The book still makes sense without it and I rather think that's how it may be published until or if we can rectify it. If it is, I'll share the proper last line exclusively here! Or run a competition so you can guess it.

Monday 9 December 2013

A Orange Egg

It seems ridiculous that even though I'm at home all day, I just can't get any writing done. I don't only mean writing on our current book (a crime story called Got It For A Song, for your information), but writing posts for this blog or my cancer one (http://karindixon.blogspot.co.uk) as well.

The problem, of course, is Facebook. And Twitter. And Snapchat. And emails. And Facebook. And Twitter. And Snapchat. And emails. And Facebook. And... You get the picture.

One day last week I got up at 9:00, made myself breakfast (a mug of English Breakfast tea and Mr W's homemade rye bread toast with marmite and homemade gooseberry jam, if you're interested), took it back up to bed and settled in for a good long writing spell. Three hours later, the cat started scratching to get out of the bedroom and I was still scrolling up and down my newsfeed clicking on every shared post just in case I hadn't already seen it.

Three hours! On bloody Facebook!

That was the point I knew I had to take control. Not only was my writing productivity suffering, but I  have a free Lovefilm offer till January 14th and I'm only on halfway through series 2 of the 8 series of Spooks...

And so, I consulted my resident Person With Good Ideas. "Easy-peasy. We can solve your conundrum easily and cheaply. Let's go."

So off we went. To a very lovely kitchen shop. Yep, you heard right, a kitchen shop was going to solve my social media addiction. Novel idea, but I was willing to give it a go. And this is what my Person With Good Ideas found: 
A Orange Egg




A Orange Egg is male (something about being too competitive if he was female, which is weird, but there you are). He is a delightful colour exactly the same as this plump tangerine and when I twist his little Orange Eggy head he ticks charmingly until he reaches my chosen time and then his whole little Orange Eggy body rings and shakes to tell me in his sweet Orange Eggy way that I must turn off the broadband.

We began our collaboration as writing partners this morning and it has been amazing. A Orange Egg says stop and I stop, without even a "Just a sec, A Orange, just need to do th...". Productivity has soared (viz, this post) and I have a whole evening free for Peter Firth, Keeley Hawes and Matthew McFadyen. Score!

Saturday 30 November 2013

Farewell Trip - cover and publication date

Exciting times. The book has a release date - 12th December - just in time for Christmas. And a rather natty cover, as you can see.

The cover has been interesting. When we were considering self-publishing I asked my niece, who is studying art for A Level, to have a go at designing one. From our suggestions, she came up with a rather nice picture of a woman reading a letter with Paris as a backdrop.

Later on someone sent us a "secret photo" of what was supposedly our cover, a shadowy picture of an outline of a woman silhouetted against an autumnal tree. We were pretty pleased with that to be honest.

But we're mighty chuffed with this final one, which goes well beyond the obvious. Just a shame we won't be able to hold it in our hands.

Getting close...

Monday 25 November 2013

Advice for the young at heart

I'm a rubbish blogger. I do very much like the idea of expounding to all and sundry about my inner musings and like even better the idea that someone might find it moderately entertaining.  However, inner musings don't much occur, other than those crucial ones about which type of tea to make (builder's, redbush... Ummmm, builder's, redbush) or whether it's cold enough to justify turning the heating on.

You may be interested to know Mr W's questions to be answered before so doing are 1) how many jumpers do you have on? 2) how many pairs of socks are you wearing? 3) hat? (Not as Scroogey as it sounds, remember I am bald as the proverbial) 4) jumping jacks?  If the answers do not match or exceed 2, 2, yes and 20, the heating stays firmly off. Or not.

However, I digress (if you only knew the joy it gives me to actually write that sentence. No idea why, but it fills me with delight), as I said, I'm a crap blogger.  What's worse is that it means Gary is left with the miserable task of finding something to write upon.

Luckily, as you can see, his mind has plenty of inner musings and they're interesting ones too.  Anyway, my inner musings only conspicuous by their absence, I offer to you a choice morsel from Gary's delicious poetry volume, Silly Verse for Grown Ups.  It's advice he has passed on to loinfruit #1 and #2 much in the manner of a god-dad. Which they don't have but if they did, it would be him.


In The Name Of Love

Isobel, over the centuries not much has changed;
The most important thing about a man remains his name.

Take, for example, a man named Ralph.
Don't date him if he rhymes with Alph.
But if he tells you he's called Rafe,
Fellate him first then make him wait.

Want to meet someone who's as sound as pounds,
Head for a bar in the best part of town;
Shout out Torquil and when someone turns round,
Go and say Oh, there you are. It's your round...

Forget all that nonsense about love, what a bore;
It's a myth put around to keep poor people poor.
And whatever you do, please don't marry
A loser with a name like Stephen or Gary.

Wednesday 6 November 2013

Farewell Trip - an update

We've gone quiet of late, stuck as we are between contract and publication. And stuck as Karin is in hospital. So here's an update.

Things are moving behind the scenes. We have completed a structural edit based on feedback from our Carina editors. Their feedback was brilliant - both encouraging and constructive. We've come to realise that the book takes a while to ignite. Until Paris, in fact, the fourth chapter, some 50 pages in. We've tried to fix this as best we can.

I was reading that Amazon/Kindle already has the capability to tell authors at what points readers stop reading their book. That's a mixture of fascinating and terrifying I'd have thought. Future authors will be treated differently. Early drafts will be subject to Kindle focus groups. The readership of the first week's sales will be scrutinised, not by number, not by 5 star reviews,  but by page clicks. "27% of readers are giving up on chapter 3, 18% skipping chapter 4 entirely, and only 2% reading in one sitting. On the plus side, the sex scene in chapter 14 is getting plenty of re-reads."


Anyway, ahead of such a brave new world, we've sent in our dedications, biographies and photos. Next step - some poor soul is to do a copy-edit. We've thrown it back and forth between the two of us so many times it's a hell of a mess. That's our excuse anyway. We wish them luck.                      

Monday 21 October 2013

No Pasaran

Several people have told me I should be proud of writing a novel. And they're not talking about quality, they're talking about quantity. They mean I should be proud of sitting down and writing a story 75000 words long.

Let's ignore for the moment that this isn't even true. (It was Karin that put in the hard narrative yardage, churning out the chapters, whilst I dicked about on a couple of pages of dialogue.) In reality it's no great accomplishment in itself. It isn't that hard, is it? Write 1000 words a day, and you could have weekends off and still have finished a novel in three months. No bother. You only have to look online to see how many people have managed it.

I say this because a friend accomplished something last week that I really do think is noteworthy, in the field of artistic endeavour.

He staged an operetta about the Spanish Civil War called No Pasaran. To achieve this, he wrote all the music and lyrics (35 songs), auditioned and managed a a cast of 20, plus a group of flamenco dancers, choreographed the whole show, organised the live band, shot some “war footage” to project across the action, was the stage-manager, and even popped up to sing a lament at the end. Oh and he was on the door selling tickets.

Think of that next time you're looking at a blank page.



Monday 30 September 2013

Casting the TV series, take 2

"Ooh, casting the TV series, what fun!" I thought, reading Gary's post below.

Well, I was wrong, it's not fun, it's  frustrating.  The problem is that the only TV I watch is the Great British Bake Off (Ruby, anyone?) and the last few weeks of Strictly when it's dark outside and the fire's on.  Although I have to confess to switching on and enjoying Agents of SHIELD this week, but none of the actors stood out.

I like Anne and Gary's three possibilities for the older Trip, although would plump for either one of Jack Davenport or Stephen Mangan before the too posh Julian Rhind-Tutt - have never seen Trip as a blond.    Of the three, Stephen Mangan gets my vote.  (And Gazza and I did cast him earlier during one of our writing get togethers, which he appears to have forgotten.  But then both of us have forgotten who was Ruth.)

Having never seen Louise Delamere act, it's hard to tell if she's Ruthie, certainly she has the right looks.  More importantly, she has the right husband.  Gotta adore that idea!  I've always fancied Keeley Hawes could make the role hers, but frankly the married couple trump her.

Older Trip = Stephen Mangan
Older Ruth = Louise Delamere

Sorted.

Now the frustration.  The younger versions of Ruth and Trip.

Karen Gillen just ain't doing it for me.  Too, I don't know, too long-legged, too big-eyed, too...just too everything.  Haven't been able to choose a substitute though - feel free to make suggestions below.  In fact, I implore you, make suggestions below so I don't have to go with Gillen.

Joe Thomas for Trip?  Not a clue about him and have nobody to suggest as an alternative, so young Trip he will be.

Younger Ruth = to be confirmed
Younger Trip = Joe Thomas

Hmmmm, not as satisfying an exercise as it could have been.  If you've read the first couple of chapters - here they are http://garytwynamandkarindixon.blogspot.co.uk/p/wish-you-were-excerpt.html - give us your views.

You never know, it might be important in the future...




Sunday 29 September 2013

Casting the TV Series...

Farewell Trip was actually born on a Sunday morning walk on the Long Mynd with Anne and Bobby. A couple of years have passed and on this morning's walk we indulged ourselves in casting the film. It seems a good time to enjoy our dreams. Whilst we can, before a cold world turns its back in indifference. Besides, what writer/dreamer hasn't done this at some time or other? Karin, of course, will have her own, entirely different, wish-list.

The film will obviously be relocated to America, which means every location would have to change and we focused more on that than on the cast-list.

So Lampeter could become Madison, Wisconsin
Cornwall – Crater Lake, Oregon
Shropshire – Nevada
Paris – Seattle
New York – London and vice versa
Bar Harbour – Northumberland
Reigate – somewhere posh and dull in New England
and Bristol – Portland, Oregon.


Casting the BBC2/Channel 4 series was much easier. Karen Gillan and Joe Thomas for the earlier versions and, as the older Ruth, Louise Delamere, (she was Lia in No Angels). We were arguing over Julian Rhind-Tutt (looks the part – easy segue from Joe Thomas – but slightly too posh) and Stephen Mangan (would be great for the audio book, and speaks very movingly about Macmillan nurses, but doesn't look right).

We'd settled on Rhind Tutt. Well apart from Anne's insistence Jack Davenport got the part, which Bobby ignored in favour of a nice piece of sheep poo. On getting home I googled Louise Delamere to see what she'd been doing lately, only to find she's married to Stephen Mangan. Which was something of a clincher...

Unless you know better...


Thursday 26 September 2013

VALIDATION!

We're going have to change the title of this blog because... wait for it...wait for it...

We've got a publisher for Farewell Trip!

Yep, you read right.  We're real writers now.  Flippin' amazing, huh?

Carina UK is the new digital imprint of Harlequin (which sells in the trad romance genre).  Carina has a wider brief and what looks like brilliant marketing.  Farewell Trip will be available as e-book on their website and Amazon.  Several of their books have made it to the top 10 of the Amazon e-book bestsellers list.

We hope it will be published in 12 or weeks - watch out for it in a Christmas stocking near you...

What a week, eh?

Tuesday 24 September 2013

Self promotion?

I have been more than a little embarrassed today.  As you can see below, there is an article in this week's Woman's Own about me. With pictures and everything.


Yep, embarrassing.  It's not the baldy head picture that's the issue. I'm not at all bothered about that.

You see, the whole thing was never meant to be about me.

We were tiptoeing along the path of promoting Farewell Trip and finding an agent.  Trying to find something different about our book (other than the plot, characters and voice, of course), we decided to use what we saw as our two USPs.  Firstly, that Gary and I had written it in collaboration and from a distance.  And secondly, that since the book is about a man who has terminal cancer, the fact I had secondary cancer might be an interesting angle.  So, in every approach to an agent we made and in great hope, we mentioned these things.  To be frank, nobody seemed very interested.

However, we have been incredibly lucky in our friends, several of whom have put themselves out no end to help us get the novel out into the world. Jenny (amongst a myriad other things) put me in touch with Heart, an agency which finds, writes and sells true-life stories to magazines.

It's odd to find that one's own life story is apparently of enough interest to warrant a double page spread in a national magazine, but Christabel (the writer) convinced me she could place the story.  She was right.  She did a great job weaving in Farewell Trip too, but warned me that it's almost unheard of for a magazine to give a novel a plug, so not to expect them to print the blog address or anything like it.

But they did and maybe you're reading this because of that link.  If so, leave a comment on the post or (even better) at the bottom of the extract of Farewell Trip.  Gary and I would really like to know what you think of the book.

Sunday 8 September 2013

Creative differences...

Karin e-mailed me the other day. “Are we having our first author argument?”

Which is pretty amazing when you think about it. Two fairly headstrong souls, one of whom - and I'll leave you to guess which – has spent their life accused of not being a team player, coming together to do something profoundly creative and, by its very nature, individualistic. And effectively completing it without once ever raising their voices or simmering with passive aggressive resentment. Respect to us.

We're meeting up Wednesday to thrash out this utterly trivial difference of opinion. (Me: Description, who needs it? Her: Everyone who's read the book). And even in this instance we aren't even having an argument.

Which does beg the question. Would our novel be better if we were?

Thursday 5 September 2013

Woman's Own

I don't know how many of you will be interested by this next bit of news, but it's very nice to have something purely positive to say for once...

We have been doing some work behind the scenes to get the book published and, as luck would have it, we've managed to bag some publicity along the way. Woman's Own magazine are publishing a 'true life' story about Karin - how the novel came about as well as some stuff on cancer.

The article will be published on September 24th. Do take a look if you're curious!


Thursday 29 August 2013

Literary Agents

From time to time you see items in the media about companies sending incredibly crass letters to their customers. You know the sort of thing – the letter addressed to a Mrs Malone (Deceased) asking for 11p in unpaid premiums. And I haven't plucked that example out of thin air. I sent it back in the late 80s when I worked as an administrator for an insurance company.

I say this because we have been receiving a number of rejection letters from literary agents. These have come from agents of all size and stature - from uber agents and their minions; from small boutique agents specialising in that personal touch; from whey-faced interns fresh out of Oxbridge face down in a slush pile in a darkened basement. All of them as seemingly disconnected from the end-user as I was all those years ago as a dead-eyed processing clerk.

At least, that's how it feels. As part of our covering letter we mention that Karin has second-stage breast cancer. This seems a relevant fact to disclose, given that the novel itself is about terminal cancer. We also mention it because, in a somewhat ghoulish way, it makes the novel a more commercial proposition. Which makes us feel very grubby.

But here's the thing. The agents pen their daily pile of rejection letters or, more accurately, they copy and paste their normal fluff, which they've decided meets the right tone of supportive and realistic. How many of them thought, in this instance, it might be nice to add a small line of humanity? Maybe “I'm so sorry to hear of your situation...” or “I wish Karin all the best for the future.” Not one. Not a fucking one.


Thursday 8 August 2013

And a Big Thank You to....

We'd like to thank a few people. Through the kindness of two marvellously helpful friends pestering their friends, and friends of friends, our novel has now been read by two real-life novelists.

SJ Bolton, Sharon to those of us close to her, likes our book. Which is nice. We like hers. Well, Karin does. I'd never heard of her. But since she recommended us to her agent she's rapidly become my favourite writer.

When I say she likes our book, I mean she likes the two chapters she's read. And when I say like, I mean she was blown away by the grand narrative sweep, the sizzle of the one-liners, the hair of the main characters. She couldn't put it down. Even with a gun. Although, being strictly accurate for a moment, what she actually said was “I genuinely enjoyed it.”

Emlyn Rees, who also co-wrote his early novels with one of those female thingys, has likewise read our opening chapters and said “I thought it was very good”. Proper writers truly have a way with words, don't they? That said, and delighted and encouraged as I am, I'm wondering if either quote has quite enough ooomph for the cover-blurb.


Anyway, a big thank you to Sharon and Emlyn.

An even bigger thank you to Jenny and Simon.


Thursday 25 July 2013

What have you done today....

Karin has just sent me a chapter of our next novel. The very day she's endured her latest bout of chemotherapy. I haven't looked at it yet. But she's warned me that art and drugs might well have collided.

“I have uploaded another steroid induced chapter. Bear in mind that I can't use one word when several will do under the influence, so may need severe cutting.” She said.

I'm left feeling both amazed and ashamed that she's actually written something. Here's her reply when I wished her good luck last night:

“I'll be so full of downers to take the edge off that I shall probably barely notice it - zopiclone for sleeping which only seems to kick in in the morning, lorazepam for anxiety which is a pillowy cloud around my head, em-end for anti nausea which makes my stomach feel like it has been padded with cotton wool. Plus my mother's go-to arcane hippy trippy happy clappy stuff - rescue remedy, which is a whole load of useless plant stuff dissolved in helpful brandy. Except you only get to have 7 drops at a time which rather defeats the purpose I'd have thought.“

So Karin has chemotherapy and knocks out a chapter of a novel. Me, I dicked about on Twitter, had a snooze, half-read my book on gambling and had a small bet on the 2:05 at Sandown...

Tuesday 9 July 2013

Product Placement

I'm not a big fan of people who sell their souls. It's beyond me why celebrities who are already multi-millionaires can't say no to that two-day photo shoot selling dodgy brands for yet more pennies they'll never be able to spend. On the other hand my last blog post was brought to you courtesy of Brown Brothers. A top-notch purveyor of cheap quality wines - check out their dessert wine...

I've suddenly realised I've been missing a trick. I should be going down the product placement route. Everyone else is doing it, why not struggling authors? Look at all those TV programmes and films that manage to get smoking into every scene – never wondered what's going on there? I obviously need to build product placement into my work from now on. And return to all my old stuff and update it. It's not like I'm short of opportunities. In 'The Northern Line to Shropshire' I praise all manner of things from cheddar cheese to Fulham Football Club. FOR NO FINANCIAL GAIN. I'm a fool. A patsy. A stooge.

No longer. For I have a plan. I'm going to talk to an old school friend who's now some sort of advertising supremo for Coca Cola in Atlanta, (short pause to ponder where my life took a wrong turning). He's bound to be up for it. I'll suggest re-editing my book for an immodest fee so that I mention Coke favourably at least once a chapter. And Coke can use their immense power and general awesomeness to teach the world to buy my book in perfect harmony.

This way, future generations will grow up learning that Coke goes great with Shropshire Fidget Pie, is the secret ingredient in a perfect pakora batter, and is the preferred accompaniment to a Chicken Balti. It will also be the only possible drink after a long walk on the Long Mynd, as described by the time we limped gasping off the hills into a hostelry, asked for Coke, were told they only had Pepsi and so staggered onto another pub a mile away.

As for "Farewell Trip", whenever I'm reading through and editing, I can't help but notice that Ruth usually has a glass in her hand. We'll just have to change her from an alcoholic to a Coke-head.

Wednesday 3 July 2013

Sound of Music sex

Trip and Ruth left university several years ago and have bought their first house together.  It is early one Friday evening...
-->

Bristol, 1989

Evening,Totty, you're late this evening. Had a hard day?”

His voice comes to her as she shuts the front door. She hangs her coat on the pegs by the door and comes through into the small front room where he is watching television. She has indeed had a hard day and is disposed to be in a bad mood.

Look at you, ensconced in your armchair with your feet up and... is that a cardigan? Oh my God, I've married your dad. All that's missing is the slippers. You do know you're only 27, not 47, don't you? Is that really sherry you're drinking?” It isn't obvious since he has a wine glass in his hand. They don't own sherry glasses.

It really is. Do you want one too? Celebrate the end of the week.”

God, no. Do I look like I should drink sherry?”

An eyebrow raised, she turns a slow circle in front of him and he considers her seriously before shaking his head.

No actually, you look like you should drink vodka and tonic or maybe a gin martini.”

With an olive?” It's clear she is pleased with this answer.

With two. That's a nicely turned ankle, Ms Britten.”

Why thank you, Mr Masterson. I believe these shoes show my ankles to their best advantage.”

Indeed. And your equally well turned calves. Do you know, there is something strangely erotic about the whisper of stockings against a woman's frock.”

I know you are the only man of my acquaintance who would use the terms stockings and frock.”

He looks puzzled. “What should I call what you're wearing then, if not stockings and a frock?”

This, my fuddy-duddy darling, is a dress and these are tights.”

They certainly are. I can't help thinking, though, that they don't offer quite the same appeal as a nice stocking and garter.”

They do if you have to wear them every day for work, let me assure you. Besides, no-one's worn a garter for centuries. It's a suspender belt these days if you have to wear stockings.”

Whatever. Don't bother settling your skirt, Totty.” He grabs her hand and pulls her down on his lap.

Well, someone's feeling frisky this evening.” She says breathlessly, a few minutes later.

I would certainly like to feel your frisky, but I can't actually breech these bloody newfangled tight thingies.”

This, as he'd wanted, makes her giggle. She asks, “And what are you planning to do if you do manage to breech them?”

I've always believed that actions speak louder than words. Pull 'em down and I'll show you.”

Ooh, you silver-tongued charmer, you.” Obligingly, she wriggles on his lap, kicking off her shoes and working the tights down her legs.

I think you should put the shoes back on.”

Really?”

Really.” When she does, he wonders briefly why he hasn't thought of this before.

I never knew the executive look worked for you. Should I be worried about all those women in your office?”

Not as long as you wear those shoes at home. You might take your hair out of that ponytail too.”

Ooh, Miss Jones.”

I think that's my line.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and plants a kiss on his mouth. “Let's get on with that demonstration then.”

Quite the forward little wench, aren't you? All right, if we must. Let's start at the very beginning.”

A very good place to start.” Now she is nuzzling his neck. She likes the faint, familiar smell of the soap he always uses.

Ah yes, Maria, exactly. When you read, you begin with ABC, but with sex you begin with -”

He slides his hand under her blouse and up over her breast. She shivers.

Goodness me.”

Oh very good. Goodness me.” He strokes her skin and she smiles, pleased.

Trip?”

Ruth?”

Do you think we should go upstairs to continue this demonstration?”

We could do. It might be more comfortable on the bed, offer a little better access to important areas. As long as you keep the stilettos on.”

We'll get the sheets dirty.”

I truly hope so. Anyway, isn't that what the washing machine's for?”

I can't think of a better use for it.”

Come on then, onwards and upwards. Shall we take the sherry with us? We may be some time.”

Friday 21 June 2013

Neil Diamond


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q5dQ-uB5CK4

I'm with Trip....

(Ruth and Laura are in New York about to scatter his ashes...)

“Exactly. He never followed trends, he wasn't interested in festivals, didn't buy music magazines, didn't learn lyrics, didn't play music at loud volume on Friday nights, or make me compilation tapes. And he never danced. Thank god. In fact, he was only ever passionate about one thing to do with music in his entire life.”

“I must have missed that, what was it?”

“He loved Neil bloody Diamond. He knew all the lyrics, especially the really bad ones. 'No-one heard at all, not even the chair.' 'He ain't heavy he's my brother' was the best cover version ever, unless it was 'Midnight bloody Train to Georgia', which he took to playing when he was lying on the sofa after chemo. He even dragged me to see him once.”

“You went to see Neil Diamond?” Laura choked on her champagne.

“Yep, at some football ground or other. The old man croaked his way through his back catalogue whilst the middle aged women of England wet their gussets. Come the encore, Trip was standing on his seat roaring through the chorus of 'Cracklin’ Rosie' without a hint of irony or sense of his own ridiculousness. I pretended I wasn’t with him. Do you know, if anyone ever dismissed the sainted Neil's talents, he'd ask 'Tell me, who wrote 'I'm a Believer'?' Or sometimes he'd change it to 'Red Red Wine'.”

“That just shows his lack of cool - the fact he thought that was a winning argument.”

“Yeah, and of course when Pulp Fiction came out he could add 'Girl, You'll be a Woman Soon'. Which, to be fair, did actually dumbfound a few critics.”

“Idiot.” Laura giggled fondly.

Wednesday 12 June 2013

Iain Banks Stole Our Pitch

Yes, Iain Banks is one of my favourite writers. Yes, I have lovingly collected his first editions and yes I once queued for hours in Basingstoke for his signature. But he's really annoyed me right at the death.

When Karin told me of her own cancer diagnosis, we both agreed there was one positive – it surely beefed up our pitch to agents and publishers for our novel 'Farewell Trip.'

“A romantic comedy about terminal cancer written by two lifelong friends, one of whom has terminal cancer.”

Surely that's a compelling and original starting-point, I said to her, trying to sound light-hearted, spitting in the eyes of death as our main characters do. And then I read that Iain Banks's last, as yet unpublished, novel is about terminal cancer.

As if that's not bad enough I also read that he had written 75,000 words of the book BEFORE he was diagnosed. So not only has he stolen our unique selling point but, like Karin, he also seems to have caught his illness from the hubris of writing about terminal cancer.

Bastard.

Wednesday 5 June 2013

Is cancer contagious?

Of course, I'm being facetious.  But it's amazing how a little question like that can become an earworm that repeats itself deep in ones brain in the middle of the night.

When Gary and I decided that Trip, the male protagonist of our novel, should be dying of cancer, we had no thought for the future or even for our pasts.  I'd had primary breast cancer a few years before and it was all a bit 'been there, done that, got the t-shirt'.  The fact had no relevance to Trip or to our story.  Then we dictated that Ruthie should also have been touched by life-threatening illness.  I can't remember what brought us to that decision, I think it was something shallow like we wanted to show how differently she and Trip dealt with their cancers.  We certainly didn't think about the devastation two such diagnoses might have wrought in the landscape of Trip and Ruth's relationship.

Such hubris.  There we were, each of us safe in the shelter of our own happy, long marriages, happy to fling around drama and trauma and potential tragedy and to leave our poor characters to deal with it all.  Which they did.  Admirably, in fact.  Just as, I believe, we like to think we would do too: cancer?  Got it covered.  Terminal cancer?  No problem, just bring it on.  Affairs?  Pish, mere blips.  Mother died?  Never mind, still got a dad.

In the end, Ruth's breast cancer is only mentioned in passing a couple of times and, of all the parts in the book that could be based on reality, these parts aren't.  The description of her scar, her misshapen breast and the tattoos for radiotherapy are true to me, but Ruth's experience is purely hers, not mine at all.  Interesting then, that she is concerned about the 'can you catch cancer' fear.  Well, to be clear, she thinks that Trip was concerned with the catching cancer fear.

So, what's this?” JP traces the silvery scar on my right breast, stroking the puckered skin. “Cancer?”

Yep. Five years ago.”

You're not bothered by it. By people seeing the scar, I mean.”

I shrug. I'm not really. Strange, considering how vain I am about everything else. It's a stark contrast to the fuss I made about having breast cancer when it was diagnosed and what a drama queen I was during the treatment. Perspective changes.

I lift my arm, show him the deep dip with its accompanying scar in the pit.

This is where the lymph nodes were taken out. I was lucky, they were completely clear. And this -” I push his finger into the little hole. “- is from the drain they put in. I've got tattoos too, if you look closely, for the radiotherapy.”

What, these little biro marks?” He touches each one of them, then bends to kiss my nipple. “You're amazing.”


For a second I want to cry. It's true I'm not bothered about the scars, about the way my breast is misshapen because of the tissue removed from it. But, the thing is, Trip, you weren't able to touch it, were you? Oh, you made a point of stroking it when the bandage came off and at various, horribly self-conscious, moments after that to prove to us both you didn't mind the way I looked. But after the operation, you never caressed my breast again, never pinched the nipple hard enough to make me moan, never sucked it - even though you knew how much I liked it. It just made you profoundly uncomfortable. I wondered whether you had some vestigial fear you might catch cancer from it. And then you did.

And now that I've been diagnosed with incurable cancer I have to wonder (just a little bit, in the middle of the night) whether Ruth and Trip are getting their own back.  

Wednesday 22 May 2013



Trebarwith Strand - May 2013. (Locations from "Farewell Trip")

Excerpt from Trip's 3rd Letter - Cornwall

"Especially Trebarwith Strand, which is why I want some ashes sprinkled there. The afternoon we sat on the rocks in the last of the rare afternoon sun and watched the tide turn and come right in. The first time of many times we've done that over the years. That was my first proper moment with nature. In nature. I had a sense of something deep and unfathomable, the bigness of nature, the richness of life, and its individual insignificance. Now that's more than anything the church has ever shown me.

There I was a few months ago pootling along. If you imagine life as a two week summer holiday, at 48 I was happily rambling on around the Monday or Tuesday of the second week. No question I had intimations of morbidity and mortality. No question I was aware that this was the second week, that the excitement of the first week was a distant memory, the middle weekend had come and gone, the end was closer than the beginning, and although the holiday had every chance of extending into the third week, it was also likely to be cut short. I know, crap metaphor. Or simile. Or whatever it is, English grad.

Thing is, although I was aware of feeling this way I still wasn't properly prepared for the actuality. Surely religion only exists because we need something to help us cope with being aware of our own mortality? Well, if that's so, the Church of England sucks.

Actually, I've been getting letters and flyers through the post. I don't know how these people know. Someone must tip them off. Medical believers, or my mum for all I know. But I've had at least ten different calls on my soul come through the letter-box since I was terminal, which begs the question: Why doesn't God use e-mail? (Oh, come on that was damned funny.) They all profess to be able to save me. Or something. They make me so angry. Their certainty may do for them, but it doesn't do for me. Let's be honest, there's much more chance of me winning the lottery than there is of me reaching an afterlife, and that's with me never buying tickets.

But when I do see an afterlife in my mind's eye, a fleeting moment, a few seconds of video, I see me sat on those rocks on the Strand, gazing out to sea. There are worse ways of connecting with eternity, or nothingness. You know, and I know, I won't make a fuss about dying. Will soldier on, keep calm and carry on, put on a brave face, say and do the right things, be a man. That's what my upbringing, the holy trinity, that's what it did teach me and it comes easily to me.

But I want you to know, Ruth, I'm furious. Beyond my reckoning and comprehension. It probably looked to you that I didn't rage against the dying of the light, that I did go gentle, but I'm telling you here from the beyond, I'm telling you from here on Trebarwith Strand, that I didn't. I ran and I cried and I yelled, and they dragged me screaming through the valley of the shadow of death. And I wasn't ready. And I wasn't saved."


Tuesday 14 May 2013

Michelin-Starred Chefs - More Sauce Please...

(Another excerpt from our novel 'Farewell Trip')

A Michelin-starred restaurant. 2008

They have just ordered. He is on edge.

“I won't shush. It's ridiculous. There wasn't a bottle of wine on that list for under £35. That's outrageous.”

“I suppose it is a bit much.”

“I don't mind paying for good food, but there's no need to pay five-star hotel prices on all the other stuff as well. And then you have to talk bollocks with the wine waiter.”

“The sommelier.”

“Bless you. And he sells you something for £50 which you and he both know full well you can buy down Tesco's for a tenner. I don't care how posh the nosh is, they should have a decent-priced bottle of plonk on the menu. There, that's my first rule of...”

“Of what?” She tips her head quizzically.

“What would it be called – I'm not sure – restauranteurship?”

“The rule of the restaurateur, I'd say, if I had to. Okay, I'm listening. Have you got some other rules?”

“The chef should be fat. That's my second rule. Never trust a thin chef. It's not like they're eating the food. Although, I suppose here they could; given the portions.” He regards his empty starter plate in slight disappointment.

“Which, no doubt, is your third rule.”

“Exactly, getting with the programme I see. Portion control or, rather, lack of it.”

“My dad used to say the secret of a good meal out was for everyone to pat their bellies at the end and say 'Ooh, I couldn't eat another thing.'” She demonstrates.

“For he had wisdom beyond his years. A small cube of belly pork does not a main course make. If I'm spending a month's salary on some ponced-up fish on a bed of puy lentils and wilted spinach I do not expect to have to get a Chinese takeaway on the way home.”

“This chicken is rubbery.”

“Ah, thank you very much.” He pauses for a sip of wine. “What about you, my little gourmand, provider of fancy finger food at middle-market weddings, provender to the stars. What would your rules be?”

“Well, the fat chef rule is silly, naturally. But I do sort of agree about portions. For me, lunch can be small, dinner not. Let's see, rule number four. No foam. It's disgusting. Looks like a slug's masturbated on my plate.”

“Eeeuw. That's put me right off my lamb done five ways with samphire and cuckoo-spit, or whatever it was I ordered. Remember Lampeter? A night out in the early 80s? Steak and chips. That was the menu. In its entirety.”

“Not forgetting starters.”

“Orange juice, soup of the day, or half a grapefruit.” Pleased with the notion, he raises a glass to her and says as a toast. “Here's to simpler days.”

“You know what I blame for all this modern stuff?”

“What?”

“Taramasalata.”

“Ha, yes. The discovery of the eighties, which as a decade generally has a lot to answer for. Take Simon le Bon, for instance.”

“Number five.” She is warming to her theme. “Sauce. I want sauce. Not a smear of something looking like it might have been lurking in your underpants for a few weeks. Nor a little circular blob of nothing. I want sauce. Served separately if need be.”

“Ooh, get you. I thought you liked all this stuff.”

“I do. I really do like fine food. Good grub. And I especially like it when it's a bit exciting, different, when it's stuff I can't make at home. Like a rack of lamb, for example. It's impossible to tell how long you need to cook it for it to be perfectly pink - you need repetition to know. And fresh stuff – remember that place on the Orkneys where the bloke came out of the sea with the scallops, walked into the restaurant and we were eating them ten minutes later? And techniques that are beyond my capabilities, and taste combinations beyond my imaginings. And I do like it when it looks good. But that should be a bonus, the icing on the cake. Or something.”

“Excellent, our manifesto is taking shape...should I be taking notes?”

“Number six. White plates. I don't want my food served on a chopping board, or on a plate the shape of a fish.”

“Or on a slate. I hate that.”

“Exactly.”

His turn. “Seven. I don't want someone hovering round the table waiting to pour the wine. I'm perfectly capable of pouring my own wine. It stops conversation and it's embarrassing, and I feel like I have to say thank you every time, otherwise it's like they're my slave or something.”

“Yes, and I feel like a flipping alcoholic when we've emptied the bottle and our main course hasn't even arrived. And, worse, when they take the wine away from the table, like here, what’s that about?”

“Indeed.” He nips up and gets the wine from where the waiter stashed it. “And tasting wine. What's that little song and dance about?”

“No, that's okay, I'll allow it. It has a purpose, as long as it's a decent bottle of wine and the person tasting can actually tell if the wine's corked or not.” She looks at the finished bottle and then back to him.

“Counts me out.”

“'Fraid so, love.”

“Ok, eight, ambience. I don't want to eat food in a church. All starched linen and silent homage to the food. Conscious of the sound of your own voice and of other tables listening in. Hearing the scratch of knives on plates.”

She nods in agreement, then adds, "But I don’t want the tables too close together either. You know, where you feel you have to keep talking all the time, else other people are going to be thinking, 'look at that old married couple with nothing to say to each other.'"

"Bless. And dress code? People should make some sort of an effort. I don't want to look at some fat bloke hanging out of a pair of shorts when I'm eating, for crissakes.”

“Yes, although I refer you back to the stuffiness in rule 8. Okay, that's nine. We should have ten, don't you think, make it nice and round?”

He thinks. “How about tipping? Don't add a service charge unless it's definitely going to the staff. I hate that. Including the ones that keep the card payments for themselves. I won't go in those restaurant chains that flout that one. Much prefer it to be voluntary and left in cash.”

“I like it if the staff share their tips though. It's a team game. I always share any extras on my jobs.”

“Excellent. Ten rules of the restaurateur. So, to recap, we want fine food in a lively atmosphere, cooked by a fat chef…"

"served on white plates…"

"with plenty of food…"

"and sauce...”

“and no foam, washed down with a fairly-priced bottle of plonk with a screw-top lid which we can pour ourselves.”

“And we'll tip what we like.”

“Blimey, where on earth do we find a place like that? How's your rabbit risotto?”

“Um, what's the word? Pedestrian.”

“Really? The Telegraph gave it 9 out of 10 last week.”

Wednesday 8 May 2013

Tweet, Tweet

Somewhat against my better judgement, my sister-in-law has persuaded me to join Twitter. Her argument was that it would raise my profile. My thought was it would give me something to look at on my new smart phone, should I ever get around to turning it on.

I assume Judy meant it would raise my work profile. So she'll probably be aghast to learn that my first 15 followers other than her, are all dead-beat gamblers, and that my first tweet was a losing tip in the Chester Cup.

On the plus side, I have been told that Twitter offers a means of circumventing the huge firewall that exists between aspiring writers and the publishing world. I think the idea is that you somehow follow (stalk) a load of agents and publishers – beguile them with your witty, insightful and clever tweets and - before you know it - housey, housey, book bingo.

Plainly, what we need to find is an agent/publisher with a fondness for Shropshire, and a chronic gambling affliction.

I fully expect Karin to join in so that we can charge headlong into the guns together. Those of you already on Twitter, do come and follow us.


@GaryTwynam
#Let'sgetfuckingpublished
or something...


Monday 29 April 2013

Romantic fiction, anyone?

I wrote several novels before Gary and I collaborated on Farewell Trip.  They were my way into writing - a toe dipped into the frothy bubble bath of romantic fiction.  I bashed them out (or most of them) during the months of November 2008, 2009 and 2010 for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month http://www.nanowrimo.org/) when the goal is to write 50,000 words in 30 days.  

It's easier than you'd think, the secret is you have to think of writing and nothing else. 1666 words a day, every day till it's done, no excuses.  In 2007, the first year I tried, I had no idea of a story and not a clue who the characters would be.  I managed 5000 words in a week and then gave it up as too hard.  

The next year, I planned in advance (well, sort of) and went in with the merest glimmer of a plotline, but no real idea of the people about whom I was writing.  Adam and Stella soon popped into my head though and brought their story with them.  I achieved the 50k words in 30 days and went on to finish the book in (a far too wordy for its content) 100k words.  I still think about them occasionally - they were sweeties and really deserved better writing than the writing they got.  They gave me one of the best Novembers in my life.  Maybe one day soon I'll go back and do a rewrite.  

In recent weeks I have been filling the gap between Farewell Trip and Got It For A Song by tightening up the 2009 NaNo project.  I'm fond of this novel too, not least because the original idea was one gifted to me by none other than Mr Twynam (though I'm pretty certain he didn't expect the fluffy chicklit treatment).  

If you turn your eyes to the top bar above, you'll be able to click on a new button entitled Hallowshill and read the first chapter.  You'll notice a difference in style, I should think.  

Monday 22 April 2013

Have you ever had to push, push, push...

For most self-employed trainers, finding work is a challenge. It's not your brilliance as a trainer that's key, it's your ability to sell yourself. And many of us struggle with this. I've spent many an evening with fellow trainers, getting drunk on all our wonderful business ideas which would transform the world and our bank balances, if only someone would give us a chance. We're talented and fun. Good people. Bad at business.

Getting published is the same. It would be lovely to think of a world where one's own book was immediately identified as worthy of a place on a modest shelf somewhere. Sadly, it's pretty obvious that whilst writing a good book is usually necessary, it's often not sufficient. The quality of one's final draft is important, for sure. But not as important as what's really needed for advancement in today's world: Networking skills, brass neck, and persistence.

Of course, some people stumble across agents and publishers because of the circles they move in. I've lost count of the number of times I've read authors saying something like, “I was at a dinner party in Chiswick, hosted by my good friend, Penelope Cholmondely-Warner, when I mentioned I was having a stab at writing a novel and, as luck would have it, uber-agent Peter Straus was there and signed me on the spot.”

This makes the rest of us feel sorry for ourselves. As a collective noun, how about a maudlin of unpublished authors? We mooch around, getting chippy, crying into our half-empty glasses, darkly. It's pathetic and it needs to stop. We're letting the pushy, the connected and the thick-skinned fill the shelves where our own work should be. We need to toughen up. Research. Focus. Believe. Attack.




Wednesday 10 April 2013

The Last Piece of the Jigsaw

We've finished our book. By which we mean we're happy with all the constituent parts and at the moment feel no need for further revisions. We may tweak the odd sentence, amend the odd typo and edit any anomaly, but otherwise it's off in search of a publisher.

So, here's the very last piece to be written, which actually appears quite early in the book, in Trip's second letter. When I was at Lampeter there really was a student production of The Fiddler on the Roof, but I have to say they did it far more traditionally and successfully than Trip and Ruth.



I remember the first time I said “I love you”. You've spent most of your life trying to erase it from your memory. Our final year at Lampeter. Our moment in the spotlight as the director and star of Fiddler on the Roof. Which even now seems a startlingly original version. What with the Russian Jews becoming teepee-dwelling hippies in Wales. And all the male parts being played by women and vice versa. And you were great in the Topol role. I loved “If I was a Rich Girl”. All those lyrical changes we had to make. You loved all that. And guaranteed to offend just about everyone.

We poured ourselves into that for weeks, didn't we? All for one glorious night, capped by a wonderfully improvised climax. When the Fiddler fell off the Roof. Once we were sure I hadn't broken any bones and the curtain had come down on us, literally, we were the only ones left. You were tending to me.

“You know if we ever make another musical together...” I said.

“Promise me, we won't.”

“Well, if we ever do, there's gonna be a few changes.”

“Like what?”

“No sheep, for starters.” We laughed. Well, I laughed. You had tears in your eyes. ”You know Ruth, it really wasn't that bad. No-one walked out. They laughed all the way through. In the wrong places, admittedly. But you were great. Really. I was so proud”

And then I said it. First time ever. To anyone.


Sunday 7 April 2013

Writing limbo


I'm in limbo and I'm not coping with it very well.

My bits on the final draft of Farewell Trip are done and Gary's are on the way. Even if he identifies a few more tweaks, they're likely to be fiddling with what's already there, rather than new additions. So I'm between projects.

We've done some initial thinking about the new book – got the glimmer of a plot and a couple of interesting characters. I'm especially excited about the alcoholic solicitor who is friends with my main character. She drinks scotch and I think she may have an eye patch. Gary is hoping to get a car chase in somewhere. Since his character drives a Smart car that will be fun.

However, two engaging main characters do not a novel make. We ain't getting nowhere without a story and, frankly, we're in a bit of a pickle with this. We need a proper plot before any actual writing can be done. We've learned from Ruth and Trip that it helps to be clear about where the story is headed before we start generating words. Having an end point to aim for is particularly important to save us drifting in and out of different storylines, then having to go back to straighten things out. Two of us writing gives double the potential for inventive leaps in plotting, but the flip side of that is there's twice the probability we'll end up in a story cul-de-sac. It'll be the more complicated this time around since we won't have the structure of letters, narrative and camera's-eye view that Farewell Trip does.

So, I am left cogitating and contemplating; coming up with bits of back story, trying to fix my detective in my mind. Who is she? How does she react to the world around her? What colour underwear does she choose? (White, if you're interested. She also uses Blue Loo in her toilet, likes sausages and breeds rats.)

This is fun and makes for stimulating journeys to work and back. But it doesn't take the place of writing, actually sitting down to bash words onto the page. I have whole evenings to fill and plotlines, character development and back story just don't cut it.

This weekend I've been desperate enough to go back to an old story. It's very much lowest common denominator romance, but I like the people in it, so I'm tightening it up and will send it to some e-publishers once it's done. It's filling the gap. Sort of.


Thursday 28 March 2013

The editing process


Earlier this week, Gary came to stay overnight so we could do some work on the book. This is what transpired:

13:40 Pick up Gary from train station
14:00 Sit down at kitchen table with a cup of coffee (Gary) and a cup of tea (me). Discuss our various partners, loinfruit, pets, work.
15:00 Read through the comments that our alpha readers have made.
15:10 Sit in silence wondering where to go from there
15:25 Sit in silence a bit longer contemplating the printed off version of the book lying on the kitchen table between us.
15:40 Decide to work through the feedback comments one by one.
15:41 Sit in silence not quite sure how to go about it
15:45 Eat 3 satsumas (me)
15.55 Eat 2 satsumas because they smell nice (Gary)
16:01 Decide to go to the pub
16:02 Promise Mr W we will ring him when we are done so he can join us for a drink
16:05 Are appalled at the cost of wine in the pub (£18 the cheapest bottle!)
16:06 Buy a bottle of shiraz, a pint of Tribute and a pot of pistachio nuts
16:07 Open our notebooks, get out the printed feedback comments, begin to discuss them
17:45 Buy another bottle of shiraz
17:50 Clap our hands to our foreheads when we realise we have forgotten Mr W
17:52 Buy a pint of cider for Mr W, a pot of pistachios and a pot of cashews
18:02 Mr W arrives
18:05 Mr W asks whether this is our second bottle of wine. We say no and are pretty sure we've got away with it
18:35 Mr W buys another pint. We refrain from buying another bottle of wine and congratulate each other on being so sensible
19:00 I announce there is no way I can cook supper. Gary suggests the Indian up the hill.
19:15 Arrive at the top of the hill, Mr W has to ask for the table because we can't talk
19:17 Gary decides he wants a different table
19:30 Gary orders a bottle of red wine and a beer for Mr W
19:31-21:30 Food comes. Another bottle of wine comes. Another beer for Mr W comes. Although possibly not in that order, I can't be sure
21:30 Gary and I fight about who is paying the bill. Gary wins. Gary pays the bill
21:35 Gary goes for a pee. In his absence I tell Mr W we should pay the bill. He tells me Gary has already done so. I don't believe him. He assures me that this is the case. I don't believe him but, in a triumph of self-restraint, I don't make an issue of it
21:40 Head home down the hill managing not to a) fall over or b) get run over
22:00 Offer Gary another bottle of wine which he declines in favour of a pint of water.
Sometime after 22:00 Go to bed.



Wednesday 20 March 2013

General Feedback on First Draft

I gave our finished draft to four people for feedback. One is still reading, which is, I feel, its own feedback. Here's an overview of the rest.

An old friend came to stay last week and I gave him a copy to take on the train home with him. I was a bit worried, given that
(a) he's a bloke and the book is all about love and stuff.
(b) he's not easily impressed.

So it was fun to receive the following three facebook messages over the next 12 hours.

"I am fucking loving your book. It needs a tidy up here and there, but some of it is absolutely brilliant."

"54% through. Need to sleep, but your bloody book is too good to put down."

"Fanfuckingtastic. You and Karin should be very proud of yourselves. That book is brilliant."


He later gave me some incredibly useful specific feedback that helps me with Trip's back-story, something my next reader was scathing about. This is the person who edited my Shropshire book. She pulls no punches at all. Which is an impressive thing for a friend to be able to do. In my experience most people glide over their misgivings with polite platitudes. Instead, she said (and I pick out the starting-points of several pages of knife wounds):


"I have no mental picture of either Trip and Ruth and cannot imagine how I would feel about either of them if I met them..."
(I will come back to this in a future post because I have been thinking about it a lot.)

"I have a problem with Trip in that I don't really believe he can exist in this form..."

"Ruth is a bit bland at the moment..."

"Do get on and tidy it up as I think it could be really good."


And, finally, I gave it to my wife to read. Anne is an English Lit grad, so naturally I expected insightful critique and deep textual analysis. Her feedback in full:

"I never knew Neil Diamond wrote 'Girl, You'll be a Woman Soon.'"


Karin's experiences to follow...