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."

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.”

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...

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.  

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.

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.

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.