It does bother me that I spend everyday writing, but never allow myself time to sit and read a book these days. But, I have decided to stop beating myself up about it because I do read. I read a lot, but not always in the good old-fashioned way.
These days, thanks to the Internet, it is so easy to tap into a plethora of resources for literature, art and just about everything else… 24/7. So I quench my constant thirst for knowledge browsing the Net.
A chick, in my book, is a baby chicken covered in downy, yellow feathers up until the age of 6-weeks. I’ve always bristled when the term is applied to young women, and I have always subconsciously disassociated myself from Chick lit, believing the genre to be driven by scantily clad, sex-driven female main characters. I couldn’t have been more wrong and, although I’m not a fan of categories, it’s time to reassess the genre I think I’ve been writing in.
I have never been so emotionally involved in an American Presidential Election in my life but, since last Tuesday, I have been glued, as America’s future teetered on a knife-edge, and I’m not even American.
Thousands of miles away from America, the land of the free, we heard the news we were hoping for. We cried, imbibed and danced to Kool & The Gang’s Celebration on our patio in the middle of our night waving sparklers in the air. The feeling of joy, as well as relief for a bunch of Brits thousands of miles away, was very real.
You’ll have written the synopsis, well, you have written hundreds of different versions of the damn thing which you don’t think does your story justice, but you pick what you think is the best one and send it off with your query letter and wait.
This is the point where you need to start managing your expectations. My carefully chosen mantra is rejection is not the end, although it might feel like it, it’s just a step on the path.
As the world prepares themselves to face another major battle against the invisible killer, COVID-19, we all anxiously await the results of today’s US election, while willing Biden to cross the line with a clear majority.
If he doesn’t, another Trump administration would be disastrous. More disruptive to U.S. foreign policy and world affairs than during the past four years. Think on. Think BBC TV’s Years and Years – a ghastly cliche in so many senses of the words.
I am about to start submissions, again, so I hope this one doesn’t come back to bite me! I wrote this doggerel almost thirty years ago. It was inspired by an experience I had at sixteen when I still had, misguided, aspirations about pursuing a career on the stage.
‘Of course, men always look at the mother first to see if they are ageing well. Hopefully, you will age well, Lisa, dear, but that is one reason I always spend time making myself look as good as possible. Mind you, I look so young you and I could easily be sisters. I look at myself in the mirror every morning, and I find it impossible to believe that I’m thirty-six. On a bad day, I only look twenty-five. Unfortunately, you’ve inherited more of your father’s genes on the facial front. I think it’s fair to say you look more like him than me.’ The mention of her father sparked disinterest, and Lisa turned back to look at her typewriter.
She closed her eyes.
‘Forty-years-old and no husband. It’s unthinkable. How could it possibly happen to a daughter of mine?’
Having a forty-year-old daughter did not sit comfortably with Cynthia, especially a forty-year-old unmarried one. She squirmed inwardly, turning up her stinky fish nose and pursing her lips as the phrase spinster of the parish flashed into her mind.
She wasn’t really surprised. She always felt Katie’s choice of men over the years had been questionable. Probably satisfying in the bedroom department perhaps, but none of them ever had any money.
In Cynthia’s mind, money, lots of it, and preferably a title were the essential ingredients to sustain a successful marriage.
THE EDITING NIGHTMARE – THE END! Well, all bar the kicking, screaming and the next wave of submissions. Or should that be the other way around?
I have been pussyfooting around the final edit since the beginning of September 2020. After receiving amazing feedback for Say it, I’ve been putting off restructuring the final draft. As of Monday, I am pleased to announce that I finally kicked the procrastination, knuckled down and willingly went into self-induced […]
At the age of fifteen, Lisa believed she was going to be a one-woman equivalent of Rodgers and Hammerstein II and mounted a production of her first musical.
Capturing the essence of a 90,000 words (±) novel is a bloody nightmare. We spend weeks, months and years, scripting stories, creating characters, in 500; is a bloody nightmare. Or is it because and I’m trying too hard too hard in my attempts to wow a potential agent?
The Secret Lives of The Doyenne of Didsbrook is a murder mystery spoof. The sleepy market town of Didsbrook is thrown into turmoil after the town’s most flamboyant resident, the much-loved actress turned best-selling novelist, Jocelyn Robertshaw, is found dead.
It should have been my first summer of love with that ridiculous Atticus Ridley. Why his parents chose to call him after an ancient Greek philosopher is a mystery. Looking back, I think his Christian name affected him psychologically, especially at school, when his classmates nicknamed him Abacus. Mind you, he was brilliant with figures even as a child, which I suppose is why he became an accountant. Then, of course, there was his OCD problem – a constant obsession with cleaning. The upside of that was I never had to lift a finger in the housework department.
Fight for the things that you care about, but do it in a way that will lead others to join you. Ruth Bader Ginsburg 15th March 1933 – 18th September 2020
The thought of writing a memoir had never crossed my mind. I’ve listened intently as members of my writers’ group read from their life writings. One member decided to defy convention and sail around the world with her children. Another lived in India for years to learn the practice of Ayurveda, a form of traditional Indian medicine. Both amazing life experiences. But, consciously thinking about writing about my life experiences might not have occurred to me but, the fact was, I’d been doing it for years.
My printer ink reservoir of patience and calm has run dry. I am exhausted and stressed – not a good place to be. I am in mourning for my late lamented printer.
I first became aware of Gerald Durrell when someone gave me a copy of one of his books. After reading that book, My Family and Other Animals, I learned that Gerald Durrell had started a ‘zoo’ in Jersey, Channel Islands. As I would find out later, through my own first-hand experience, it was – and still is – so much more than a ‘zoo’.
When your writing life begins to smack of lemons, you start questioning your ability. Have you really got the courage to take that leap of faith and separate yourself from the rest of the pack? However determined you are to get into print, it is not enough. You need courage, shedloads of […]