It's a Real Crime

In the last few days, all eager to get going, I’ve started a new novel. This is despite getting emails from two agents saying they are sad, but they’re passing on the opportunity to take my other one. This is not good news, but there are plenty others I tell myself - sticking stamps on the envelopes of the next batch - maybe this time ...

But still, it hasn’t helped to learn the public has developed a taste for reading crime over romantic fiction. It seems Public Lending Rights, who monitor what goes on in our public libraries, maintain Crime Fiction has overtaken Romantic Fiction in the library popularity stakes. Apparently what we want in these gritty social and economic times, is even grittier fiction. We’ve thrown over the chance of a 'will she won’t she,' good story, followed by a smoochy happy ending, in favour of yarns about the slayings of schoolgirls and other bloody thrillers of the likes written by James Patterson .

And if that’s not enough for me to deal with, a friend recently asked if she could read one of my short stories. Ignoring the publishers habitually repeated dictum, “The only person who gets a free copy is your mother,” I offered her A Cat About the House, recently published in the anthology, Its Never too Late to Fall in Love

 You’d think I was being seditious even offering it.

“What! I didn’t realise you wrote Romantic Fiction – Why?”

When friends respond like that, why indeed? Well to make money wouldn’t go amiss – not that at the moment there's much chance. I love doing it, sounds a bit weak and self indulgent, but its true, I really do. Getting stuck into writing a story is akin to going on holiday to my way of thinking. But in truth, I want others to have a good time, forget about their troubles for a short while and enjoy reading what I write. If I achieve that, then I'll have achieved the greatest thrill from writing.

Nice Girls Aren't Pushy

How to self-promote when you’re a new writer? This is tricky. When I still had a day job, my repeated mantra to diffident colleagues looking to improve their prospects tended to be, “If you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will." And I still believe this to be true, a real shame then I can’t take my own advice.

    At the risk of being controversial, there are times when I should just ditch my mother, not the real one of course, but that ‘censoring voice of mother’ that whispers in my ear, “Norma dear, nice girls aren’t that pushy.”

    Take last Thursday as an example. I’m at the Romantic Novelists’ Association Industry Panel event. http://www.rna-uk.org/The three speakers have finished answering our questions and we’re having tea and a chat. There’s a really approachable agent and I’m dying to talk to her, but it is sooooo hard. I saunter up, she’s talking to another so, trying my hardest not to look like I’m waiting in line, I admire the paintings on the wall behind her head. Fiddling with a biscuit, I make inconsequential conversation with another writer, who’s also trying to look like she just admiring the paintings.

    Both of us fully know the truth. We really want to tell this guardian of a gateway to successful publication, our books are, ‘the next best thing,’ and she’d be mad not to grab us while she can.

    And when I get to speak to the agent, what do I say – not  a practised hard sell about my brilliance as a writer, or even that I’ve a finished book – oh no, I mumble something about how awful it must be to be approached by yet another pushy author. The agent, newly arrived from New York, where I guess they do things differently, gives me a quizzical look. I make some weakish joke about having my mother on my shoulder – she looks at me again as if I’m mad and I retire - to kick myself. In a previous existence I’ve actually run assertiveness training courses, I’ve advised others what to do, I know all the theory – so why the hell can’t I do it for myself. Eh?

Passion in the Potato Patch, or the art of finding an agent and other assorted writing trials

Anyone will tell you nowadays, a writer who wants to be published needs a literary agent. So where to begin? Online is an obvious place to start, or possibly a troll through the Writers’ and Artists’ Year book. http://www.writersandartists.co.uk/

With rookie optimism I try both. Hours later and the only thing I’m certain about - writing the book’s the easy bit. Okay, I already knew sending an unrepresented baby off to a publisher, is a sure way straight to the shredder bin. But agents are tricky customers to catch and surprisingly few are in the least bit interested in Romantic Fiction.

I sort out a handful of hopefuls who look like they might be sympathetic. Treat it as a job application says one bit of advice, 'I'm only human so  spell my name right,' the plea from another. I only take electronic submissions says a third, I only take paper submissions, a forth. Some like particular fonts or a writing C.V. All want a one page synopsis. None of them seem likely to respond to a bribe of homemade blackberry jam or a basket of vegetables from my allotment, which is a pity as I seem to have a glut of both.

 And then there is something called The Agent’s Letter. This is the key. No matter how good your manuscript is, if you don’t catch their eye with your letter, you’ll never get off the slush pile. Start with a sure fire hook is the advice I find on the internet. But what exactly is a hook? A sentence or a phrase, or possibly a single word (if it's exactly the right word) that sums up the book. Which is where ‘Passion in the Potato Patch,’ comes in – sometimes I think that husband of mine doesn’t take my writing as seriously as he might – you wait, one day I’ll be signing copies in Waterstones ... and then who’ll be laughing? Eh! 

I have to write a Short Bio about myself. I look a few up to get some idea what to write. Have you noticed that no writer is ever run of the mill? One I find describes herself as being the sole child of a teacher and a circus clown. But I am ordinary. About the most exciting thing about me is that I’ve actually written 93,000 words in book form. I was a special needs teacher at one time, and I love gardening. I was feature of the month in a publication called Hot Stuff a while back, but don't get excited, it was only because I make lampwork glass beads as a hobby.  

Now my letter is written. I’ve got together my first three chapters, a synopsis and neatly compiled a writer’s C.V (at least with two short stories published I’ve something to put in it now, though it still looks like the shortest C.V ever) But even thus prepared, current wisdom says I might not get my manuscript read. With thousands of hopefuls sending off novels every year, finding an agent is starting to seem actually harder than getting published. But if you can’t get published without an agent ... I feel a ‘Catch 22’ situation coming on.

Christmas Pudding

Cleaning up this morning after our Boxing day family party, I unearthed the remains of the Christmas cake – and ate it. What with that moment of weakness and the assault I made on last night’s lemon mousse, I feel a new fitness regime is in order even before the New Year bites.

A Moment of Modest Glory

Rumour has it that aspiring authors should avoid cliches like the plague, but at times like this I can’t see how they can be avoided. As with those mythical buses alleged to turn up in pairs, the moment you think getting one story into an anthology is excitement enough, another one gets published.

So please allow me to kill two birds with one stone; I’m so excited about my double moment of glory. I've had TWO stories published in almost as many weeks.

Okay, I’d be living in a fool’s paradise not to realise, two stories do not a writing career make and are a far cry from getting a complete book published, but you’ve got to start somewhere.

So it's time to start touting my newly finished novel around to an agent or two. (If you know of anyone interested in an upbeat romantic tale about a young woman gardener, please get word to me straight away.) In the meantime, should you fancy a good read, both anthologies are now available to order from your local bookshop or on Amazon:

Voices of Angels - Bridge House Publishing
It's Never Too Late To Fall in Love - U3A Press

And my apologies for all the cliches, I got a bit carried away in the excitement.

What a Sloppy Blogger

What a sloppy little blogger I am. Summer’s come and gone – again – and I’ve not posted a word on here since the start of August. No excuses, except life tends to take over when daylight hours are long. Next week the clocks change and, despite this morning’s warm sun, the frost of a few days ago has done for the birch leaves, and they’ve yellowed and scattered all over the lawn. If the wind keeps up, no doubt the beech leaves will be next. The few flowers left in my garden, the cosmos and a straggling dahlia or two, have taken on that cold pinched look that tells me it won’t be long now before they blacken and wilt.  

The chill in the air comes as a bit of a shock. A little over a week ago I was travelling up the Douro valley on a cruise ship, sun hat and sunglasses at the ready, a glass of port wine close at hand. No way am I a hot house flower. I like my weather cool, my mood melancholy. My usual holidays are taken in Scotland, but a friend and I got tempted and I’ve just spent a week with her in what is really a very luxurious holiday camp.

Trips out to view ancient churches stuffed with gold, three gourmet meals a day and all with on board entertainment as part of the package. At times rather surreal, but I enjoyed the experience just the same. Sometimes it’s good to do something completely different. I realise I spend so much time being earnest and trying too hard, that I often forget to have fun. So thank you little boat on the Douro river, thank you kind friend who came with me. I am grateful you reminded me how to laugh.

What is the strangest thing you've ever had stolen?

What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever had stolen? While not being exactly a ‘leave your back door open’ sort of place, where I live is hardly a hot bed of crime. The occasional upset does happen though, like the other week, when my next door neighbour’s bike was pinched from his back garden. Not a top of the range, mountain bike you understand, but a scratched yellow workhorse, he uses to tow a kids’ trailer to and from school. A doubly cruel blow as the bike and trailer, complete with his 5yr old twins, is the high-visibility part of the local bike bus. A scheme to encourage the local kids to be healthy and ride their bikes to school.

The theft of the bike was quite enough to make us all rather twitchy - and then soon after - there was the case of my missing sandals. Full of sand, I’d thrown them out by the back door, intending to give them a good scrub when I came back from a morning walk.  An hour later they were gone. Some pots, previously piled neatly by the shed door, lay scattered around. It was so obvious. The intruder had returned and moved the pots, hoping to find a hidden key and, as unlikely as it might seem, had also ‘borrowed’ my sandals. Our little row of houses was on the alert.

My man, a practical type, was spurred to action. We now have a new high security back garden fence, complete with gate and bolt, painted a tasteful light green. I’ve even bought a pair of replacement sandals. (The previous pair, though 10 years old, were tough ‘walking’ sandals, their replacement a truly eye watering price.)

Imagine my annoyance to discover another person who lives nearby, had found a Labrador puppy from the big house just down the road, chewing an old pair of sandals in his garden. Both puppy, and presumably sandals, were chased home.  

A prompt visit to the puppy’s owner. Yes, they said, a real puzzle, an anonymous pair of sandals had turned up in their hall, and yes, the same puppy loved to carry flower pots around. Wasn’t that funny?  I was not terribly amused. Their puppy had caused us considerable expense, not to mention the work and the worry of having a supposed intruder in the garden. I left with my sandals in hand, determined to be cross and unforgiving. Until this evening. An apologetic card pushed through the door, a bunch of flowers on the doorstep and all is forgiven.