Showing posts with label writer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writer. Show all posts
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
Liebster Blog Award
Liebster is a German word meaning dearest, and the award is given to up-and-coming bloggers with less than 200 followers. I was delighted to receive my award from the lovely and talented Janice Horton.
Janice has written a wonderful debut novel entitled, Bagpipes & Bullshot. Her second book, Reaching for the Stars, is due for publication on 14th December 2011. Janice is a talented writer, a lovely lady and a great supporter of fellow writers and their blog posts. I only wished I lived closer so that we could share a natter and a coffee occasionally! Thank you very much for my award Janice.
If you receive the award, you should:
1. Thank the giver and link back to the blogger who gave it to you.
2. Reveal your top five picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Copy and paste the award on your blog.
4. Hope that the people you’ve sent the award to forward it to their five favourite bloggers and keep it going!
This is the nice side of a chain letter. It’s always good to be appreciated and too often we are all quick to criticise and slow to praise. So here are some virtual pats on the back to five of my favourite bloggers.
Maria Smith is a talented writer of dark fiction and as you read this, is probably tapping away on the keyboard as she's taking part in this year's NaNoWriMo. I first met Maria on twitter and have since shared several cups of coffee and slices of cake with her in different Nottingham cafes. Maria is always just a click away to offer support, ideas and great conversation.
Rosemary Gemmell is another great supporter. Rosemary doesn't just click to follow your blog and rarely visits again. She always drops by and leaves a cheerful comment and I'm always delighted to see her name on my posts. Rosemary's debut novel is called, Dangerous Deceit and was published in May 2011. She is a freelance writer of short stories and articles in UK magazines.
Kay is a short story writer who decided to establish a reading group. Having read Kay's blog, I'm delighted to hear that it very successful with many members attending. Kay is a lovely twitter friend who regularly keeps in touch.
Pam Mcllroy is a delightful lady who runs the book club I attend. (At Broadway Cinema, Nottingham) She is a readaholic who is always ready to chat with a ready smile - just don't eat rice pudding near her!
Megan Taylor is a warm friendly, talented writer. I first met her at Nottingham Writers' Studio and have listened to her read extracts from her books several times. She is visiting Pam's Broadway Book Club tomorrow evening as we're discussing The Dawning. (24th Nov) Megan's books are How We Were Lost and The Dawning.
I would recommend these lovely ladies' blogs if you're not already following them. They'll put a smile on your face and teach you a thing or two as well!!
Sunday, 9 October 2011
Out With The Old...
It's been a stressful week and my new computer relationship isn't working out. At the moment it's not a happy one.
Having returned from a wonderful holiday visiting my sister in California, I was looking forward to knuckling down to my novel. Firstly I was going to write a blog post about my visit, as I hadn't seen my sister in five years.
Have you seen that advert on television - the one with the "noooooo" face, when your computer 'does one?' Well, no sooner had I'd laughed at the advert, than I was making my own "noooooo" face!
The mouse arrow locked, the key pad didn't work and I was stuck. Of course I tried the famous tried and tested cure-all. I switched the computer off and on again. But no. My mouse had squeaked its last and my keyboard didn't respond to desperate begging.
Having run the Toshiba help line, which cost a fortune per minute, it was recommended that I have my data recovered. What about me? I needed to recover too! Then I realised he meant that it needed saving onto a hard drive.
This is where I hide in shame and you tut at me. It had been about six weeks since I'd saved my work. (sounds like I'm back in the confessional box) I know, I know! It's my own fault. I broke the golden rule. But how many of us finish a few hundred words and put the kettle on? Or someone calls you from another room. I just got out of the habit, and as is always the case, the best lessons are learnt from mistakes.
Having got a quote from a recovery service who said I had to POST my computer to them for a fee of £200, I decided to go to my local PC World. Well they were wonderful, or at least a young man called Steve was. He calmly explained that if I a bought a cheap hard drive, he'd recover my work, if it was possible!!
If it was possible??? It hadn't occurred to me that it wouldn't be possible. I think I frightened him with my "noooooo" face again! I had a novel, half a new novel, poetry, short stories, photographs....well you know what we writers have on our computers. I didn't have a choice. I had to trust him and leave my years of work in his hands. The twinge I got when I walked out of the store was similar to the feeling I got when I left my children at nursery for the first time when they were four. Could others care for something that is precious to me, as carefully as I do?
Don't you just hate it when someone says they've got good news and bad news for you? Do you take the good news and run so you don't have to hear the bad? Do you hear the bad first and hope the good out-weighs it?
I asked for the good news. He'd saved all my data! Hooray! What could possily be bad after that?
The bad news was that it would cost almost as much to fix my three year old laptop as it would to buy a new one. AND it would have to be sent away so I couldn't write, tweet, blog etc for a week. I can't say it was an easy decision to say good-bye to my tired Toshiba. I knew his idiosyncrasies, I knew what buttons to push and was comfortable in his company. Now I have a shiny new Dell. I haven't got to know him yet and I'm still a bit wary. He makes strange noises, has different buttons, feels different and I think he's a bit domineering. I suppose we just need to spend some time together and get to know each other.
One thing he hasn't got that my old computer had.
MY BLOODY PHOTOS!
Not a bean. Just dull pictures of flowers which he gave me as a gift when I bought him. I clicked on 'photos' and there they were. Drooping and glaring at me in a too-bright-yellow. Where were my precious family photographs? My holiday photographs? Hundreds of them. Then I thought that my old computer must have held onto them as a desperate bid to take him back. (I really wish I didn't give objects anthropomorphic qualities. It just makes life more stressful and guilt-ridden.)
Should I encourage my old and new computers to connect and work together in harmony - sharing the photos? Or do you think I should get a solicitor involved?
I think I'll go back to Steve at PC World!
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
The Hougoumont
During the autumn of 1867, an incongruous group of sack-clothed men huddled close to the harbour wall at Sheerness. Gusts whipped around their bodies, their arms folded tightly across their chests as protection against the biting wind. They shuffled from leg to leg, trying to keep warm in their inadequate clothing, but also trying to alleviate the muscle pain from walking with the weight of leg chains. Above them, pewter clouds sped across the skies at the mercy of the gales, whilst an insipid sun shone pale lemon beams of sunlight onto the choppy seas.
Silas Dredge was amongst this group. He sniffed, cleared his throat and sidled closer to the bearded man on his left.
“Any idea where they’re sending us?”
The man’s piercing blue eyes stared back at Silas, like sapphires lying in the mud. It appeared that he hadn’t washed in days.
“I’ve heard talk of a place called Freemantle,” he grunted, clearly not in the mood for idle talk.
Silas persisted. “I’m Silas. Silas Dredge.”
“William Pointing.”
“I can’t believe this is happening; being taken away from my pregnant wife and seven bairns, just for collecting firewood.”
William turned towards Silas, his leg chain grating on the ground. He saw a pale wiry man, his neck puckered like smocking. He still had a full head of fair hair which framed his gaunt features. He noticed that Silas’s eyes were kindly, a starburst of wrinkles splaying out from their corners. William relaxed, relieved that he wasn’t making small talk with a murderer.
“Firewood?” he enquired.
“How was I to know that I was on another’s land? I thought I was still in Hickling Woods. I was only trying to keep my family warm. I’m not a brigand.”
After a short pause, William replied quietly, “Seven years.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve got seven years for trying to keep my youngest alive.”
Silas raised an eyebrow by way of a silent enquiry.
“I took some milk from a local farm. My youngest was two months old and sickly. Nancy my wife, she was sick too so she couldn’t feed the baby herself. She begged each day for me to help save our son. What’s a man to do?”
“You were caught?”
William nodded. “I thought he was a friend – the farmer. We used to wave a greeting as we passed. He went straight to the authorities when he found me leaving with a pitcher of milk.”
Silas clenched his fists. “And they say The Blood Code was too harsh,” he hissed. “What do they call this punishment? This isn’t right.” They stood in silence for a minute before Silas enquired, “How’s your bairn?”
William cleared his throat and fidgeted. “He’s with the Lord.”
Silas looked down at his worn shoes and shuffled uncomfortably whilst mumbling his condolences. He changed the subject.
“In different circumstances, I’d say that was a mighty fine ship.”
The two men raised their eyes towards the Hougoumont, a magnificent three-masted fully rigged ship. Its sails fought the blustering gales as they flapped frenziedly, like a trapped butterfly.
“My father used to be in the Navy. If I’m not mistaken, I’d say that’s a Blackwall Frigate,” said William.
Silas shivered but didn’t answer. If he’d met William down the local ale house, he thought, he’d be fascinated to hear about the ship. New friends, bonding over a flagon of ale and a warm fire. Instead they were standing on a bleak dock yard, about to spend several months being transported to a new continent called Australia. And what about his wife Milly and their seven children? She earned a little money repairing neighbours’ clothes, but... Silas wiped away a tear with the back of his rough hand.
“This wind plays havoc with your eyes doesn’t it?”
William smiled weakly and nodded, knowingly.
The large group of men were herded into single file and ordered to stop talking. A guard cajoled and struck out at some of the men.
“Take a last look at your country,” he jeered. “You’ll only see it in your dreams from tonight.” He laughed pitilessly at the line of shivering men. “Now walk,” he ordered.
Rusting leg chains clanked and rattled as the prisoners shuffled one after the other towards the Hougoumont’s gang plank. Silas looked around the dock yard which was bathed in weak autumnal sunlight. Suddenly the colours of the yard faded as grey clouds eclipsed the sun’s weak glow, muting the dull harbour colours a tone darker. He saw the small timber houses in the far distance, framing the dock. Around the perimeter of the harbour he noticed the timber yard, bustling with weary workers. Rolls of rope lay coiled like sleeping serpents at the cordage works, whilst a rhythmical rasping echoed from the saw pits.
As the forlorn line hobbled towards the towering ship, Silas looked into the inky water, gazing at the reflection of the rounded wooden hull at the bow above the waterline. It certainly was a fine ship. If only the circumstances could have been different.
The long line of men shambled in single file, until they reached the gang plank. Here the procession turned at a right angle in order to embark. A fine drizzle now fell from the overcast sky, blown sideways by the continuing gusts.
Silas momentarily closed his eyes against the spray. He belly ached from hunger, his muscles shivered from cold, and now his inadequate clothing was slowly soaking up every drop of rain which fell on him. Hot tears stung his eyes but were instantly wiped away with the back of his coarse hand. He had to be tough to survive this journey, he chided himself.
As he reached the gang plank, he turned to look at William. In turn, William made eye contact and gave a thin-lipped smile and a nod of his head. Strengthened, Silas stepped onto the bridge dividing his homeland and what was to be his prison for the next few months.
He felt the gentle bounce of the wooden gang plank beneath his tread, his nostrils filling with the aroma of rotting salty fish soup. Was that a farmyard he could smell too? Fearful that he might slip and drown now that the gang plank was wet from the rain, he slowed his gait to a shuffle.
“You! Get a move on.”
Silas looked towards the ship, where a guard was pointing at him and scowling.
“I’ve got a hearty meal by the fire, a pitcher of ale and the arms of a warm woman waiting for me at home. Get a move on so I can make haste.”
Silas heard the spiteful laughing of the guards as he finally stood on the deck of the Hougoumont. He was surprised to see sheep being brought on board, but it solved the mystery of the farmyard smell. Inhaling wearily he looked up, his eyes drawn by the flapping of the sails which sounded like the cracking of whips. The three masts, laced with a cobweb of rigging, creaked and groaned above him. He’d heard talk of these magnificent ships but now the dichotomous emotions he was feeling, disorientated him.
A sting of pain stabbed his temple, rendering him senseless for a few seconds. When he opened his eyes, still clutching his head, the same guard grimaced in front of him.
“I can see you’re going to be trouble. You’ll be sorry.” He turned to a younger guard who seemed no older than Silas’s eldest son. “Get him below decks,” he ordered.
Silas was man-handled towards a worn staircase, where he was unceremoniously pushed. As Silas fell into the black nothingness above the stairs, he felt a blissful few seconds of freedom. He was floating, flying weightlessly. An obscure memory flashed through his mind. A hot summer, he was six, swinging on a rope tied to a tree, dappled sunlight shadowing his playmates. A happy memory. Then nothing.
Sometime later, Silas awoke to startlingly blue eyes. William was dripping tepid water into his mouth. The searing pain in his head made him flinch, but he drank thirstily from the cup William was holding.
Peering around the damp stinking murkiness, he became aware that the ship was rocking gently.
“We’ve set sail. How’re you fairing?” asked William.
“I wish the Lord had taken me when I fell.”
“You must be strong. We’ve family to return to.”
Silas sat up shakily in his hammock. “Return?”
“I hear men have returned after several years. Take heart my friend and strengthen your mind. One day we will return to our loved ones.”
Several of the other convicts scoffed as they eavesdropped on their conversation.
“Yer’ll be lucky if yer survive the journey. There’s a sickness that’ll surely come after months at sea,” sneered a toothless convict.
“Don’t listen,” urged William. “Keep strong and focus on your return. Believe that you’ll see your wife and bairns again.”
Silas nodded, lay back, closed his eyes and thought of Milly.
By Angela Barton
Saturday, 30 July 2011
In Hindsight (Chapter 1)

“Liar!”
Ellie Morgan’s coffee mug slipped from her fingers, dropped onto the floor and smashed. Her other hand squeezed her apartment’s door handle so tightly, that her knuckles stood out on her fist like four pale pebbles.
Kate stood defiantly in the doorway, as the gentle strains of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas played in the background. She blinked calmly, unmoved by what she’d just revealed.
“He wouldn’t. I don’t believe you,” continued Ellie, the shake of her head barely perceptible.
Kate tilted her head a fraction to one side and raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you?”
Ellie had been on her way to the kitchen to take some baking out of the oven when a knock on her front door had disturbed her. Now the sweet spicy aroma of cooked mince pies was wafting from the kitchen. She didn’t know whether to rescue her pies or continue to listen to these ridiculous accusations. She decided to stay and listen.
“Why are you doing this?” Ellie frowned. “You said you understood why I’d asked you to leave. I’m sorry if I upset you…”
“Upset me?” Kate laughed, her mouth stretched wide but her eyes remained cold. “You threw me and my daughter out into the street just before Christmas. What would Tom have said about that?”
“Stop bringing Tom into this. You know why I asked you to leave and you know that I gave you time to find somewhere else. Besides, it doesn’t give you the excuse to come here and make up stories about my husband.”
The insincere smile slipped from Kate’s lips. “Tom’s dead.”
Ellie reeled at the venom in her voice. “Do you really think that I need reminding?”
“Yes, I do.” shouted Kate.
“How dare you, after all the chaos you’ve caused.” Ellie let go of the door handle and pointed at her. “I’ll tell you why you’re making up this rubbish. Because you had a crush on Tom and couldn’t stand the fact that he wasn’t attracted to you.” She gripped the handle again for support. “He was professional at his job and you couldn’t handle the reality that he was married and not interested. You might have men falling at your feet every day, but I don’t believe for a minute that Tom was weak enough to fall for your fluttering eyelashes. You models were all just part of the job; props to be dressed and photographed. You’re lying because I asked you to leave – because you’re jealous of what we had. It’s so easy to accuse him of sleeping with you when he’s not here to defend himself, isn’t it?”
Bizarrely, as Ellie was ranting, she’d noticed that her lanky Poinsettia was wilting over the side of its pot, just outside the doorway on the landing. Inanely, she made a mental note to water it.
Kate stared impassively back at her. “I have proof.”
Ellie didn’t believe for a minute that she had proof. She was just looking for a reaction and she wasn’t going to get one. How had it come to this? They’d been friends for the past year and now they couldn’t bear the sight of each other “I’m not interested in hearing any more lies. I’d like you to leave.”
The telephone rang inside the apartment, causing Ellie to momentarily turn. In that instant, Kate pushed past her and walked into the lounge.
“What the hell are you doing? Get out.”
The telephone continued to ring as Kate walked towards a framed photograph of Tom which was sitting on the coffee table. She picked it up and studied it. Tracing her fore-finger around Tom’s profile, she kissed her fingertip and touched his lips with it.
Ellie felt the bile rise in her throat, but took a calming breath, held out her arm and pointed towards the staircase. “Get out!” She rotated her hand so that her palm was facing upwards. “Give me the front door key first. I don’t want you ever coming back.” Her hand shook visibly as it lay upturned, hovering in the empty space between them.
“Look at him,” ordered Kate, turning the photograph.
Ellie continued to glare at Kate.
“Look at him!”
Ellie glanced at the picture of her husband. His kind almond-shaped eyes held her gaze, making it impossible for her to look away immediately. The photograph had been taken in Aubeterre, a small hamlet in France they’d often visited. It’d been awarded a sign which stated that it was a village of outstanding natural beauty. Tom had joked that she should be awarded a badge which read those very same words. He’d asked her to marry him in Aubeterre Square, kneeling on one knee beneath one of the Linden trees which grew around the Place Trarieux. The dappled light had patterned his earnest, smiling face. She could almost evoke the sweet aroma of the trees, just by envisioning them.
The phone stopped and for a few seconds the room was quiet, as the Christmas tree lights flashed on and off to the rhythm of Ellie’s pounding heartbeat. She blinked as a bird screeched an alarm call outside the window, its dark shadow flitting past the glass.
“How can you just move on?” asked Kate. "What’s the point of having photographs sitting around the place if you intend to exchange him like faulty goods?” She replaced the photograph and walked towards the window, her breath clouding the glass. “I could have made him happy you know?” she said quietly, almost to herself.
The sky had a metallic quality to it. Heavy grey clouds hung low in the sky, laden with snow which was promised for later that afternoon. Kate peered into the street below and watched the opposite neighbour dragging a wheelie bin towards the pavement. Another was strapping a child into their car seat before setting off. Perhaps the little girl would visit Santa in the shopping centre before being dragged around the supermarket. Mundane tasks maybe, but a life which Kate had daydreamed about since meeting Tom.
Ellie stood with her arms folded, wondering if she was capable of physically removing Kate from her apartment. She doubted it. It was taking all her self-control not to run to the bathroom and retch.
“For your information, Tom was happy, not that it’s any of your business. You seem to have invented a set of circumstances which are all in your head. We were happy, Tom wasn’t a cheat and I am not seeing anyone else.”
Kate turned, tears balancing precariously on her eyelashes. Ellie let out a sigh as she felt her shoulders relax a little, with relief. Surely Kate was now regretting coming round and had come to her senses. Surely she now realised that making up lies about Tom wouldn’t help her feelings of loneliness.
“It’s okay Kate,” soothed Ellie. “It must be lonely being a single mum but…..”
“I hate you,” spat Kate. “It should’ve been me living here with Tom. I wouldn’t be running round after another man only a few months after he’d died if he’d been my husband. I don’t know why you don’t just ask James to move in, instead of all the ridiculous flirting that goes on. It’s sickening to watch.”
Ellie’s jaw dropped in shock before she regained her composure. “I’m not running around after another man!” shouted Ellie. “James is a friend. He understands it’s too early to think about…besides, how dare you tell me how to live my life. Tom died a year ago, and he would understand that friendships are important for support.”
“Friendship?” Kate mocked. “Come off it! We used to talk, remember?” She pointed at the sofa. “Sitting there. I’d listen to you giggling over what James had done or said. You told me how you felt about him. It made me sick to listen to how quickly you’d forgotten about Tom. How easily you’d moved on.”
“I’ll never stop loving Tom and you know it. James and I are just good friends.”
“That’s pathetic! Don’t insult me by using that old cliché. The only reason you’re not an item is because he doesn’t feel the same way about you.”
Ellie was shocked at how deeply those words had hurt. The notion that James didn’t think that they had something special growing between them, made her feel incredibly sad and isolated; as if she’d lost something very special. She tried to remember if James had ever shown her any affection; given her any hint that he might be interested in getting to known her more intimately. Yes, they’d shared some recent lingering looks, he’d held her hand when she’d been tearful and he’d always been so attentive. But what if Kate was right? What if friendship was all that was on his mind?
Kate continued, with Ellie only half listening. “Yours couldn’t have been a great marriage could it? You say Tom was happy. Why would he stray if he was happy at home?” She swept her hand in a semi-circle in front of her. “It should be us living here. I can’t sleep at night. I miss him. And you! Call yourself a wife? Have you no respect?”
Ellie was determined not to cry in front of Kate, even though she was screaming soundlessly inside. “For the last time, get out.” Her drained face was the only outward sign that Ellie’s memories of her beloved Tom had been shaken as violently as a child’s snow globe.
The sound of someone running upstairs from the apartment below stopped their conversation. James appeared in the open doorway.
“I just phoned you. I heard something smash.”
He looked down as he crunched on the shattered mug underfoot. He paused before raising his eyes to the two women facing each other across the coffee table. Ellie’s face looked ashen. It was instantly obvious that they’d been arguing.
“What’s going on?” He looked from one to the other.
“Well talk of the devil,” said Kate. “Were your ears burning?”
“Ellie?” he asked, looking at her.
“Kate was just leaving,” she replied. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, unsure of what to do with her hands as The Little Drummer Boy, rum-pum-pum-pummed from the speakers.
“Oh but we’re having such a lovely time,” cooed Kate, sarcastically. “Come and join us James. We’re just getting to know each other a little better.” She beckoned him into the room.
James didn’t move. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if Ellie wants you to leave, I think you’d better.”
Kate sauntered towards him and stopped an arm’s length away. “What Ellie wants, Ellie gets, is that it? Who are you, the perfect hero on a white charger? Have you come to rescue poor Ellie from the evil mistress? Her husband’s lover.” She laughed in his face. “Thought that would shock you.”
The bitter-sweet smell of burnt pastry drifted into the room as James looked at Ellie. She was chewing her bottom lip nervously and didn’t look up.
“It doesn’t matter why you’re here Kate, but I think it’s best if you leave now.” He stood to one side of the doorway.
Kate sneered. “Oh you do, do you?” She laughed whilst shaking her head. “It’s pathetic. You’ve no idea have you? Well if you think that piece of news shocked you, wait ‘til you hear this.”
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Chocolate Cake and Tarmac

I love to invent characters, imagine settings and create plots. But one of my most favourite aspects of writing, is adding detail and description. I believe that including sensory details, pulls the reader into the scene and helps to bring characters and situations to life.
It's a bit like an artist adds colour and texture. Our words are our paint.
I have a little note book (well I have about 50 to be honest) into which I write my own similies, metaphors and analogies. I know that one of my writing weaknesses is that I can include too many similies into my writing. A few can be great; too many and you're over egging the pudding as they say! I usually re-read my work at the first edit and find that my flow is disrupted with too many comparisons. This is where I hit the delete button most often when editing!!
Description can be great fun to work on and can be a welcome break from working out the plot and dialogue. Rather than have my character eat a cake, I'd rather she inhaled the sweet smell of baking as she bit into the rich moist chocolate cake, licking her fingers clean of the butter cream which had dribbled down them? I don't know about you, but I can almost smell that chocolate gateaux!
I've added a extract of my second novel, In Hindsight. I think it shows more clearly than explaining, how I colour my story. It's still a work in progress, so please let me know if you think I've gone over-the-top! I know I have to sometimes rein myself in!
June’s heat-haze danced and twitched as it levitated above the broiled pavements. Shiny black slugs of melted tarmac dribbled lazily into the gutter, smelling as sickly-sweet as a bag of pineapple chunks. Aircraft droned above them, leaving white streaks slashed across the bare blue sky, criss-crossing existing contrails. This month was a melting pot of sticky days.
Ellie and Tom Forrester stood in front of the neglected weather-worn house in Clapham, looking up in disbelief. A flaking central front door didn’t bode well for the rest of the building. The sash windows looked rotten where paint had peeled and rain had drenched the exposed wood. The low parapet which was built around the edge of the roof was crumbling in parts and missing in others. Its only redeeming feature was a mature Magnolia tree standing in the diminutive front garden.
Ellie opened the paper she’d been carrying and re-read the advertisement which had caught Tom’s attention over breakfast the previous morning.
“It says here, 'Elegant three-storey semi-detached Georgian town house. In need of some modernisation to bring it back to its former glory. Full of original features. Pretty courtyard to the rear of the property. Dated decor requiring attention throughout.'”
“Dated! I think they mean delapi-dated.” Tom frowned as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. It was a nervous habit he’d developed since establishing his own photographic business, The Bigger Picture.
Nearby church bells chimed half past the hour as the estate agent fidgeted impatiently next to the front steps. She’d felt a trickle of sweat run down between her shoulder blades and was worried that the damp patch would show through her new summer shift dress. The news channels were proclaiming that it was going to be the hottest June on record for the past twelve years and the damp skin on her back, lay testimony to that fact. She silently urged the dithering couple to make up their minds.
“Do you still want to take a look?” Ellie asked.
Tom pulled a face and shrugged. “We’re here I suppose.”
She folded her arm through his as they joined the red-faced agent.
“Tom and Ellie Forrester?”
“That’s us,” Tom smiled.
“Great. Let’s get in out of this heat.”
The woman turned a key in the lock and the door squeaked open. Ellie noticed that a line of perspiration had seeped through the back of the agent’s olive dress, staining it dark green. Once inside the cool hallway, they gave a collective sigh of relief. The smell in the dank entrance hall propelled Ellie back to the many hours she used to dig in the damp earth under the shade of a huge silver birch as a child. Almost like a perfume, it smelt musty and sweet
Sunday, 26 December 2010
Christmas in Cornwall
This Christmas the family are spending ten days by the sea in Cornwall. We've spent the last 15 years visiting this beautiful house over-looking Harlyn Bay. (far right of photo) As I type, I'm sitting by a crackling fire, mulled wine by my side and a box of Turkish Delight within arm's reach! If I can't find inspiration here, there's no hope for me!
I always think it's so much easier and more descriptive if a writer describes a place where they've visited. This morning I walked my spaniels along the beach. We stopped at the cave in the cliff which my protagonist, Tess, used to play in as a child. In one scene, Tess re-visits the cave whilst struggling with the dilemma of staying with her sick boyfriend or guiltily leaving him for the man she's fallen in love with. Guilt has a lot to answer for. How many lives have taken a different direction to the one which was desired, because of guilt?
The final scene to Lies and Linguine also takes place on this beach. I shan't elaborate - just hope that one day it will be published and you can read it for yourself!
I was thinking that if my novel was one day published, I'd like to print a few photographs in the back of the book. I read one of Freya North's novels where she'd done the same. I loved looking at the places she'd written about. It added a new dimension to the experience. With that in mind, on the next sunny day we have here, I'll be taking my camera down to the cave.
Friday, 10 December 2010
Relief With A Hint Of Pride.
Well I've done it!
As another writer succinctly put it last night, I'm nolonger a public speaking virgin! I stood up and read my first chapter of Lies and Linguine to a crowd of novelists, poets, muscians, publishers and members of the general public. In the darkest recesses of my brain, I was half expecting to be pelted with rotting fruit and booed off stage. However, after hearing the first tinklings of laughter from the audience, at what I'd hoped was a witty remark by my protagonist, I started to relax, and actually enjoy it.
To be congratulated by talented writers was incredibly encouraging and a little seed of something strange stirred inside. Was I a little bit proud of myself? Remember the Grinch when his heart grew a little bigger and it shocked him? (Hopefully that's the only thing I have in common with the green creature!)
So now it's back to the final editing before my agent (still can't believe I'm writing that) puts it 'out there,' mid-January. PLEASE let 2011 be the year..........
As another writer succinctly put it last night, I'm nolonger a public speaking virgin! I stood up and read my first chapter of Lies and Linguine to a crowd of novelists, poets, muscians, publishers and members of the general public. In the darkest recesses of my brain, I was half expecting to be pelted with rotting fruit and booed off stage. However, after hearing the first tinklings of laughter from the audience, at what I'd hoped was a witty remark by my protagonist, I started to relax, and actually enjoy it.
To be congratulated by talented writers was incredibly encouraging and a little seed of something strange stirred inside. Was I a little bit proud of myself? Remember the Grinch when his heart grew a little bigger and it shocked him? (Hopefully that's the only thing I have in common with the green creature!)
So now it's back to the final editing before my agent (still can't believe I'm writing that) puts it 'out there,' mid-January. PLEASE let 2011 be the year..........
Thursday, 18 March 2010
'Tweaking!'
I'm back! Has it really been so many months since I last gave an update?
As well as moving house and setting up a new business with my husband, I've also found time to write. I've started my second novel called Sugar and Spite, but at the moment I'm tweaking Lies and Linguine. That's the new working title of my first book.
I've had some wonderfully helpful feedback from two literary agents and two publishers. Before you congratulate me - wonderfully helpful doesn't always mean good. Yes I've had some confidence-boosting praise, which acts like the sugar that makes the tweaking easier to swallow! I've been told my novel is better than chic-lit, very competent, pacy and engaging with some good imagery. Not only am I delighted to hear this, but I'm grateful that these busy professionals took the time to let me know what they liked about Lies and Linguine. Not as lovely - but equally as valuable, is the tweaking which is also suggested! My antagonist is apparently too antagonistic. Having re-read my book, the agents are absolutely right. If I was Tess, the protagonist in my novel, I wouldn't have stuck around for half as long! So I've spent the last two months tweaking Blake! This encompassed giving him a conscience and some redeeming features. Just enough to make Tess stay with him until the last straw!
I've also joined Nottingham Writers' Group since I last blogged. We meet twice a month, alternatively listening to a speaker or sharing our work with the other writers. I'd recommend this to any new writer as it helps to receive positive critisism by people who understand that your work is precious to you, but that it also might need improving with the help of tactful suggestions. At last night's meeting we held the 'Verse of the Year' evening. I will hunt out my entry and post it shortly.
I've sent out two further submissions to literary agencies and I'm crossing everything!
As well as moving house and setting up a new business with my husband, I've also found time to write. I've started my second novel called Sugar and Spite, but at the moment I'm tweaking Lies and Linguine. That's the new working title of my first book.
I've had some wonderfully helpful feedback from two literary agents and two publishers. Before you congratulate me - wonderfully helpful doesn't always mean good. Yes I've had some confidence-boosting praise, which acts like the sugar that makes the tweaking easier to swallow! I've been told my novel is better than chic-lit, very competent, pacy and engaging with some good imagery. Not only am I delighted to hear this, but I'm grateful that these busy professionals took the time to let me know what they liked about Lies and Linguine. Not as lovely - but equally as valuable, is the tweaking which is also suggested! My antagonist is apparently too antagonistic. Having re-read my book, the agents are absolutely right. If I was Tess, the protagonist in my novel, I wouldn't have stuck around for half as long! So I've spent the last two months tweaking Blake! This encompassed giving him a conscience and some redeeming features. Just enough to make Tess stay with him until the last straw!
I've also joined Nottingham Writers' Group since I last blogged. We meet twice a month, alternatively listening to a speaker or sharing our work with the other writers. I'd recommend this to any new writer as it helps to receive positive critisism by people who understand that your work is precious to you, but that it also might need improving with the help of tactful suggestions. At last night's meeting we held the 'Verse of the Year' evening. I will hunt out my entry and post it shortly.
I've sent out two further submissions to literary agencies and I'm crossing everything!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)

