Hilary's done it again - bravo!

Hilary’s at it again. The woman’s a genius. Her parents must have been two of the world’s greatest brain surgeons. In fact, it was probably Mr and Mrs Mantel who came up with The Theory Of Relativity, and not Einstein. Our Hilary is up there with the Hilary Duffs, the Hilary Deveys and the Hilary Swanks of the world. She’s a smart Hilary.

I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous when I heard Hilary had won this year’s Man Booker prize with Bring Up The Bodies. And she received a princely sum too. I wonder what she’ll spend it on. Didn’t Anne Enright say she would use her winnings to install a new kitchen? I wonder will Hilary go for a Poggenpohl or will she take a trip to her local Ikea.

Hilary’s the first British woman to have won it twice, which is a wonderful achievement. Having blogged about the issue of age and the fact that at 37 I think I’m too old to be a novelist, I wondered if Hilary just recently taken up the quill. When I read a bit more about her, I learned that her first book had been published in the 80s, and I calculated roughly (very roughly, as I am officially rubbish at maths) that she was in her early thirties when her first book came out. I now take comfort in the fact that she’s been penning books for some time and only now is she being truly recognised for her talent. Long may it continue.

I haven’t read any of her work, simply because I’m not that into Tudor novels. In fact I’m not into them at all, if truth be told. The accolade is set to encourage people to snap up the novel, have them running into Waterstones or logging onto Amazon, quicker than you can shout ‘Cheryl Cole’s autobiography.’

I secretly wonder what those smart Booker winning type people like to read in their spare time. I bet she’s read Fifty Shades of Grey, just to see what all the hype’s about. I have this image of Hilary Mantel in her pyjamas, sitting propped up in bed, glasses perched on the end of her nose, reading a bit of Twilight. And I bet she has secret bookcases, similar to those in Scooby Doo, that spin round to reveal a completely new bookcase when people call for tea. Is she envious of E L James’ new found wealth or is she planning to write a cookery book, using a range of repulsive Tudor ingredients like pig’s navels? I realise I’m getting carried away here, so I’ll just read Hilary’s offerings for myself. The Booker people say they’re very, very good indeed.

How old is too old?

I've started to panic a little about my age. The numbers just keep going up and up each year, like a cog turning. There are more and more candles on the birthday cake and soon the baker will be running out of room, which is frightening. I still have the photo of myself blowing out one solitary candle; the angelic face and the pretty, red dress and I wish I had started early!

I began writing fiction seriously about six or seven years ago and the guff I churned out was cringeworthy. The POV was all mixed up - one minute the reader was at the zoo, the next minute, back home. Dinner was eaten before it was served and my characters changed their handbag colours more times than their underpants.

I started writing this book purely to pass time when there wasn't anything decent on the telly. I occasionally visited a few writers' websites and learned that there was indeed this thing called 'POV' and that one wrote in either the first person or third person or rarely, the second person. I then filed said book under 'recycle bin' because it was autobiographical rubbish, and moved on to the next. I made a vow to really make a go of this one.

Anyway, several submissions later (I only tried a few agents) I noticed a publisher was open to subs and the books they published were, to use the old cliche, right up my street. It piqued my interest, so I sent in my goods and signed the contract shortly after.


But hovering in the back of my mind is the worry of being too old to start being an author proper. At 37 am I over the hill? We read about all these debut authors, many of whom are self-published, and they wrote their books at the age of 25 or 29 before they fell over the thirties hill. I realise I am well over the thirties hill and fast approaching the forties mountain of doom.

By contrast, other careers enable us to reach a peak at about 30 to 34, as we start around the age of 23. At 23 I could never have written a book. I was just out of university and being an author was this thing that other people did. I merely studied their works.

I take comfort in the fact the wonderfully talented Hilary Mantel is no spring chicken and she's going strong.

Tools of the Trade

Hilary Mantel wrote a lovely piece for the Guardian recently where she talked about her passion for stationary. When the new catalogue arrives, she loses herself in it for hours, browsing everything from notebooks, pens and paperclips to ‘biscuits, buckets and bayonet fitting bulbs.’
I too am a stationary addict. The only part of Mantel’s article I couldn’t identfy with, was her view that fixed-spine notebooks like the Moleskine are ‘death to free thought’. She believes you have to be able to shift notes around to create a novel but being rather linear of mind, I rather like Moleskine notebooks. [Maybe this is why she is a brilliant and successful novelist and I’m not]. Anyway, this got me thinking about the tools of the trade and what is absolutely necessary to me to write.
First up, I must have the right pen. And that pen is the Pentel Superb, with its lovely fine nib and lack of inkiness. Since being a small child I have always written in a cack-handed way, with my hand curled over and above what’s gone before. This means I spent my childhood with indigo mitts. Secondly, I need a notebook that isn’t too fancy but is allowed to have a utilitarian beauty, if that makes sense. My husband bought me a beautiful red leather notebook the Christmas before last and I find it almost too gorgeous to use. It currently languishes by my bed in case I get any noctural inspiration. So far, I’ve only written on two of its pages. I’m currently into Moleskine exercise books, which are very pleasing [sorry Ms Mantel].
But what is this obsession with using the right stationary? I’m sure if I was holed up in a foreign prison I’d write on a dirt floor with a stick if I had to. The urge to write is powerful and once, bored in a playground while my children ran about, I resorted to writing story notes on my mobile phone. And I don't have an iPhone or a Crackberry, so it was a laborious process I can tell you.
Maybe this desire to use equipment that is just right has a purpose. I’ve heard many writers say they believe there is some connection between brain and hand that triggers the creative process and allows stories to grow and breathe. Even though I use a computer to do most of the work, there are times when nothing beats writing in a notebook by hand. I wonder whether this has its origins in the time when all we had was a stick to use in the dirt or the wall of a cave. Humans have always told stories and its thought this desire may be hard-wired into our brains. Maybe our ancestors argued over which stick had just the right amount of definition to make the perfect mark.