We're All Going On A Summer Holiday

I recently read an article by Caitlin Moran where she said she didn't really like travelling. Indeed, she had spent the vast majority of her life returning to the same three places on holiday, all of which were in the UK.

I've got to admit that I'm a bit gobsmacked by that. I mean I love Cate's column and read How To Be A Woman in one sitting, alternating unbridled laughter with vigorous head nodding at her sharp insights into modern feminism. But holidays in Gower? Every year? Why? Surely that's tantemount to self harm?

I'm the absolute opposite. I bloody love going to new places and plan our holidays with an energy and rigour that I fail in almost all other aspects of my life. I suspect my children wish I spent as much time and effort poring over their school timetables as I do travel books, which might result in them not having missed the first day of term two years running.

Though I have never written a shopping list in my life and the fridge often houses a haphazard collection of items from goats cheese to maple syrup, but rarely milk or eggs I do regularly write a list of places I'm desperate to see as soon as possible. And it never gets any shorter. I just seem to keep adding whenever I'm inspired by a book, an article or a film.

A couple of years ago I watched The Shipping News with Kevin Spacey and was so taken with the wild landscapes and the idea of eating seal flipper pie (c'mon tell me you're not curious) that Newfoundland made its way onto my list. A quick reccy at accommodation however told me that this was not a goer, not with two kids in the mix, so instead we ended up in Quebec. It was magnificent. The national park is the size of Wales.

And this summer, inspired by the Quebec trip, we ended up at the other side of Canada, spending a few days in Vancouver (where we went whale watching and saw three pods of Killer whales) before heading to the Rockies. They are dizzingly stunning, stretching endlessly to the horizon, snowcapped even in August, punctuated by lakes so blue they make you laugh out loud at the sheer absurdity.

Each morning we'd grab our Starbucks and then head out into the wilderness with last night's waitresses' tales of bear spottings and couples airlifted to safety from wolves. Heady stuff. And a world away from what was going on at home.

To be honest, despite having a lap top, an iPad and three mobiles with us, we had spectaculaly failed to notice that the UK had all but descended into anarchy.

The first mention of riots came from a text from a radio station I often contribute to, asking me whether I had any views I could share given my special interest. In my defence there is a massive time difference and it mashed my brain. Plus the beautiful surroundings can make a girl giddy, but I couldn't for the life of me think what my 'special interest' might be. I'd written my dissertation on the Brixton riots epochs ago, but couldn't imagine how anyone knew owt about that.

Not one to let folk down (and a complete meeja whore into the bargain) I put my alarm on and hauled my sorry ass out of bed at three in the morning. I blathered a bit about Lord Denning with the presenter sounding even more confused than me. Fortunately I was too knackered to be embarrassed.

Then she mentioned Blood Rush, my latest book, and it dawned on me...it's about gangs and how young people can get dragged into doing despicable things. I did have a special interest. I did have something to say. But sadly, we were out of time. I think we could safely call it a missed opportunity.

I couldn't get back to sleep of course, and I didn't want to wake up the tribe, so I went outside onto the deck and watched the sun rise. Then I pulled out my list...Naples, Japan, Miami, South Africa...decisions, decisions.

Quickfire questions with Naomi Alderman

Naomi Alderman’s first novel, Disobedience, was published in ten languages; it was read on BBC radio's Book at Bedtime and won the Orange Award for New Writers. Penguin published her second novel, The Lessons in April 2010. In 2007, she was named Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year, and one of Waterstones' 25 Writers for the Future. She has published prize-winning short fiction in Prospect, Woman and Home, the Sunday Express and a number of anthologies and in 2009 was shortlisted for the BBC National Short Story Award. From 2004 to 2007 Naomi was lead writer on the BAFTA-shortlisted alternate reality game Perplex City. In 2008 she wrote the Alice in Storyland game for Penguin's online We Tell Stories project, and her most recent online work is 'The Winter House'. She broadcasts regularly, and writes a weekly games column for the Guardian

Which 3 writers, living or dead, would you invite to dinner?

Definitely Douglas Adams, whom I'm gutted never to have had the chance to meet. So I think if I get to bring him back for an evening I might plan the evening around him and people I think he liked and have Richard Dawkins and Steve Meretzky.

What's your favourite writing snack?

Very dark chocolate, I'm up to 90% proof.


Longhand or computer?

Computer. But I sort of wish I was one of those longhand people.

Win Booker prize or land Hollywood film deal?

Ooooh. Does one mean "definitely can't ever do the other"? I'd rather write something that would still be read in 100 years than either of the two, and can't choose. Sorry.

Tabloid or broadsheet?

Broadsheet. Obvs.

Independent bookshop or Amazon?

Sigh. I have taken my credit cards off Amazon to stop myself 1-clicking. But while I do go to independent bookshops, I love the range of stock you can get online. I plead the fifth. I hope both can co-exist.

Hacker or adder? (in terms of editing)

I am rubbish at these questions! I do both. Probably more of a hacker, but I tend to hack, then add to fill in the missing bit.

Plotter or panter?

Panter. Otherwise I bore myself.

Leave on a cliffhanger or tell all?

Cliffhanger.

You really must read: The Shaking Woman by Siri Hustvedt

I get most excited by: my imagination.

If I wasn't a writer I would be: dreaming of being a writer. Or a chef. Who wanted to be a writer.

An author should always write what they believe.

Naomi's website is here

An Integral Part

A bit like the fully-functional fridge-freezer that's cunningly disguised as a larder unit or the washing machine that giggles, hidden behind another 600mm complementary kitchen housing, writing  is something that's always been an integral part of Me.

And, as it's definition confirms: "Necessary to the completeness of the whole".

It was simple enough to slip it into daily life at school - there was always an English lesson, thank goodness.  And  from the day I learned that the teacher wasn't asking me to write the letters 'S' and 'A' on the front of my new English exercise book, I couldn't wait for the next time we were set a new essay to write.  For me, it was like surfacing from the murky depths and being able to breathe, unconstrained by silly lessons involving equations and bar-graphs, cumulus and nimbus, formulas and thick grey gym knickers (although not all at the same time, you understand).

Slightly more difficult to pull off at work as a Secretary,  I managed to restrain myself from turning the Minutes of Meetings into iambic pentameter and felt wholly disheartened when a memo of only one sentence wasn't given the Haiku it deserved.  Even more frustrating were the twenty thousand word reports I had to churn out on behalf of Development Departments at the Ministry of Defence which, although had a beginning, a middle and an (always disappointing) end, were completely devoid of plot.

I couldn't bear it.  I flounced off in a creative huff (I didn't really, I handed in my notice, worked my obligatory 4 week notice and was presented with a Thesaurus and a Complete Guide to English Literature - which made me cry because they HAD realised my artistic leanings and here they were, applauding them *sob*)  and went to work somewhere which I believed would allow my wings to spread.

But being an Employment Counsellor was probably not the brightest of moves.  I couldn't even write in my lunch hour like I'd done back at the MoD, as I hadn't got my own typewriter (more tears) because we had a secretary who did that for us.  So, with wings firmly clipped again, I did another flounce (actually I found myself a job, put myself forward for an interview and even got commission after placing myself, but you didn't hear me say that).

And here at Magic Shrinkwrapping*, I finally began to flower.

Even though my boss was a bit creepy and insisted on talking to me in the fourth person (is that right?) - every Monday morning he would sidle up and ask me "So, did Deborahs have a nice weekend?  What did they get up to?" freaky, right?  And after about a year of freaking me out, I decided to look around for another job.  One in which there wasn't, frankly, a creepy, freaky boss lurking behind the next door asking me if I could step into his orifice (I know).
And when the MD got wind that I wanted Out, he, amazingly, did something I don't think I ever properly thanked him for, not even now, and produced for me, my ideal job.  I became the company's first Advertising and PR Co-ordinator.  I got my own office (smaller than the broom cupboard ... actually it might have been the old broom cupboard come to think of it) and my own budget and I was given almost free reign to write whatever I liked.  So long as it was about Shrinkwrapping machines and how splendid they were.

Mmmmm... shrinkwrapping!

I loved making up the titles - my favourite still being the one I wrote for a Cadbury's line "Eggs-pertise by Magic Shrinkwrapping"* I loved seeing my pieces in print.  I just didn't love my MC particularly.  Shrinkwrappers are pretty much a one trick pony.  They never deviate from the norm.  They don't get all passionate on wild and windswept moors and they certainly wouldn't be seen dead getting all swoony over a member of the opposite sex - if there IS an opposing gender in the shrinkwrapping species.

And so, after having squeezed every last ounce of creativity from this role, I once more slung my metaphoric bindle stick over my shoulder and high-hoed it to my next position of choice.

In which I was rather scarily put in charge of a Junior Secretary and supposed to control six Area Managers at a local Brewery.  Place the company Bar on the same floor as us and a stick a 50% discount on all wines, spirits and ales and you pretty much have a recipe for disaster.  I did become involved in the company newsletter although a lot of it was deemed unprintable (more the result of the Bar being 14 floor tiles away than lack of talent on my part) and not quite the sort of creative juices that the company was looking for -especially when fuelled by 14% abv.

My last (pre-maternity) post was in the Legal Department at our local government offices.  Memos were over-written - mostly to the wrong people, letters were hencetoforthwithnotwithstandingly over-Latinised and my only means of creative enlightenment - apart from getting fictional with my flexi-hours - was to enter (anonymously) articles, working-party assassinations and satiric commenteering to the Staff Newsletter.  Only to find that although my literary genius had been printed, it was minus the irony, sarcasm, rheotric and downright slander.  Some of it didn't even rhyme anymore.

Finally I realised there was nothing else for it; I needed to create something that would make my mark on the world which nobody would be able to edit, cut, alter, restrict or delete.

I would write a book have a baby.
Both of which complete me.  It's just that one's turned out to be a whole lot harder to feel successful about than the other.

Oh, *Magic Shrinkwrapping wasn't the real name of the company.

Tell, and Show

Ten weeks ago, I moved to a new city. Somewhere I'd never lived before. Somewhere where I only knew one person.

Since then, there have been plenty of ups and downs, including 15 workman visits to the flat I'm renting, most spectacularly from the utilities company who took 7 visits to move my gas meter (which was located, bizzarely, in the maisonette below). I have been deafened by Water Hammer (don't ask), traffic, the road being dug up outside my window and the complementary strains of sander, saw and drill from the renovations in the flat above. I have taken to wearing earplugs a lot.

So much for holing up in my new flat and writing. Mind you, even going out proved problematic the other day, as I ventured to my first book group meeting. I walked into the hall and into a mist of white dust which promptly settled on my black jersey and my black shoes, and seeped under and round the door to settle on my coat and new boots. The workman was very apologetic. I promptly burst into tears. Moving is a stressful business.

But I digress. Living in Cornwall for seven years, I became a hermit. Moving to Bristol is an opportunity for me to Do Things Differently. Apart from the noise factor, city living is hugely welcome to my inner urbanite, and suddenly I'm faced with a plethora of choices: places to explore, new walks to try, exciting shops, wonderful delis and cafes. And, most importantly, new places to meet people. My old self would have shrunk from this last. But I've decided that I have the choice, this time, between disappearing or Showing Up. So far, I have shown up for the book group (who were very welcoming). I have auditioned for a singing group (and been rejected.) I have offered to volunteer at the local art gallery (they never called back). I have signed on for courses in Qi Gong, Portrait Painting, Voice Enhancement and Public Speaking. Yes, Public Speaking. With my novel due to be published in spring next year, it will be up to me to put on my brave hat and visit bookshops, libraries, book groups and anywhere else that will have me. So I'd better be prepared.

The trouble with Showing Up is that there's always the fear that you will Show Yourself Up (as an amateur, a fraud, an imposter or whoever your inner critic is labelling you this week). That comes with the territory. For writers, showing up in one form or another is a way of life - which is an odd thing, given that so many of us are introverted and shy. But unless we show up at the page, the novel or the poem or the story will never be written. And unless we submit to agents and publishers (which is showing ourselves up in every sense) our work will never be seen.

Showing Up means knocking on a lot of doors. Some will remain shut. Some will open a tiny crack and then, when they see who you are, will slam shut in your face. And, just sometimes, a door will be opened.

The other day I took my courage in my hands and wrote to a well-known author to ask her if she might consider reading my novel and writing a review. To my overwhelming gratitude and astonishment, she emailed me straight back saying that she would be delighted. What a wonderful example of an experienced writer lending a helping hand to a newbie. It's given me the courage to knock on a few more doors.

It puts me in mind of the famous quote from Marianne Williamson, which is always worth reading for the umpteenth time:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

So here's a challenge. What will you do this week to Show Up?

Envy? Dream on!

Should anybody mention online that they’re not particularly keen on Twilight, they face the prospect of die-hard fans popping up to say ‘OMG ur soooo stupid how can u hate my edward ur just jelus!!!’

I’ve noticed, however, that assumptions of literary jealousy aren’t confined to the inarticulate. They're a standard way of comforting an author who has received a bad Amazon review.

‘Ignore him,’ the author’s friends say. ‘He's obviously jealous because you're a better writer than he is.’

Whether or not they technically mean 'envious', comforting a distressed author is a nice thing to do, so I’m not going to suggest people tell their writing chums to stop whining. I don’t believe, however, that bad reviews are automatically the result of jealousy or envy. Books are commodities purchased by readers, who have no obligation to see the author as anything other than a name on the cover. It's a bit conceited to imagine they give you a second thought, let alone be so awestruck by your talent that they're seething in resentment about it.

No doubt there are some occasions when a reader has a personal grudge against a writer who once refused to help with their English homework in 1989. But the average book-lover is an intelligent individual choosing a product that they hope to enjoy, not a supervillain on a mission to destroy the mental state of the person who produced it.

The reading relationship surely isn't between the reader and the writer but between the reader and the book. Sometimes it doesn’t work out and the reader is disappointed. Maybe they feel misled by the cover or bewildered that the story doesn't live up to a friend's recommendation. Maybe they are amused at how far-fetched they found the plot, or maybe they're downright angry at having wasted their money. Expressing an opinion about this is natural, even if writers wail: 'What sort of miserable little person could put so much time and energy into writing a bad review?' Well, people are free to use their time and energy how they like – after all, you used yours writing an entire book for some reason.

If I had a disappointing meal in a restaurant, I might tell other people not to bother going there. This does not mean I was jealous of the chef and determined to crush his delicate feelings. If a recently fitted tap starts to leak, I might find this annoying - but I'm not therefore responsible for the plumber's depression and alcoholism. (Incidentally, why are plumbers the standard unit of measurement when comparing writing with other occupations?)

The difference with these situations is that one can get some money back or have the problem fixed. It's more difficult to return a book to the shop just because you didn't enjoy it. Negative reviews are perhaps a way of redressing a perceived imbalance of power and enabling the reader to get a refund on their emotional investment. This does not need to have anything to do with envy. Are we writers so awash with talent and all-round amazingness that everyone envies us? Yeah, right!

Feeling mortified and upset (in private) is a valid writerly response to a bad review. But that does not make the reviewer jealous, stupid, evil, lonely, bitter, twisted, untalented, or any of the other adjectives our well-meaning buddies might come up with.

A person just didn't like your book. That's about it, really.

Author Susan Lewis answers some Quick Fire Questions

Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of twenty-six novels. She is also the author of Just One More Day, a moving memoir of her childhood in Bristol. Having resided in France and Los Angeles for many years she now lives in Gloucestershire.  The Strictly team were particularly impressed with Susan's remarkable talent for not only producing two books a year, but with her self-imposed discipline in the art of non-procrastination. Something with which writers are not normally associated!

Her latest book, 'Stolen' is out in paperback on 1st September.

What is a typical writing day for you?

I tend to start by ten at the latest and go through until six or seven.

We've heard that you sit down to write every single day, never take correspondence before 4pm (and then only Tuesday - Thursday) and feel stressed and panicky if it gets past 10am and you haven't written anything yet.  What got you into this routine?

I'm in this routine partly by necessity, because I write 2 books a year; and partly because when a book is underway I want to give it as much time as I possibly can in a day before I drop.

Does ANYTHING tempt you or distract you away from writing?

The sun can be fairly distracting - it makes me want to go out with my dogs, or for lunch with friends. Perhaps that's why it's a good thing being back in England, not quite so much "distraction".

Where do you write?

At home in my study.

Do you carefully plan your plot when you write, or do you "fly by the seat of your pants" with your plots?

I have some seeds of a few ideas when I get started, then I go on the journey with my characters and see where they take me.

Would you rather win the Booker Prize or have one of your novels made into a Hollywood Movie?

The Booker Prize is a bit beyond me, so it would definitely be a Hollywood Movie.

Favourite writing snack - sweet or savoury?

A glass of wine and some olives, which I tend to treat myself to towards the end of the writing day.

What makes your inner writer happy? 

When something happens in a book that I hadn't expected and it just works!! It's utterly exhilarating.

If you’d like to know more about Susan, or be in touch with her personally, then please feel free to contact her either through her website or Facebook. 

Susan's website is here: https://www.susanlewis.com and she can also be found on her Facebook page: 
https://www.facebook.com/SusanLewisBooks

Arvon a good time

It's my turn to post today, but I can't. Sorry. As some of you know, I have become addicted to Arvon writing courses in the last year. As you read this I am back at Lumb Bank, in Yorkshire, for the third time in less than twelve months. I am waking in Ted Hughes' house and looking out over the "tops".

This course is with Don Paterson and Lavinia Greenlaw, two of the most established poets in Britain today. It's a reading course, not a writing one. We are going to learn how to really read poems and how to use that to inform our writing. It is supposed to be for "advanced poets" so I am feeling a bit of a fraud as well as excited. I expect everyone else will have a much deeper knowledge of poetry than me.

Actually I am basking in a sense of anxious anticipation. Maybe this is the week that will take my writing to a new level. We'll see.

Sorry not to post today.

Alright, an admission. I scheduled this with blogger in advance. Imagine someone who scheduled a blog post, or a series of posts, and then was killed before they are published. It would be sort of like speaking from beyond the grave. It must have happened. I might be doing that now. I'll let you know if I make it back from Lumb Bank.