"My name is Amanda and I'm a writer"

There was a time when I wouldn’t tell people that I was a writer.  When being introduced at parties or social gatherings, I’d keep it quiet.  What right did I have to give myself that title?  Maybe if I’d been traditionally published I wouldn’t have been quite so reticent but, as an Indie, a little voice in my head would always whisper ‘Don’t tell them.  You can imagine what questions will spring up.’

But things are different now.  I’m an Indie and am proud of what I’ve achieved.  I’m living the dream and my writing journey has allowed my husband to abandon his job search so that we can work together as a team - earning enough to pay the mortgage, the bills, feed and clothe ourselves and generally live.  OK, there are no round-the-world cruises on the horizon but if you’d told me four years ago that my writing would support us, I wouldn’t have believed you.  That cruise can’t be too far away!

These days I’m prepared for the questions that come after,‘What do you do, Amanda?’ and I reply, head held high, ‘I’m a writer.’

I should be prepared, I’ve heard them so many times!

‘Who are you published by?’

‘Me!’

‘So you couldn’t get a publisher then?’

‘Actually, after being let down at the final hurdle with my first novel, I lost faith and decided to stop approaching both agents and publishers.  The Indie route suits me just fine.’

‘But I bet if a publisher offered you a massive deal, you’d take it?’

‘If someone offered you a fortune to do what you love, I guess you would too!’

‘Does it pay then?’

‘If it didn’t I wouldn’t be working 5 (sometimes 7) days a week or chaining my husband to the desk to edit, format and promote my books.  I don’t dabble - it’s my job and both my husband and I get paid a wage.’

‘Where do you get your ideas from?’

‘Honestly, I can’t put it down to one thing.  A seed can be planted while I’m sleeping or from an overheard snippet of conversation, an advert or (in one case) a parked car that I used to see every day - from that car came a whole plot.’

‘I’ve got an idea for a book!  Do you want to write it for me?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Do you get writer’s block?’

‘I’ve learned to deal with it.  I walk away, make a coffee, talk to the cats, load the washing machine.  If a block hits really badly around the 30K word count mark and there’s nothing I can do to shift it, I accept that I’m writing the wrong book and shelve it.  If my books don’t write themselves, I turn my back on them - I don’t have time for lack of cooperation!

‘Why don’t you write a Harry Potter type book or erotica?  That’s where the money is, isn’t it?’

Would you ask a gynaecologist why he’s not a dentist?  We specialise in our choices for a reason.  And there’s actually pretty good money in chicklit too!’

And finally, my favourite question from a dear friend who asks me every time I see him:

‘When are you going to write about a suave accountant with a huge willy?  I can give you lots of background information.’

Who knows, but I’ll pass on checking out his credentials!

FUNKY FRIDAY - With Book Reviewer Monique Mulligan

Today I welcome avid reader and book reviewer, Monique Mulligan. You can find her at Write Note Reviews.

Monique, what made you start a book review blog?

I started blogging about January 2012 after I left my job as a newspaper editor. I’d been fortunate enough to review books while working in media, so I just made a few calls to my contacts and went from there. I was looking for a way to combine two loves - reading and writing. At the time I thought book blogging was such an original idea, but I quickly discovered my mistake! Now I review regularly for about 10 publishers in Australia.

What are your favourite books to review and which type make you want to chuck them at the wall?

I really enjoy contemporary women's fiction and crime/suspense/thrillers, and lately I've been loving historicals. I don't enjoy sci-fi and rarely read fantasy. Books that are poorly written, repetitive, try too hard or contain gratituous violence annoy me. I started reading a new release by an incredibly successful writer at the weekend and you know what? I'm not going to finish it. It's repetitive, overly descriptive and I just can't get into it; the formulaic writing style annoyed me and yet, how do I argue about writing with someone who has made millions? I also find books written in the present tense irritating ... I don't know why.

How do you sweeten the pill if you hate a book or do you say it as it is?

I usually request books from publishers that I think I'll like, but sometimes I do get it wrong or the book doesn't live up to what I expected (either from the blurb, other reviews, hype or so on). We all have different tastes - sometimes a book just doesn't work for you. If the book is OK and there are good and bad points, I'll say what I liked and note a couple of things I didn't, but in a respectful way. Respect is important because a lot of work has gone into it. If I have nothing nice to say at all, I don't say it. Then again, I probably wouldn't finish a book I really didn't like. In that case, I'd choose not to review it and consider a Sunday Shout Out to the publisher.

As an avid reader and reviewer, would you ever put pen to paper yourself?

Yes, that's the plan. Still working on that goal ...

Tell us about your ideal week as a reader/reviewer.

My first thought was that I'd be able to read and review whenever I wanted without interruptions, but then I would miss out on all the other wonderful things in my life. If I could establish a routine, that would be ideal, but since reviewing is a hobby, it has to fit in with the rest of life (and sometimes take tenth place to all the other priorities).

If you were offered a squillion pounds to never read another book again, would you take it?

No. I couldn't.

Thanks for joining me today, Monique. It was good to chat.

Check out Monique's website or follow her on Twitter or Facebook.

* * * NEWSFLASH * * *

OK, not so newsy any more, but just to remind you that my latest novel, 'TABBY & KAT' has now been released into the big bad world. Have you got your copy yet?  If so, let me know what you think - or, better still, please leave a review!

Drum roll .... my new release!

It's just over a week away until my latest full length novel hits the shelves.  My test readers have all enjoyed and even gone so far as to say that they think it may their favourite so far!  High praise indeed and I guess we'll have to see what everyone else says.

So ... the date for your diary is Thursday 12th December (my lovely mum's 86th birthday).  You'll be able to download it on Amazon for under £2 or, if you prefer a paperback copy, you'll need to go to Lulu.com.

Presenting ... TABBY & KAT

 Here's the yummy cover:

 And here's the blurb:

Things are changing for Tabby and Adam.

With their friend Polly leaving ‘The Thunky Three’,

who will fill the void in their cosy house-share?

Enter … Kat

... and a whole heap of trouble.

 

And just to drag you in a little bit more, here's the first chapter.  I really hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

ROOM TO RENT

Fifteen minutes from here

in large, airy house with garden.

Mad enough to share with

fun loving party animals?

(1 male, 1 female, 1 parrot)

 

*****

It suddenly all seemed so final as I positioned the advert in the shop window and then went outside to check that it was straight and fully visible to the passing public. Polly had really left and Adam and I had to find a newbie to fill her slot at the house.  The ‘Thunky Three’ were splitting and I felt a mixture of sadness and giggles as I thought back to how we came up with our ridiculous name.

Of course it had involved too many cheap bottles of cider and gut-rot wine as we celebrated our moving in together and Polly had balanced herself precariously on the coffee table with her full glass spilling everywhere.  As she threw a very drunken arm up in the air and ground her hips to whatever beat we were listening to at the time, she toasted our new living arrangements.

‘Whoop!  To the Thunky Three,’ she’d shouted.  She’d then guffawed, fallen off the table while expertly managing to save her booze, and added as she landed, ‘Ooops! I actually meant ‘Funky’ - but I do believe I’ve just made up a lovely new word which should be inserted into the Oxford Dictionary forthwith.’

Adam and I had fallen about with laughter as she went on to tell us that she loved the words ‘inserted’ and ‘forthwith’ so very, very much (said with a drunken slur) and then proceeded to put them into various madcap sentences.

‘My rumbling stomach demands that we order some take-away pizzas and insert them, forthwith.’

‘I demand that you insert your manhood forthwith, Mr Darcy!’

And so we became ‘The Thunkies’ - even our large circle of friends would refer to our trio as such.  We’d met at Uni, instantly hitting it off and deciding that when our time was done with our studies we’d hot-foot back to London and share a place together - it just seemed the natural progression for us.  From then on, any invitations which plopped on our doormat were addressed to ‘The Thunky Three’ and texts or email would ask if The Thunkies would be at such and such event.

And now we’d split.

After nearly four years of living in each others’ pockets at Uni and another five in London, Polly was off to get married (and pop out a sprog!) and I was bereft and delighted in equal measures.

Of course Adam was a little bit upset that she was going but, as I’d just broken up with ‘Codface Callum’ he saw it as an ideal opportunity to make his move on me - again.  Suddenly there could be just the two of us in the house and Adam liked that idea - he liked that idea a lot.

You see, Adam had been in love with me for as long as I could remember and he made no secret of showing it.  And I loved him too - just not like that.  We’d had a couple of drunken snogs at parties over the years and (from what I could remember) they were good - really good.  You know, the type that get you thinking, ‘Wow!  If I could just let this go a little further this could be something quite mind-blowing’.  But I just never would … you know, let anything go too far.  Because Adam … well, he was Adam!

Don’t get me wrong.  He was no gargoyle.  He was incredibly good looking with his floppy, messy chocolate brown hair, eyes to drown in and a fine pair of long legs (oops, I may have made him sound a bit like a Labrador there - but I guess if you combine the looks with the faithfulness and fun factor, he was a bit like a loyal Lab!).  He was kind, thoughtful, had the most amazing sense of fair play and everybody said he was the nicest guy they knew but … well … he just wasn’t for me.

I went for the bad boys - you know, the ‘Say They’ll Pick You Up at Eight and Don’t’ type.  The ‘Living on the Edge’ type.  The ‘Sod Paying the Bills, Let’s Blow our Gas Money down the Pub’ type.

I liked the thrill, the danger, the excitement - and in a perverse way, the many broken hearts that came as part of the package.  After the upbringing I’d had, it was all I knew really - settling with a kind and sensible man just didn’t seem an option.

Now, if that made me sound like a troubled child from an East End council estate with a drug-pushing dad and a street-walking mum, it couldn’t have been further from the truth.  I grew up in a beautiful village in Surrey with my parents, brother and sister.  But there was never a dull moment in our home - no peace, no normality, no calm - and, weirdly, we all thrived on it.

My mum and dad were artists - crazy, flamboyant, and both mad as a box of frogs.  They loved one another with a fierce passion, fought like Taylor and Burton but always made up quickly.  Mum taught at the local art school and I remember a childhood filled with various waifs and strays being brought home for tea or supper - which was always burnt, always unidentifiable and always made with the enthusiasm of ‘This time it will work!’  Dad painted massive canvases for swanky London houses and made a small fortune ‘extracting the urine and their cash’ as he liked to refer to it.  He would lock himself away for an hour, fire up the spray cans and come out triumphantly proclaiming ‘That’s another pile of shit for The Titty-Farquhars that’ll cost them a cool ten grand.  Pour us a port, someone - I’m shattered!’

Of course, there were no clients by that name but that was what he called all those who coveted his ‘art’ - the people he loathed for their stupidity and vulgarity.  No one had ever wanted his delicate watercolours which took weeks of craft and thought - we’d have been a starving family had he not jumped ship and gone where the money was.  ‘The Titty-Farquhars’ might have paid his bills but they also robbed him of his true passion.

‘I’m prostituting myself!’ he’d cry out after too many ports or bottles of Burgundy.  ‘A whore.  I’m nothing more than a paint-splattered whore!’

This would usually be the moment my mother would grab a feather boa or stick some sparkly nipple tassels onto her pinny and run through a Burlesque routine to cheer him up.  My mum was sixteen stone of gorgeousness but boy did she know how to move it, so it usually had Dad chuckling and slapping his knee (or her fine rump) and forgetting his woes.

We’d sit by and watch in bemusement - me and my siblings - when we were younger. There was love in our house, we knew that, but it was sometimes a drain living where emotions always ran so high.

My brother, Tadge, was the eldest - a ballet dancer and straight to boot.  He could be prone to bouts of self-doubt or crippling worry, but since he married Flo he’d been much more settled.

My sister, Ophelia, was the youngest - a poet (or so she claimed).  I loved her to bits but she drove me up the wall with her weeping and wailing sometimes.  Still living at home with Mum and Dad, she was a slip of a thing who dressed in bits of lace and Victoriana fripperies on the outside but was a lazy, spoiled cow on the inside.

Then there was me, Tabitha, or ‘Tabby’ as I preferred.  I too was a struggling artist but I refused to sacrifice my dream of working in oils or to sponge off my parents so I supplemented my meagre income by helping out my friend Mims in her trendy gift shop.  Sometimes I thought I was  the only sane one in my family, but I guess the wildness of my upbringing must have taken its toll or I wouldn’t still be looking for ‘Mr Bad Guy’ and the thrill of the chase - I would have settled for Adam, wouldn’t I?

Which was never gonna happen!  So we had to get a new housemate, quick sharp, before he got any ideas about us becoming a couple.

‘The Thunkies’ might have disbanded but things couldn’t always stay the same, could they?  And who knew, maybe things would be even better?

*****

I’d noticed a young woman of about my age watching me as I finished putting the sign in the window of ‘The Treasure Chest’ when I got to work that morning.  There was something vaguely familiar about her but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it - she was probably a regular customer or one of the punters at our local pub, I thought as I returned to the counter and Mims.

‘Coffee there for you, Honey,’ she said as I tidied some greetings cards on a rack.  ‘So the wedding’s this weekend is it?  Polly all sorted?’  Mims dunked a chocolate Hobnob in her mug and quickly brought the biscuit to her mouth before it disintegrated.

‘Yep,’ I sighed.  ‘Saturday at two.  She’s been gone for two weeks now and Adam and I are heading down on Friday after work and staying in a B&B near Polly’s parents’ place.’

‘In separate rooms, of course,’ Mims joked.

‘We might share a house but we certainly don’t share a bed, Mims, and you know it.’

‘Well I think you’re bloody mad.  Before I met Tim, I’d have killed for a bloke like Adam - what’s not to like?  But the trouble is, he has eyes for no one but you, so you just take it for granted.  I reckon if you took him up on his offer of paying two-thirds of the rent and ditched the idea of looking for a new housemate, you’d be an item within weeks - the temptation would just be too great.’

I began to sort through some paperwork and orders in an attempt to block Mims and her babble out.  She was a hopeless romantic at heart and wanted nothing more than to see Adam and me together.  When I’d told her of his plan to pay extra rent to save us from replacing Polly, she’d been beside herself with excitement.

Of course, it would have been great to not have to bother interviewing a whole heap of strangers to decide who would fit in best but I didn’t want to give Adam false hope by taking him up on his offer.

‘Tabby, I can afford it,’ he’d stated very simply.  ‘Business is booming and it’s no great hardship for me to pay a bit of extra dosh.  Give it some thought, please.  No strings, I promise.  Just two old buddies sharing a house.’

It was true.  His web design business was booming.  He worked from home in one of the spare rooms and already paid a little extra for that privilege.  Mr Organised was in charge of all the bill paying, housekeeping and any odd jobs that needed to be tackled.  He’d never been in any sort of debt or financial instability as he always lived within his means and was now reaping the rewards.

In short, he was everything I wasn’t.  Mims had once joked that if Adam suddenly announced that he hadn’t got his rent or that he’d blown his savings on a motorbike, I’d drop my drawers in a flash because he’d suddenly become everything I usually looked for.  Not true.  He was my friend, that was all, and I’d hate anything to ruin that.

Mims broke into my thoughts again.  ‘Hey, supposing you get some gorgeous floozy move in and Adam falls for her instead of you?  Would you be upset?’

‘Don’t be so daft!’  I sipped at my coffee and thought about her question.

‘What?  Don’t be so daft because it wouldn’t bother you, or because you’re so sure it would never happen?’  Mims flicked me with an elastic band she’d found by the till.  ‘You be careful who you decide on, Miss Tabby.  You take in a looker, and the gorgeous Adam might not stick around and wait for you forever.  Then you’ll be looking for two replacement housemates!’

*****

I guess Mims’ words must have got to me more than I thought because whenever any sexy, nubile bit of stuff came in the shop and enquired about the house, I told them the room had gone and then ushered their pert little bottoms to the door.  I then had to contend with Mims’ knowing looks and smirks.

‘Yeah, good move there, Tabby.  That one was way too sexy to have floating around in a G-string, seductively munching on a croissant every morning, eh?’

The trouble was, I could control the applicants who enquired in the shop but I had no control over the list that Adam was compiling from the calls he had on his mobile - all female, or so I heard.

‘He’s doing it to wind you up, Petal,’ Mims soothed as we began checking off a delivery of gift bags and paper.  ‘He’s going to pick the best looking girl and hope that you crumble and relent on his suggestion.  Trust me.’

‘Yeah, well that’s fine.  I’ve had some pretty hot blokes come in and ask for details too - a couple of really cute Aussies and a French hunk who could offer me his baguette any old time.  So, I’m ready for his plan - and we have to agree on who we take in, so it’ll be fine.’

The shop had been quiet that day, with only a handful of customers coming through the doors, and I was suddenly aware of a small cough from the corner where we kept our tiny teddies.  I was almost certain it was the young woman who had watched me as I’d put the ad in the window and, as she saw me turn to her, she replaced the bear she’d been considering and left the shop in a hurry.

I didn’t know her but there was something about her that made an involuntary shudder run right through me.

She had poker straight blonde hair, I had flame red flowing curls - chalk and cheese - but there was something about the eyes.  People often said I had cat’s eyes and in many ways I agreed - green, keen and slightly slanting.

In that brief moment when our gaze met, it had been like looking into a mirror - a mirror which reflected a little piece of me.

I continued to work through the huge delivery and pushed the thought to the back of my mind.  Plenty of people had a similar look.  And what did it matter anyway?  I was just over-reacting.

*****

‘So we’ve got three lined up for Monday night - your losers.  And three lined up for Tuesday night - my little honeys,’ Adam told me as he scooped more Chinese takeaway onto our plates.

‘And we promise that we both have to agree wholeheartedly on who we give the room to - based on our strict marking system and gut feeling?’ I asked as I struggled with my noodles and chopsticks.

‘Yep.  And if none of the six are suitable, you’ll concede that my idea was the most sensible one all along.  I’m not spending weeks interviewing no-hopers, Tabby.’

‘It’ll be fine, Adam.  I really think you’ll like Jean-Charles.  He’s got a Porsche and works in advertising.’

‘I hate him already.  I’ll match your stinking, garlic-munching frog with a rather tasty Swiss girl called Eloise.  She emailed me over some rather saucy pics this morning - most accommodating of her, I thought.’  He winked and grabbed another prawn cracker from the bag.

This was not going to be easy and I sighed into my egg foo yung.  We had a lovely summer wedding to go to and yet the prospect of finding a new housemate would be hanging over us the whole time.

Maybe I should have just taken Adam up on his offer and become ‘The Thunky Two’.  Platonic, of course.

Nah!  We’d see what the applicants were like and decide from there - how bad could interviewing them and finding out a bit more about them really be?

My Growing Stable

It's 1st December and I'm a combination of nerves and excitement as I prepare to bring out my next full length novel on the 12th.  Yes, aside from my two Christmas novellas, I'll soon have SIX books on my shelf.  Pretty cool, huh?

Want to know what it's called?  Want a tiny clue about the plot?

Well, you'll have to wait until Tuesday when I plan to post the blurb, first chapter and reveal my yummy cover.

Until then, let me tell anyone visiting my blog for the first time about the other books I've written.  All of these are priced under £2 and I'm told are packed with laughs and the occasional tear too.  If you'd like to read a preview of any of these, simply go to the link, hover over the book cover to the left and click to "Look Inside".

First up, we have DIARY OF A MUMMY MISFIT - a kind of grown up Bridget Jones for any woman who's ever felt that she doesn't belong.  Join Libby at the school gates with her buddy Fenella and grab your handbags at dawn as they discover the difference between the Haves and the Have-Nots.

The sequel, THE DARKER SIDE OF MUMMY MISFIT, continues to follow Libby as times get tougher and her integrity is questioned.  More laughs but a few sobs too.

I then moved on to my first work written in novel format rather than diary.  COMPLETING THE PUZZLE tells the story of Fee as she hits mid-life and discovers that she's about to enter a whole new and exciting chapter.

Next up is STILETTOS & STUBBLE - a romcom set in a drag club, where larger-than-life Persephone finds out  'it's what's inside that counts.'

This summer's release was LOTTIE'S LUCK - what happens when your luck runs out and fate takes control?

My two Christmas novellas (at just 77p) are CHRISTMAS DELIVERANCE  - all families have secrets but how deep do they run?

And CINDERELLA'S BUTTONS - can a panto wake up the sleepy village of Tideswell and help the inhabitants find love?

So there they all are - my babies.  Let me know if you have a favourite and please pop along on Tuesday for news of my latest book release, hitting the shelves on 12th December.

Announcing FUNKY FRIDAY!

Yesterday I threw a little idea out into the Twitterverse - a new spot on the blog called ‘FUNKY FRIDAY’ where I interview writers, reviewers and readers.  This will be aside from my usual weekly blog posts.

It was just the seed of an idea.  I’ve featured on so many other blogs, and had the occasional visit from fellow Indies here on mine, so I thought I’d see if anyone wanted to take me up on the offer to make it a regular feature.

My day disappeared!  So many lovely people jumped at the idea and were willing to see what I had to ask them.  Tweet after tweet, DM after DM and email after email!  I now have nearly forty people lined up for a slot!

So … each Friday, for as long as the interest is maintained, I’ll be interviewing either a writer or a reader/reviewer.  I’ll include all links to their books, blogs, Facebook, Twitter etc. and aim to ask questions that are slightly different to the norm.

I’ll also include a NEWSFLASH section at the end so that anyone involved in the project can include their book-related news.

A HUGE thank you to everyone who has given this support - let’s make this fun and something that works for all of us.

FUNKY FRIDAY’S September line up will be:

Friday 6^th September - Jennifer Bohnet - writer

Friday 13^th September - Carol Wright from Dizzy C’s Little Book Blog - reviewer

Friday 20^th September - Michelle Betham - writer

Friday 27^th September - Fabulous Book Fiend - reviewer

Please feel free to contact me if you’d also like to take part.  Slots are now filled until mid January (!) and I’m doing it on a strictly first come, first served basis.

****** NEWSFLASH ******

I’ve finished the first draft of my new novel due for release in December and am currently editing my Christmas novella ready for October.

MICHELLE BETHAM is due to release ‘Extra Time’ - the sequel to ‘Striker’ some time this month.  Watch this space!

CAROL HEDGES has signed with Crooked Cat and will release her TWELFTH novel at the end of this year.  She’ll be featuring here when she can find time to breathe!

NICKY WELLS will be releasing ‘Sophie’s Encore’ on 5th September and will also be chatting  here soon.

KATHRYN BROWN launches her new chicklit novel TODAY!  ‘Bedknobs and Bachelors’ - I can’t wait to read it and also to feature Kathryn on FUNKY FRIDAY!

Dear So and So ...

Another round of imaginary letters that I'd love to write but never will.  These are always such fun to do and are quite therapeutic as you get things off your chest.

Here goes:

Dear Employers of Young People
If you're offering an apprenticeship at a poxy £40 a week, please have the decency to send a one line email to tell your applicants if they haven't been successful.  That's all it takes and, frankly, it's rude not to.  Remember when you were starting out in your career?  It's a tougher world out there now and all these kids want is a chance or at least an acknowledgment.  Give them some hope that people are decent as they start out on life's journey.

Dear Old Age
You stink.  You rob people of their friends and siblings and then sneak in and continue to rob those left behind of their vibrancy and will to live.  Frankly, I want no part of you - I don't want to live a life of aching limbs and loneliness.

Dear Troll
I am so happy that you now appear to have a life.  Your daily comments were a bore and, with any luck, you are now taking literacy lessons to brush up on your spelling.  My 'ill-educated' scribblings earn me a living whereas your pointless rants get you nowhere.  Anonymity, when leaving comments on a blog, only shows you up for the sad loser you really are.
Dear Stalker
Sadly the above had to be crossed out and you needed to be upgraded to 'Stalker'. You haven't got a life at all, have you?  And there I was with such high hopes for you.   Try to enjoy your holiday in Thailand rather than focusing on me and my kitchen. Oh, and see my reply to you below.

Dear Mouse at the back of the radiator
I feel sorry for you trapped in there but what a bloody stupid place to go and hide!  There's a nice, humane trap waiting for you with a huge chunk of stinky cheese - if you just find your way out to that, I promise you I will set you free.  Your incessant scratching is driving me nuts and if you give birth in there I swear I'll call in the big guns.

Dear Brain
Thanks for putting me through the mill these last few weeks.  I don't think you realise that you are really only able to cope with one plot at a time - thank goodness you've finally settled on the right one.  Also, I'd appreciate it if, when it's bedtime, you shut down and go to sleep.  It's not the time to start telling me what should happen in Chapter Five or what the final line should be.

Dear Wandsworth Borough Council
 You are a bunch of a*ses and you will not beat me.  Do not put the wrong date on letters so that you can then tell me my mother is out of appeal time because I am on to you and you won't get away with it.  If my mother wants sheltered housing for the elderly, I'll fight you all the way and you will not pull the wool over my eyes.  Beware - I am like a dog with a bone if riled!

Dear Melon
Why?  Why would you do that to me?  I have always loved you and one minor slip-up with some parma ham has made me wonder if you will ever pass my lips again.  You made me suffer to the point where I Googled every symptom and discovered I could be dead within the week (!)  Lesson learnt: melon + parma ham = bad combination for me.
NB:  for those wondering why, the fat of the meat congeals and ferments the fruit.  Not nice.

Dear Hole in Roof
Well, you picked your moment didn't you?  Just as the heaviest rains of the year arrive was not ideal for us, really. We will beat you with buckets and towels and, if necessary, move ourselves one floor down.  Your gaping cavity will eventually be fixed and we will make sure it hurts - no anaesthetic for you.

Dear Agents and Publishers
I'm ready for you - where are you?  If you're looking for a hard working new writer with five books and a novella under her belt, and two new titles due out later this year, HERE I AM!  Go on, make me an offer I can't refuse!

All done and, I have to say, that's really set me up for the day.  Nothing like a good outburst to have you breathing a contented sigh, is there?  Go on.  Who would you like to write to and what would you say?

All my books can be found at Amazon UK here and .com here.  Or in paperback at Lulu.

Hop on by, Katie!

An extra blog this week because I need a rant - and we all know that the Misfit needs to vent her spleen every now and again.

Remember, you heard it here first - I would lay my last penny on the vile and obnoxious Katie Hopkins of ‘The Apprentice’ fame announcing a book deal soon.

There can quite simply be no other reason for her outburst and subsequent exposure - we had it with Samantha Brick and we’re being groomed again now.

For those who are not aware of the history, Ms. Hopkins appeared on ‘This Morning’ earlier this week and declared that she won’t let her children play with kids with ‘common’, unusual or geographical names. I refuse to give the YouTube link or any related articles as I don’t want to drive more traffic her way - unless of course it’s an out-of-control articulated lorry!

Not quite sure that she completely stands by her views as, ironically, her children are called India, Poppy and Maximillian. Go figure!

But apparently children who are not given traditional names such as Harry, Sophie or Emily come from ‘stupid’ parents.  These children are always late for school, don’t complete their homework and are not allowed to be around Katie’s little darlings.  Sweeping generalisation, huh?

This from the woman who has shown herself up by not being able to spell synchronicity in a tweet and is unable to use an apostrophe correctly: ‘It isn't just the child's name is it? It is the manner in which it's mother yells it across the playground.’  Sloppy homework, huh?

What’s that about intelligence, Katie?

Not annoyed enough by this witch?  Try this.  Any mums out there with ginger children?  One of her tweets this morning stated,

‘Ginger babies.  Like a baby, just so much harder to love'.

We might expect this from the likes of Frankie Boyle but not from a so called ‘loving mother'.

She has continued to post tweet after provocative tweet this morning and is making herself look like a demented woman who has lost the plot.

But more likely she’s stirring up the hornet’s nest of public opinion before she hits us with her ‘bestseller'.

I’d do anything to get a book deal, to get my works out there to the reading masses - but nobody could ever pay me to be hated.  Which in effect is what she’s doing by compromising any dignity she might once have had.

So, I wish her well.  If there is a book it will no doubt go to #1 in a flash, but hopefully disappear just as quickly ... along with her.  If there isn’t, I hope she gets the professional help she needs.

Rant over.  As you were …

If you want to read about a NICE mummy who battles with the NASTY mummies, check out my Mummy Misfit books here.

The Love/Hate Thing

I LOVE being a writer.  On any given day, I can become new characters with their own thoughts, lives, histories and problems.  It's like being a little girl playing dress-up all over again.  Or an actress, as I used to be. When I open up that Word document, I take control of the stage and my audience.

Yes, that creativity had to come out somehow.  And thank goodness I found a way that works for me.

So, what are the bonuses?  What makes my little author's heart beat the fastest?

1.  When I have that first exciting seed of an idea and it suddenly grows arms and legs faster than I can type or scribble my notes.

2.  Checking my sales figures on a day when I can put two fingers up to the publishing houses who were considering me and then changed their minds.

3.  When my husband reads what I've written for the day and looks at me with a smile and a nod, saying, 'I really want to know what happens next.'

4.  To have been able to be there for my son (when he's needed me - now, not at all!) and my lovely mum.  I am my own boss - I can make up time as and when I need to.  Juggling as 'The Sandwich Mum' has become my special talent.

5.  Looking at hunky guys on the web for 'research'.  We all want to have a clear image of the love interest, don't we?  It's a tough job but I hope my books are better for it.  (My excuse and I'm sticking to it).

6.  The thrill of having someone who didn't even know of my existence until a couple years ago, asking me when my next book is due out and telling me that they can't wait.

7.  Those reviews that bring a tear to my eye and make me realise that someone 'got' exactly what I was trying to say with my words.

8.  Getting up in the morning and knowing precisely where my characters are planning on taking me.  (Though sometimes cursing when life throws a curve ball at me - because 'you're not in an office so you don't really work, do you?')

9.  Having friends introduce me as 'a writer' - I still feel a fraud but, hey, why should I?   This is how I earn my money.

10.  Typing THE END.  And then the buzz I get knowing that I'll soon be typing 'CHAPTER ONE' again.

BUT ...  there is a flip side to every coin.  What do I hate?

1.  The days that I spend forever either staring at a blank screen or a boiling kettle as I drink endless cups of unwanted coffee because my characters seem to have gone AWOL.  I refuse to call it writers' block - the ONLY time I have that is when I'm waking up to the idea that I'm writing the wrong book.

2.  A bad review - thankfully I've not had to weather too many but, ouch, they hurt!  Thank you for taking the time to tell me that my baby is ugly, dear reader, I hope you always feel guilty when you indulge in your secret pleasure.

3.  Editing.  Don't get me started.  Regular readers will know - it's a time of great stress and exhaustion in the Misfit household.  If I never had to edit another book with husband again, I'd ... oh, I don't know, I'd run naked around the neighbourhood singing a 'Radiohead' song with a feather in my cap.

4.  Promoting.  Again, you all know why.  I JUST WANT TO WRITE!  If a character is calling, I don't want to have to put them to bed so that I can look at new ways of selling myself.  I'm a writer not a hooker.

5.  The fact that Indies are, generally, still not considered to be real writers.  And the attitude of some  traditionally published authors.  Get over yourselves!

6.  Knowing that I only have a window of a couple of hours before either chauffeuring, shopping or carer's duties and if I don't get all my thoughts down then, I'll be stuffed.  On days like that, I'd like to put my brain, or other people, into 'freeze mode'.

7.  Getting HALF WAY through a manuscript (about 40K words) and realising that I've fallen out of love with it.  The chances are, the feeling will have been creeping for a while but I've chosen to ignore it (a bit like when a relationship sours with a dodgy boyfriend).  I now have several hidden in a drawer - (books, not men - that would an arrestable offense and just a tad odd) but, the good news is, there have been characters within those rejects with such strong voices, they've either emerged in other books or are waiting in the wings for the next. 

8.  When I wake up in the middle of the night with THE BEST plot twist and I'm too lazy to turn over and write it down.  I can guarantee that it won't come back to me until about four the next afternoon.

9.  Always wondering if it's time to approach agents again.  With my 'stable' of books and my rather lovely reviews, am I doing myself a disservice by continuing to struggle as an Indie?  Is it time for me to have my faith in the profession restored?

10.  The first few weeks after releasing a new book and wondering if even my most loyal readers will hate it.  I can take the bad reviews from a one-off reader but if a 'regular' came back and said I'd lost the Egan Spark, I might lose the will to live.

So, that's it!  As a reader, I hope I gave you a bit of insight as to what goes on in a writer's head.  And to all you writers out there  - do you agree?  Tell me your thoughts, please - I'd love to know I'm not the only one who has this love/hate relationship with writing.   Oh!  And my latest novel is due for release on June 19th!  Sneak preview here.

Go Dotty for Lottie!

It's a little over a month away until my new chicklit novel 'Lottie's Luck' is launched on Amazon for Kindle and in paperback at Lulu.  So I'd like to give you  little taster by offering you the blurb and Chapter One for your comments and thoughts.

Grab yourself a drink, get comfortable and meet Lottie ...

THE BLURB

I’m Lottie Truman

and this is my story.

My life was simply tickety-boo

until a neighbour’s prediction

seemed to coincide with

my luck running out.

Join me on the path

I needed to take to get me

to where I am now.

But don’t judge me.

Because sometimes you have to

make a few diversions to allow fate

to push you in the right direction

* * * * 

 

Lottie's Luck

I want to tell you a little story.  Some of it may frustrate the hell out of you and could even have you screaming in protest at the pages (or at me) but I’d like you to be more than just a reader - think of yourself as a friend and non-judgmental confidante, living through this tale with me, and I think you’ll see why everything had to happen the way it did.  Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

CHAPTER ONE

  

The day that things really began to change started with me winning another sixty quid on the lottery.  I opened my ‘Rainy Day’ book and noted the figure down.  Almost five hundred pounds in the past year - not bad for someone who only did a couple of lines a month.

Mum and Dad did the lottery religiously, using the same selection every week - birthdays, anniversaries, old door numbers.  The same numbers with the same dream in mind - to finally get that cruise they’d dreamed of all their married lives - and yet they barely ever won a tenner.

If my luck carried on, I was hoping I’d be able to treat them for their pearl wedding anniversary the following year and that would make me really happy.

You see there’s something you should know about me as we start on this journey.  People were always telling me how lucky I was and I could only agree.  Born to the best parents in the world, an older brother who I only wanted to kill occasionally, a best friend who I knew would never let me down, my own thriving business (more on that later) and a boyfriend who made Brad Pitt look like Gollum - I felt I was truly blessed.

But it wasn’t just those things that made me feel fortunate.  Whatever I turned my hand to seemed to turn to gold.  Dad reckons when I was about two, I scribbled on his racing pages on the day of the Grand National and, sensing it was an omen, he had a little wager on the horse I’d marked with a snot green crayon.

It came in at forty to one and he made a nice little profit.  It soon became the family joke to get me to predict the winner each year but I’d only ever give a hint if I got a really strong lucky feeling.

And things continued in the same vein.  Family holidays would see me winning the jackpot at bingo or first prize in a raffle.  School contests always saw my name on the winner’s certificate and any magazine competitions I chose to enter would see a prize of some sort plopping through our letterbox.

You may think I’m exaggerating but have a look at a snapshot of some of my escalating wins to date and then you can decide for yourself:

£5 book token in year three at primary school - best project on dogs.

A year’s supply of Nestlé chocolate - aged ten.  Shared with brother Simon and my best friend Amy.  Almost put us off chocolate for life.

Make up set and brushes - aged fifteen from a crap teen mag.  Gave to Amy as preening has never really been my thing.

A week’s holiday in Portugal for two - just as I’d finished college.  Took Amy with me.

A pair of Christian Louboutin shoes worth £500 - also gave those to Amy as I don’t do heels.

A brand, spanking new Ford Transit van complete with insurance, MOT and service for three years.

Pretty lucky, huh?  But that last prize was the one that finally liberated me from my dull working life and gave me the opportunity to begin living my dream - or so I thought.  As it turned out, it did so much more than that.

I’d been working as a receptionist in a vet’s surgery for five years and, although I enjoyed my job, my goal was to start up my own dog walking venture.  I had a business plan, a logo, all the information I needed about insurance and pages of ideas to get the word out there.  But without decent transport, ‘Watering Lamp Posts’ would never get off the ground.

Mum suggested I started off small and just walk a few dogs, using my battered old Mini to get to and from clients’ houses, but Dad and boyfriend Nathan disagreed.

Dad said it wouldn’t look very professional and I was better off waiting, saving and doing it properly when the time was right.

Nathan merely turned up his nose and said he didn’t see the point of me starting up a business if we were eventually going to get married and have kids.

‘You’ll only end up ditching it and becoming a housewife - stick at the vets.  No point slogging your guts out just to fold as quickly as you started.’

Yes, Nat had very definite ideas about our future and, on good days, I could envisage myself at home with 2.4 kids, doing the school run and preparing dinner parties for his important clients.  But on the bad days … well, let’s just say I got a little bit panicky.  I loved him, so I was sure it would all work out for the best, but I knew I still needed to have a crack at my dream or I’d always live with regrets.

So when I entered the competition to win the van, I sent up a little prayer and even drafted my resignation to the surgery to help visualise the reality.  Positive thinking always worked well for me and this occasion was to prove no different.

But the words which made me realise that my dream might actually come true, also warned me that it may not finish in quite the way I’d expected.

‘I see a tin box, fur and a diamond … these things will change your life in more ways than you could ever begin to imagine.’

It was a miserable Friday afternoon and I’d popped next door to our elderly neighbour, Venetia, to tell her about my latest lottery win.  Now I loved Venetia, and I still do, but she’s seen by some - well, most - as barking.  She fascinated me from when I was an impressionable child of five and she first moved in.  With her swirly, velvet skirts and huge jewels, I could look at her for hours and listen for even longer.

I’d lost count of the amount of times Mum or Dad told me off when I was little.

‘Lottie will you stop staring at Venetia?  It’s rude.’

‘Lottie, come home right now and stop bothering Venetia.  She doesn’t want you hassling her all the time.’

But she didn’t see me as a nuisance.  She loved me too and our bond grew over the years.  Whenever I needed advice or guidance, I’d hop over the side fence and slip through her back door.  Sometimes she’d just sit and chat to me but as I got older she began to do readings - tarot cards, tea leaves or the crystal ball - and she was always spot on.

And that particular Friday, without either of us realising it at the time, she hit the jackpot.

‘If you take on this gift of the tin box, you must be prepared to accept changes out of your control.  Life will seem tough for a while but all will end well.’

Now, I didn’t like the sound of that one bit and I told her so.

‘What d’you mean, tough?  I need to know more, Ven.’

‘Oh, shush Lottie.  That’s all I can tell you at the moment - the mood has gone.  Now go and pour me a Baileys and Guinness and let’s talk about Big Brother - I can’t believe what that couple got up to in the jacuzzi last night!’

Venetia seemed to live on her trademark foul cocktail concoction and Mum and Dad knew to have plenty in stock when she came in for a chat.  We’d known her for twenty one years and she’d never missed a birthday or Christmas party, supping in the corner on her unique tipple - life just wouldn’t seem right without her sharing our festivities.  When she’d first moved in, I was convinced she was already about a hundred, but I’d got to the point where I didn’t see her as having an age at all - she was just a dear, if slightly wacky, friend.

‘Ven, you’ve scared me!  I don’t want bad things to happen to me - they never do.  Why should they start now?’

It’s true to say that, aside from being lucky, I also seemed to be protected - almost as if a guardian angel was shielding its wings like a cloak around me.  Again, I hear you say, ‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous!  You’re deluded!’

OK - then try these for size.  They’re the more minor examples of my good fortune but still a fairly valid testament that bad stuff simply passes me by.  I’m Teflon coated - it slips off me and dissolves into thin air.

When the whole of Year Six went down with chickenpox, I didn’t.  But, even better, I was told to have the week off school - no point going in if no other kids were there.  I spent the whole week playing in the back garden.

The massive puddle that the Number 23 bus hit and then soaked all of my friends as we were heading off to my 15^th birthday party totally missed me.

The food poisoning which struck all my friends after that same birthday party also passed me by.

When there was a cock up with our GCSE English papers, I was the only one who got the right paper in our year.  I got an A* and every one else had to retake.

Granny has never knitted me a hideous Christmas sweater but chooses to give me gift vouchers instead.  My brother Simon, on the other hand, has spent every festive season sporting an itchy jumper which has either been two sizes too big or too small, with reindeer, Santa or snowmen emblazoned on the front.

Oh yes, I’ve been blessed.  So hearing Venetia say that things might be rocky for a while didn’t seem possible.  I needed some answers.

Curling on her plum chaise longue, she tucked her legs under her scarlet skirt and lit a brightly coloured cigarette, batting away the smoke along with my fears.  ‘I didn’t say bad things would happen, did I?  Just things over which you’ll have no control - it will be a journey that will set you on the right path.  That’s all I can say.’

And the very next day I received the letter to say that I’d won the van.  My entry had been picked from thousands of other hopefuls and I was to go and collect my prize the following week.

‘Aha!  The tin box!’ Venetia had said with a glint in her eye when I went in to announce my good news.  ‘This will be the beginning.  I knew it!’

I was too excited to dwell on her words so I handed in my notice and began to put my plans into action - much to Nat’s disapproval.

‘Lottie, I’m just not convinced this is the right move for you.  I mean it’s not exactly the ideal job for an accountant’s wife, is it?  Please say you’ll reconsider.’

But my mind was made up and no amount of begging or cajoling from Nat would make any difference.  I was at the start of my adventure and nothing or nobody was going to stop me.

The sign writers did a great job of my ‘Watering Lamp Posts’ logo and picture on the side of my van and when Venetia came out to admire it she pointed to a cute, fluffy puppy alongside the writing and said, ‘Aha!  The fur!  All is becoming clear.’

I have to say, as much as I love Ven, at that point she was beginning to piss me off and freak me out in equal measures so I threw myself into my work and tried to ignore her predictions.

And things seemed to go well for me.  My ‘tin box and fur’ were doing me no harm and business began to boom fairly early on.  I had fifteen clients within the first month and, thanks to word of mouth about my top quality service, that soon doubled.  I was finally living my dream and once more I felt truly blessed.  I’m not one to take things for granted, you see.

After I’d been up and running for around six months and not been knocked over by a bus or struck with Beriberi, Venetia’s psychic reading soon began to fade into the depths of time and I’d all but forgotten her warnings.  Life was good, I’d got my ideal job at last and was spending my days doing what I enjoyed the most - being out in the fresh air, walking dogs and chatting with other dog walkers.

Then came the diamond …

* * * *

 Hope you enjoyed that morsel - remember the date for you diary is June 19th.  Do YOU want to know what happens to Lottie?  Comments here, on Twitter and Facebook will be gratefully received.