Tag Archives: an author with children

Why Slow is Good for E-Publishing

As the length of time between releases deepens I always begin to get twitchy. As I face the fact that K’Barthan 3 will not be out for Christmas, indeed, is unlikely to be out by Christmas NEXT year, I am close to a major freak.

Reading this and the reblogged post it contained made me feel better. Hats off to Mr Vernon for sharing some heartening stats and some sage advice. I may put the brakes on and start writing other stuff alongside my big stuff. Because I’m not really a one trick pony, which is one of the things that is making it so hard.

Why Slow is Good for E-Publishing.

And on the back of that, this one, too…. Bottom-Dwelling E-book Authors RISE UP!!!.  Oh how I aspire to sales like Frank’s.

So at last I’ve got the message. And the message is: chill. Quite easy that, today, here. It’s brass monkey’s.*

Sorry everyone, but One Man: No Plan is not going to happen in a hurry. But that’s because I want it to be good. And I’m sure both of you (and the dog) would rather wait and read something that’s the best thing I can write, rather than the quickest.

Yeh, I’ve just binned an entire plotline: 50,000 words, which is what I mean about it taking a while. Phnark.

Onwards and upwards.

 

* Yeh, I know, it looks odd but that apostrophe is right because the full phrase is cold enough to freeze a brass monkey’s balls off.

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Here’s to embracing my inner tortoise. Hello Mr Hare, would you like to try some Mogadon?

Hello and today it’s time for a rant. It’s the end of August. Tomorrow it’s back to zero sales, the brown band of shame will be mocking me from my KDP reports page. I’ve long since abandoned hope of selling a single book anywhere but Amazon – despite my best efforts.

You know, I believe you can make your own luck. Except that I also know that, in reality, the only thing you can control in your life is the way you react to what happens. But I think that if you can delude yourself you are in control, you’ll probably make a better fist of it.

On to my books, or significant lack thereof. One of the many things I’m doing wrong, not writing a book every month. Instead, I’d like to share my frustration, if I may, at my complete inability to do… well… anything. Because if the Not Very Good Club of Great Britain hadn’t become so successful that it was no longer not very good any more and had to shut own, I’d put forward my online bookselling skills as my reason to join.

You see, my books have stopped selling. For the last two months I’ve made one sale. Thank you, whoever you are. Obviously, this is my fault but the more I read around to see what I can do to improve, the more obvious it becomes that the thing you need in self publishing, on top of talent, in abundance, is time. So that’s me fucked. I seldom have 2 hours a day to write, let along to do social media.

Time, for me, is up there with unicorn shit.

So, writing a book takes a long time. Seriously though, I’m particularly short of time at the moment, there’s been no social networking, I’ve not sorted any reviews and the sales free months do point to a correlation between doing those things and er… not. Oh dear, so, interfacing with my readers. Mmm… there’s a box left un-ticked.

While we’re at it. Another piece of frequently given advice. Write what sells. So that’s vampire novels, erotica and thrillers.

Oh bollocks. Double jeapordy – a quote from the Constant Gardener there (check me, I’m highbrow). The fact is I can make more money writing corporate puff so if I want to write something I’m not really fired up to write, I’ll write web copy, thank you very much.

So… what can I learn by picking through the twisted girders and dust that comrpise the Ground Zero of my literary aspirations?

Thing 1: Don’t start with a trilogy, not right off the blocks. Trilogies are really hard to write because basically, what you’re looking at is a 400,000 word book. That’s like telling your cookery teacher, at your first lesson, that you won’t cook jam tarts, you’ll cook that thing with the smoke and the iPod to listen to that Heston Blumental serves.

It’s hard to keep track of who has done what, when and to whom, in a book, especially when it’s 400,000 words long. If you are bringing up a small child at the same time – which, as anyone who has attempted it knows – is the equivalent of having your brains stirred, constantly with a giant wooden spoon, it’s monumentally stupid. The more you have to remember, the longer it takes to get back into it again when you stop. Which I have to. A lot.

The secret then, is to write lots of shorter stories. If I hadn’t published the first one in blind panic, afraid that I’d be last to market, that’s what I’d have done. Ah. Never mind. It’s a good plan. One I fully intend to exploit when I finish this wretched trilogy. So, my own advice, write short things and for the love of God, if you must write a trilogy out of the gate and don’t publish ANY of it until it’s FINISHED. yes, I published my first book in 2010. I should have been publishing it next year.

Write a series if you must, but go for stand alone books. Trust me on this one, Aunty MT has well and truly stuffed this up so that you don’t have to.

Then there’s the working hard thing. The fact is, I am a stay at home Mum and I write… well, actually I write because I can’t not. That’s why I call myself an authorholic; because it’s like a bad crack habit. If I worked at it like a job, 9 – 5 it would probably take me a bout 6 months to write each book, which is lucky because doing the Mum thing I have much less time than that. So to find the ‘six months’ required takes me about 2 years. Not feasible for a publisher then.

Even so, it seems sensible to do something with the crap I spew out, and so I get it professionally edited, get ritzy covers done and then I publish it myself. I hope to succeed, no, scratch that, I hope to write a book that is so good it will succeed on its own merits. Hey, I actually KNOW I’ve written a decent book but heaven knows, though I give it my all, I’m piss poor at selling the bloody thing. Let’s qualify that, I can sell it to random strangers on the street, at social events, signings etc but online? Nah.

Which brings me neatly onto the social networking aspect. OK I have a smart phone now so Twitter is easier but bloody hell. How do these people do it? Write a well conceived, sensibly thought out blog post every day while being a full time carer or a full time parent and publish books on top. Jeez. I’m in awe. I’m floored. Hats off folks you deserve to succeed. I just… I mean… how  is it possible?

There is a way around social networking hell. Skim, drop in the odd post, queue up lots of blog posts when you have the time. Put a timer on it – an hour, morning and evening, say and hey that’s a couple of hours left to write. However, I still find that exploiting social media (sod exploiting it, it exploits me, let’s be realistic, I’m just talking about getting the ruddy stuff to work) takes hours longer than it should. Hours. A commodity I do not have. Me, I’ve done it all wrong. I’ve made friends on line and now I spend my time talking to them. Hmm….

Having had my rant, I have to say, I’m at peace with my choice. But sometimes I feel slightly put upon, as if I am being judged for trying to write and sell my own books and have a life at the same time. But I have family and sometimes there are crises, or people are ill and they need me. Then there’s the annoying fact that I need more than 4 hours sleep a night and just… don’t have the time to pack everything into my day. But I can’t give it up. I know hard work is the answer but not at the expense of the people I love. And I know that, sure as eggs are eggs, while I strive to succeed, I am competing with people who have probably written a better book than I, who have the whole sodding day and… well… let’s say my stuff is less likely to make it big.

I’m an ex marketing manager, I know how to promote stuff and I’d say I’m quite placid and relaxed but, sometimes, even I find it hard to take the realisation that even if I cracked it with a really good novel, the difference between success and failure is, above everything, to do with the time I do not have.

So, let’s cling to the belief that I’ll manage to buck the trend; prove to the world that you can succeed in slow motion. Because lord knows that’s the only possible chance I have. I don’t begrudge anyone their success. I appreciate how hard they must have worked for it, but the fact that I do what I do in a very short day, and everything stops in school holidays, doesn’t make me any less committed, or serious. Although it might make me a bit more frustrated.

The fact is, you can set yourself deadlines but if Real Life gets too hectic you have to re-evaluate; the deadlines have to give.

Here’s to embracing my inner tortoise. Hello Mr Hare, would you like to try a Mogadon?

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McMini

Another gem.

On the beach, on a blustery day.

“Mummy this wind sounds like a giant growl that never stops.”

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More McMini…

It has occurred to me that outside the input from others this blog is officially, not funny any more. So I decided the best way to fix that was to abandon my postings about McMini on facebook and put them here, where everyone can see them. So, here they are.

First up, McMini on… hmm, yes, well, I suppose this is a kind of recycling.

He sits in bed examining the soles of his feet and carefully peeling off a bit of loose skin (have you got the boke yet? I have). He holds it up.
“Look Mummy, I am eating this meat. It is delicious,” he says, puts it into his mouth, chews and swallows.
This morning, things have changed.
“Mummy, I picked a bit of skin off my feet just now but I didn’t eat it because it stinked, so I threw it away somewhere. I don’t know where it is.”
“Great, I’ll look forward to finding that later,” says Mummy.

McMini on hunger; recently, he has been developing hollow legs.

“I’m so hungry I could bravely eat a dinosaur’s tongue! And the horns of a dinosaur.”

Polite rebuttal.

“If you will excuse me Mummy, I am feeling a little tired now so I think I will have a sleep.”
“Night night.”
“Night.”
Mummy gets three quarters of the way down stairs.
“Hey Mummy! Come and look what I’ve found!”

Scientific enquiry…

“You know the little hole on a whale’s head? Well you know the water that comes out of that? Well, it’s old air. I am going to try and blow the old air out of my nose. When the water goes into my mouth it is cold but when it comes out it is warm.”
Science fact number 63. Old breath has water in it.

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Redline it but don’t pop it.

For a long time now, I’ve been thinking that I should explain why it takes me so effing long to write each one of my books and today I’ve been galvanised into it by reading this cracker of a post, here. As well as why it takes me so long to write a book this also brings me onto a subject dear to any writer’s heart; mojo management.

Basically, the premise is that a lot of people are a bit wishy-washy about art and not ‘forcing’ it and use the ‘don’t force it’ line as an excuse to give up and be lazy. He talks about how mood alters your perception and how you can write stuff you think is rubbish only to find, the next day, that it’s not so bad (unfortunately, in my world that process also works in reverse, but I digress).

Now, I get exactly what this fellow means, especially the bit about writing stuff that looks crap and then finding that it’s not so bad. I find reading the first draft of a scene incredibly depressing but I shut my eyes to it and edit. And then somehow, if I put in enough work, it becomes magically transformed and when I read it and think,

“Blimey, I can’t believe I wrote that.” I know it’s time to move onto the next scene.

However, for what it’s worth, I think most of the people talking about not forcing art are actually talking about burning out.

Burn out is way different. Burn out is dangerous. Let me explain.

OK, so, I’m a stay at home Mum with a very lively little 5 year old, elderly parents who aren’t too well and who live a long way away and as the result of a recent traffic accident I currently have to snarf painkillers like smarties. So my life right now features three things in sensurround; worry, constant interruption (welcomed but constant nonetheless) and chemicals.

Hmm… so as you can guess, none of these things are conducive to quality writing outside school hours and none of them make for a lively brain. The chemicals are temporary, so the background is usually just the two things; Mumzilladom and worry about my folks – I’m definitely not the dutiful daughter I always assumed I’d be, which is kind of grim face on.

What I mean is that in anyone’s life there’s a lot going on. Add the odd curve ball, traffic accident at the moment but things like family deaths, organising a surprise party or something like that and it’s easy to find that the heart, not to mention the diary, is too full to create. In my case that’s usually at the point where my mind is so fucking knackered it can’t be arsed to wander.

Trust me on this, I’ve been there and hit the wall and at that point if you don’t step back, you’re going to end up mental. This is not about laziness or procrastination or refusing to start in case we fail, this is about capacity. That’s the point when it’s almost physically painful to write – not at the end of the day, we all feel like that then – but at the beginning.

That’s when you’re in danger of losing the love, of becoming a slave to the addiction as opposed to in love with your characters and addicted to the process. When this happens to me, the only cure is to stop everything, rest my mind and spend a few days/weeks/months, however long it takes putting stuff back in until my mojo returns. It’s entirely natural so if this happens to anyone else, don’t worry, the mojo will return you just have to be patient and wait.

So the big trick, for supreme mojo-management, is never reaching that can’t be arsed to wander point; knowing when to stop spewing out words. There is no option, in times of impending burn out but to sit back and reset.

RevvingRevs

There’s no harm in redlining your mojo occasionally, except that… hang on… where is the red bit? Oh for heaven’s sake! Trust me to have a car with no red bit. Alright, look, just try to imagine it in OK?

So for me, never getting burn out means writing a bit less but giving it more welly when I do. It’s worth it because when I can’t write, I miss it. There’s no harm redlining your mojo occasionally to, erm, de-carb your chambers (phnark) just don’t keep it there. Burn out is why it’s good plan to have more than one project on the go. Burn out is deeply unpleasant because it leaves you desperate to create, but unable to.

However, burn out should not be confused with laziness. Writing, painting, any art is the most fantastic fun, more than fun, it’s a drug, but it’s also bloody hard work. And frankly, if it isn’t, I suspect you’re doing it wrong.

There are days when writing my book feels like weeing a full sized house brick, except that there are days when I think pissing a housebrick would be easier. What I’m trying to say is that I have never done anything so hard in my entire life. But I can’t let it go. Right now, I’m not writing, but that’s because it’s the holidays and trying to write now is the fastest short cut to burn out there is. I know my limitations and that, I’m afraid, is why I take two, whole, sodding years to write a book. I know, it’s shocking isn’t it?!

Please be patient, K’Barthan three is nearly there but it may well be next April before I can release it.

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Real life is not like films…

Talking about thinking coolly in a crisis, in this post reminded me of an instance where that very much didn’t happen.

Yeh, so you know in films where some bloke runs in and shouts, “They’re beating up thingwot, come and help” and everyone gets up and runs with him to the rescue? Yeh well that doesn’t happen in real life. What they do in real life is ask you about fifty million pointless questions interspersed with the phrase ‘calm down’ while you shout, repeatedly, “Will you just come the f**k with me to rescue so and so?”

Here’s how I learned that this scenario is in absolutely no way, whatsoever, based on fact….

One Saturday night, aged about 18, I was walking home with a boyfriend and about 100 yards from our house he was attacked. We knew his assailant had 10 friends round the corner because we’d walked through them. I thought about kicking the bloke in the nuts but he looked pretty beefy and able to take down both of us. I wondered whether to knock on the door of a nearby house but I knew they wouldn’t dare let us in. So I hit on a cunning plan. I would go and get reinforcements. My own house was 100 yards away containing my dad a 6ft 2 ex rower and my brother, a well built 6ft 4.

So I ran to my house as fast as I could; speed was of the essence. I was calm until I tried to unlock the door. Lots of adrenaline = shaky hands. Did it but the thing that made it hard was not my shaky hands. It was the key my parents had left in the other side. Yes, they’d locked us out, and left the key in, making it impossible for us to get in. Except that by some miracle, I managed to get my key into the lock – yay! But it dropped out and jammed under the door meaning it opened about five inches and wedged fast.

I try to pull it closed again but it’s wedged fast. I ring the bell.

Dad and brother come to the door, taking their time.

“Quick! come with me, X is getting beaten up. Please come and help him,” I say. Imagine a voice of urgency here and a slightly shaky demeanour but I still had a handle on the panic. I push at the door. Trying to move it but it’s wedged fast.

“Calm down, we’ll get this open,” Dad gets down and sees the problem at once. “You’ve jammed the key underneath it.”

Why was it even in there? Yes, I thought that.

“Forget about the key. Come out of the back door, X is getting beaten up. NOW. I came home for your help.” The tone of my voice has gone up and the decibels have increased.

“Why would I want to come out of the back? It’s alright, it’ll be open in a minute. What’s the hurry?”

“They’re beating up X. Please come and help.” (Screaming).

“There nearly got it. Where’s X?” asks Dad.

“For fuck’s sake! Why d’you think I’m in this state? He’s getting beaten up!”

“What?” asks Bro.

“Beaten up, attacked just down there.” I point.

“OK calm down, come inside and tell us all about it,” says Bro.

“I can’t come in and fucking calm down. X is just down the road being beaten to a pulp and he needs our help.”

“Ah that’s got it,” says Dad. “We’ll have this door open in a jiffy.”

They opened the door then. The porridge-headed smeckers. Just as X turned up looking reproachful.

“Oh hello X. What happened to you?”

X throws me a look as if to say “you didn’t fucking tell them?”

“Everything alright?” says Dad.

Of course it’s fucking not.

“No I’ve just been attacked,” says X.

The penny finally drops.

“Where did you go?” X asks me reproachfully

“I came to get help but it went wrong.” I glare at Dad and Bro. Very wrong.

X looks at me even more reproachfully, and I realise he’s thinking, “yeh right. Coward,” and know that our relationship is doomed.

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Dangerous situations: How not to do the school run.

This morning, I was a bit of a tit.

Actually, I was a wanker of monumental proportions. Not intentionally, I hasten to add. It was just that an amalgamation of badly made small decisions culminated, this morning, in one catastrophic misjudgement. It was Victorian day at school and McMini was all got up as a Victorian boy. He is small and mercurial, with blonde curly hair. The epitome of cute. But he can take a while to get ready. So we were a bit late and after a weekend gardening, I’m a bit stiff. Consequently, though I needed to get a wiggle on, it was a bit of a labour getting us going on the bike – he sits on a seat behind me – and we start out with a hill. It can be a bit of a grim haul sometimes, getting us up that hill. Today was particularly pants, I felt very stiff and tired and seemed to be going incredibly slowly.

However, I’m not so sure I was. I’ve got a lot fitter over the course of the term without noticing. So when I get to the top of the hill, I build up speed and go faster sooner. I did notice this a couple of days ago, when frustrated with my snail like speed I looked down and realised I was cycling up the hill at 12mph which, at the beginning of term, is about as much as I can achieve on the flat. I suppose the nub of it is that when I think I’m going quite slowly, I’m actually riding faster and it could be that my judgement has not caught up. Yes, this is the making excuses for myself paragraph. But despite noticing I was cycling faster in places, I hadn’t really hauled in the implication of what that meant.

So this morning, after creeping up the hill I am trundling along the top and I approach the cross roads at the top. It’s a pretty blind junction so I always slow right down and either stop completely or roll very slowly, so I keep a bit of momentum to get across and get going again. Today, I got there, slowed down, as I usually do. I saw a car coming up the road but it was far enough away not to worry and braked some more, saw nothing coming the other way and started pulling across the road. Then I noticed there was another car. Very close. Something a bit panicky happened about the braking, here. I recall worrying that I hadn’t gripped the levers; whether it was true or borne out of the shit-I’m-not-stopping aspect of it, I don’t know. But I remember consciously ditching Plan A: stop because I knew that I wasn’t stopping and that braking or no braking I was going to overshoot the junction into the oncoming car’s path.

“Shit!” I thought. “Not with McMini up.”

My brain dropped words after that. They took too long. Instead, a picture of us being pushed five yards along the tarmac, trapped under the bumper of the stopping vehicle flashed into my head. I had to get out of its path. I pedalled like fuck. She got our back wheel, there were about 4 inches in it I reckon. There was a massive bang, the back of the bike came round, I didn’t consciously put my foot down but I knew I had because I felt my knee pop and then we were on the road, and McMini was crying, but clearly fine and trying to get his seatbelt off and get up. I unclipped him and held him tight. Telling him it was OK. Telling myself it was OK when I knew damn well that I’d almost killed both of us.

The first thing everyone said; the policeman, the nurse, the doctor – if you’re going to get knocked down, outside a Doctor’s surgery is a very good place – was that it could have happened to anyone, that we all misjudge things. I know this is true. And I know that when I do stuff up, there’s nothing to be gained by worrying about it. Keep calm and carry on. But there are times when I wonder, because either I misjudge things a lot more than other people, or I’m unlucky enough to receive full retribution every time. The short of it is, I don’t usually get away with my misjudgements, or maybe I’m no different to anyone else, but just more prepared to admit it.

And what does this have to do with writing?

Well, all this made me think about how I write about pain and danger. I write them from my own experience. I have endured the kind of pain, in both knees, that has made me whimper and reduced me to tears. The most recent moment being just now, when I went to the freezer to get a frozen chicken out. I’d say there are levels of pain I haven’t experienced but I definitely cry at about level 6. The most pain I’ve ever experienced was, er hem, wind after a c section. Yes ladies, they don’t tell you about that. Sudden evil pain that makes you cry and apologise to everyone round you for the fact you’re rolling about about whispering swearwords under your breath – an 8 for that one. Gripe Juice fixes it in minutes.

So when I put my characters in pain, or danger, they tend to react the way I do. Because using my experience is the only way I can make it believable. But I’m not sure it would be believable to everyone, because we all react differently to peril and pain.

So far, though, through any amount of pain, my thoughts have always been clear. Likewise, in danger, though I may make the wrong call, I weigh up the situation before making a decision.

Likewise, in pain, I’ve always been able to think. Which means I probably haven’t experienced the heights of agony I might think.

To be honest, four out of five times in moments of peril I’ve had very clear concise thoughts. As usual, I was surprised after this morning, at how incredibly clear and fast my thoughts were. But also disappointed at how, if I’d just been that little bit smarter, I could have kept braking and turned the bike sideways, allowing the girl to move her car out round me. I think that in some ways, it’s rather harder to write dangerous situations realistically once you’ve been in some. Because the way they unfold is so different to the way you would expect. And I suppose that’s why you can only really make things in your plot work if you, yourself, can believe that they can. And I suppose that’s how so many of those mad 1960s shows like the Avengers, Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased) and the like were so popular. Because while you have to have that grain of truth upon which to hang it all, it’s that writing with conviction, rather than what actually happens in real life, which allows us to suspend disbelief.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and have a bit of a lie down.

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I’ve got my inner lumberjack out, and the painters in: Luck is in the eye of the beholder.

We have a tree in our garden. We have several but this one hangs out over the road. About a year ago now, it was hit by a recycling lorry. You know, one of those ones that appears jacked up with a metal box on top that is so dented it isn’t really a box any more, but looks as if it has been distressed, via the medium of carefully lobbing it off Beachy Head, before fitting. They’re big and tall these lorries which is how it hooked the lowest branch of the tree. There was a lot of creaking the branch bent a bit and then, thank heavens, it pinged back into position and the lorry went on it’s way.

“Phew,” we all thought, watching from the kitchen. But it wasn’t ‘phew’. It had cracked the branch without us realising and it hung lower after that, high enough, for the winter, but when the spring came and it was covered in leaves and seeds we could hear it getting lorry dinked more often.

So McOther and I discussed it on the way to my parents this weekend. We’d get it pollarded, we decided. When we got home, the offending branch had a big crack in it and new wood showing. It was hanging even lower, precariously over a small red citroen.

“It’ll fall and crush that,” I said. “We ought to find out who it belongs to and get them to move it.”

“It’ll be fine, said McOther. That branch isn’t coming down any time soon.”

“Hmm…” I said. McOther is a qualified engineer, which makes him think he can comment with knowledge and certainty about pretty much anything. I’m not an engineer, but I am a bumpkin, so I know what a bit of tree that’s about to fall off looks like.

We found a pair of police bollards we borrowed for moving in in – which I was supposed to have taken back to the police station; 4 years ago – and put them hopefully under the branch, or at least in the bits under the branch which weren’t occupied by red citroen and went back indoors.

This morning as I was leaving with McMini a large lorry went past and with a horrible rending and cracking of wood, it removed the branch.

“Fucking hell! Shit! The red citroen!” I shouted, throwing a stressed, “You didn’t hear any of that!” back at McMini as I bounded over to the fence.

Amazingly, the red citroen was unscathed. The lorry had taken the branch with it a little way and deposited it about an inch in front of the bumper.

“Praise the Lord the citroen is unharmed,” I said.

The lorry driver stopped and got out. There wasn’t much either of us could do, except be very, very glad about the citroen’s narrow escape – he’d clonked the branch on the way up too which would definitely have been automotive curtains. I asked him if he thought he could get the branch to the side of the road. I think he was delivering malt to the micro brewery round the corner because he did, without any trouble, and I had to saw it into four pieces. After that there wasn’t much more we could do, we bade each other a cheery goodbye and on he went.

Cursing my luck at yet another thing thrown in my path to the computer and my writing, I returned from the school run put on my baseball cap and checked shirt got the saw, secateurs, big cutters, huge suede bus-driver’s luggage removing guantlets stolen from National Express (which I still use for gardening after all these years) etc out and removed the branch from the road. It was a big fuck off branch and I was proud to have it sawed, broken and chopped into manageable pieces in two hours. I divvied it up into logs, kindling and brown bin fodder and put it away.

What does this have to do with luck?

Well, sure, it was unlucky that the branch fell down but it was very lucky that it didn’t hurt anyone or break someone’s car.  I fear it may well have damaged the lorry. I didn’t look and luckily, neither did the guy driving.

On one level, I was unlucky having to remove it today, when I’d wanted to write. On the other, there are certain, hormonally charged days in each month when writing is impossible. Yes, hormones screw us ladies up THAT badly. And there’s nothing like a bit of exercise to help with stomach cramps. So while it could have been bad news, I ended up feeling better sooner than I normally would and seeing as I’d only have been staring at my screen/book/notes/whatever getting steadily more and more pissed off, it was probably a stroke of good luck that I had to get my inner Lumberjack out, when I had the painters in.

On terminally unproductive days it’s hard to walk away from the er hem, terminal. Even if you know it’s the right thing to do. Today, fate made the decision for me.

As I chopped and sawed and pootled around I found myself whistling merrily. It was only after a while that I realised what the tune I was whistling was. And now I am clearly doomed to have it going through my head all day. But it’s not so bad. After all, it’s a cheery tune.

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More from McMini

Some recent gems…

“Mummy I have an idea in my leg.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I am full of ideas, I have them in my legs and my hands and my body and my fingers and my neck and my ears and my mouth and even in my eyes.”
“I see.”
“Yes. And this idea is in my leg.”
“Gosh. What sort of idea is it?”
“I think I’m going to go outside and ride my bike.”

A few weeks ago we went to visit a friend who has a son exactly McMini’s age. They live in Surrey, near Pirbright. In the afternoon we went for a walk in Brookwood Cemetary which is near there. McMini and friend stopped in front of this memorial to Polish soldiers in the second world war.

Polish Memorial at Brookwood Military Cemetery.

McMini and his friend stood in front of it lost in silent contemplation.

“What is that Mummy?” asked McMini.
“It’s a memorial.”
“What’s a memorial?”
“Well, some men from Poland came here to fight in the Second World War. They were killed and this statue has been put up to commemorate them, and how brave they were.”
Long pause.
“Oh.”
Another long pause and McMini’s friend sidled up to him.
“What did she say it is?” he whispered.
“It’s a special statue to remember a man who died in the war.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. He was a pterodactyl.”

Oh well, at least some of it went in. Just… the wrong bits.

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Cynical bollocks, and so’s the latest branding exercise from Abercrombie & Fitch

I enjoy reading Kristen Lamb’s blog and I have just been reading her very interesting post about this.

Oh deary me. I know they do remind us of their marketing strategy every now and again but I really thought the human race had got beyond this.

It’s great to see that one of America’s oldest established businesses is run by people of such depth. Clearly there is not enough crap in the bollocksphere already so numb-nuts there has had to spew out more.

Mwah ha hahargh! Calling all ‘cool, good looking people’. Lord in heaven, is he serious? How many teenagers do you know, even the ones that are, who believe they’re cool and good looking? Yeh… hmm… have you someone in mind? Mmm and what are they like? And when you were at school; did you know anyone who believed they were cool and good looking? Mmm and what were they like? Snortle. Can you remember? I bet you can. That’s right, in two out of three schools I went to, they were a bunch of total gits.

So that’s A&F, then, apparently; made for wankers by plonkers! Oh but only thin wankers under a certain height, because tall people often need larger sizes than a size 10, even a generous American size 10, because… shock horror, they’re bigger.

Apparently some people are hailing this marketing as genius. Just goes to show that the difference between ‘genius’ and ‘bollocks’ is often nothing more than perception.

Seriously though, is that smart marketing? Well… let me just put my brand manager’s hat on for a moment. There. Hmm, give me a moment to think about that.

I’ve thought about it.

No.

It’s not what they’re doing, loads of clothes companies aim at the teen market by keeping the sizes small, it’s just that there’s something really not right about that schpiel. Then again, I don’t fit the demographic. Since I’ve never had a figure like an ironing board, not even when I was a teenager, I’ve never troubled A&F with my custom, the trousers were alright but I’ve never fitted my boobs into a size 10 top… But hang on, do you remember size 16 supermodel Sophie Dahl? Was she not ‘beautiful’ enough for A&F?

Obviously not.

So there we are. Not only is it a wanky theory but it doesn’t even hold water.

Being ‘exclusionary’ is not alright. It’s being a cunt, if you’ll pardon my French.

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