Tag Archives: writer mom

A little of what you fancy does you good.

Today McOther whisked McMini and I off to a wine fair. We met up with another couple and agreed that the boys would taste wine in the morning while we girls nipped off with the kids, we’d have lunch and then the boys would nip off with the kids while we did some tasting.

It was a beautiful sunny day, blue sky, bright sun and we headed to a local garden centre to meet Father Christmas… but to meet him we would have to trek back to another part of the site, buy Santa tickets, come back and queue.

On the other hand… outside… was an ice rink. It was all white (real ice) and the sky was all blue and it was calling…

Mmm, would 4 year old McMini take to skating? Probably not. Should I be skating with my comprehensively bollocksed knee? Absolutely not but what the heck? The timings didn’t quite fit, the next session didn’t start for 15 minutes so we would only have 15 minutes to skate but that was good right? Time to get the skates on and 15 minutes, half a session. Time enough to have fun but hopefully not to break any thing.

We decided to give it a go.

Now, me, I am the ultimate urban jungle bunny because I grew up in a school. We lived on site. Do you know how much smooth concrete and tarmac the average boarding school contains? A sod of a lot, I can tell you. If there is one thing I miss about having two functional knees it’s the ability to wear wheels instead of shoes. As a kid in the 1980s, I lived on wheels. Even when, aged 11 I was banned from all sport because of my dodgy knee, I was allowed to skate on the grounds that it was “low impact” and “the child has to be allowed to do something”. I liked taking exercise and since I wasn’t allowed to do anything else, I spent every Saturday and every evening after school with wheels attached to my feet, cruising the concrete cloisters and smooth bricked quads… and hiding when the bell went and the big, scary boys changed classes for lessons.

My Mum decided to turn a blind eye to my preference for wheels over shoes So, I was a pretty dab hand at it. Even after I reached the point where my knee was utterly shot, when I couldn’t physically run, I could rollerblade, and did, although the tricks were way beyond me by that time. First rule of aggressive skating; don’t do anything on skates on that you couldn’t try out with them off first. So that, for me, was everything…. except going forwards, and backwards, and jumping over the odd small obstacle… but nothing ritzy. Eventually that got too much and about 10 years ago, I had to hang up my skates. I really, really miss it but it is just not possible to do it with only one proper leg and until they invent some kind of skater’s zimmer frame (phnark) that’s the way it’ll stay.

Back to today… there it was… ice, white ice, blue sky. Mmm. Not as easy as wheels but oh so tempting. So we gave in, we hired the skates and stood on the rubber bit at the side with severe misgivings and butterflies wondering who would break which limb first. Finally, we got on and the four of us made one disastrous circuit with two petrified children; McMini almost in tears and me realising that my left leg was really, really not working, at all and that it probably wasn’t safe for me to do this unless I could find some way of skating with a walking stick.

The answer was a thing that looked like a banana with handles. Seats two, slides beautifully and gives just enough support for the dodgy kneed lady. We had a gas! We slalomed in and out of the other skaters at speed – controlled, of course – and on the corners I could safely throw the banana sideways, shouting,

“Feel the drift!” while the kids screamed with glee and shouted.

“We are going faster than anyone else!”

As the banana went sideways I went straight… leaning on the handle. Jeez, I could actually do crossovers! I was safe and in control. Indeed, leaning on the handle, I could skate pretty much normally, with the banana taking some of the weight, the knee held up. And the kids shouted,

“Faster! Faster!” and well… it was churlish not to oblige.

Eventually the pain hit the warning threshold and I knew the time had come to quit while I was ahead. We’d had our 15 minutes, anyway, and we didn’t want to be late for lunch. So we parked the banana and skipped off the ice, two cheerful rosy-cheeked women with two (equally rosy-cheeked) and utterly gleeful bug-eyed kids. Sure, I could be walking with a stick for the rest of the week but… bloody hell that felt good.

So the point of this story is this: every now and again we all need to throw caution to the wind do something a little bit out there. I confess I thought I did, but clearly, not enough. Many of us live lives which are hectic or busy and we can’t vary the mix that often. But I have always believed that if an opportunity crops up, everyone should. And I suppose, in my case, the exuberant glee I’ve been feeling all day bears it out! Because that ten minutes on the ice, doing something I’ll be paying for all week, something I really shouldn’t have been doing but that I miss, left me feeling absolutely fantastic. It was a tonic. So there we are. A little of what you fancy does you good. Especially if it’s naughty and you’re not meant to.

Even better, right now, I’m buzzing with ideas. And I know why K’Barthan 3 isn’t clicking. And I might even be able to fix it. Funny how sometimes, the the best way to find a solution to a problem is to stop thinking about it; and the best way of writing is not to. I suppose, if you’re endlessly dragging ideas out of your brain it’s only sensible to do something off piste now and again; to put things in.

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When real life treads on your hands…

I’ve gone and depressed myself again by looking at one of those ‘uplifting’ posts on Kindleboards about people who’ve had an e-book out for half as long as I have and are making a gazillion times more money. Sod it, just making any money. Maybe you just have to be American to earn a living selling e-books. I dunno. Or maybe you just have to have time. Lots of time. And maybe it’s something that you just can’t do in tiny slices of time, slowly, over years, like I’d hoped.

You know I am basically a happy bunny, I am surrounded by sweet people, I’m happy, I’m cherished, I cherish  others… I’m blessed with a very happy family. I also live in a lovely house and drive a car that, as an incurable petrol head, I still can’t quite believe I own. There’s really nothing wrong with my life except that not everyone in that cherished, loved support group around me is as they should be. I’m not one to spill my guts over the internet but let’s just say this. There’s something they don’t tell you about heart disease. A lot of it gives you brain damage. Because a lot of heart disease causes a lack of blood to the head. Over time, this gives similar symptoms similar to those of exposure only they come on very, very slowly. Every day you get a little more fuzzy. Every day another little piece of you, the essence of you, is carried away. Slowly but surely, inevitably, you lose your mind. Add a succession of really hard winters, because heaven forfend that fucking sod might pull any punches and you’re in the poop. Big time.

So, one of my cherished people is in the doo doo and those years and years of bitty, incremental damage are beginning to show. And I can’t do a fucking thing.  And I’m miles away from them when I should be there. When the simplest thing becomes a marathon slog for them, I’m not there to help or reassure when all my life, I believed I would be. I’m not there to fix the computer when it freaks, or go through the paperwork or deal with the admin that escapes; things like tax returns or driving license applications. I’m trapped here at the end of the phone and all I can do is listen. And it feels shit. Because to watch the people I love suffer from a long way away and not help; people who have given me everything and made me who I am, people I look up to. That makes me feel like a special kind of bastard.

So the wheels have fallen off my writing a bit. I can’t stop, I’m addicted, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be hitting any deadlines, and I probably won’t be very professional about it either. In short, if K’Barthan 3 is ready by next Christmas I’ll be surprised. But in my defence, although I can’t name names and be straight about it here, there is a good reason. Real life has painfully, comprehensively, trodden on my hands.

I feel a bit like this. As Arnold the Prophet says in K’Barthan Three.
“Life is a gift, reach out and take it with both hands.”
And The Pan of Hamgee says.
“That’s all all very well for you to say but the gift I’m being offered looks suspiciously like a dog turd in a paper bag, to me.”
It isn’t all pants and it’s a lot worse for them than me but there’s a very, very sad bit and I have to accept that I can’t fix it. And that rankles. Big time.

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Mini Man Says….

This afternoon, McMini approached me with his doctor’s kit and explained that he was going to ‘make me better’. He sat me down on the sofa with his medical case and protective knight’s helmet beside him and got to work. He selected the special looky-in-the-eary-thing. No idea what its technical name is.

“First I will look in your ear,” he says and proceeded to do so.
“Anything in there?” I asked him.
“No.”
“Do you need to look in the other one?”
“No, I saw right through to the other ear from this side.”

I admit I’m a bit of an airhead but not that much, surely. Then he gets out the reflex testing hammer.

“Now I must put on my hat to protect me if bits fly off your elbows. Please roll up your sleeves, Mummy.” He put on the knight helmet and proceeded to tap my elbows very gently with the hammer.

Then he listened to my tummy with the stethascope.

“Mmm. Your tummy is full of bugs. I will have to kill them.”
“Oh dear,” I said.
“Scissors,” he said holding them up. “Open wide.”

Other gems he has come out with include.

“Rain is like wee falling from the sky.”

“If you’re not careful you will get dirty and have purple skin and the purple won’t go away.”

“Turn the lights off please. Thank you. Look! I can see in the dark. It is because I have been eating lots of carrots. I have eaten so many carrots that soon my eyes will pop out and turn red like a dinosaur.”

He is very into dinosaurs at the moment. Last night, he squatted down, looking, to all intents and purposes, as if he was about to have a pooh and started to bounce slightly, humming as he did so. It looked as if he was doing the Mr-Whippy-having-a-crap-joke.

“What are you doing?” I asked, slightly bemused. He smiled up at me and said,
“I am laying my eggs.”
Later I found him squatting down humming but without moving.
“Hello Mummy. Now I am sitting on my eggs,” he told me.

Today we went to a Dr Who exhibition at my local museum. It was great. I’d like to go again, but I doubt I’ll make it. It’s only on for a week but there was a worksheet and a prize draw and I didn’t get to totally fill it in. Mwah ha hargh, no! Not for ME; for McMini.

At the end we spent a lot of time looking at a life size Dalek, one of the really early ones, pre my era (mine are the 73/74 ones). I came under heavy bombardment to buy one of the souvenir Dr Who action figures – the Daleks were well cool but £15 a pop – so I demurred and promised him one when we got home as I have a few spares in my collection of shame.

When we came home, McMini proudly told McOther about the ‘garlic’ he’d seen while I chortled into my hand. McOther didn’t seem to get it. I went and got a Dalek for McMini which he proudly rushed downstairs to show McOther. It was only then that the dear man realised what a ‘garlic’ was. He thought we’d been to the cook shop. Phnark.

Finally… he’s doing phonetics at the moment so he has a song about the letters c and k which he sings. He whispered it very quietly to me in church.

“Well done, that’s great,” I said when he’d finished.
“K, k, k, kite, kit, kate, can’t, CUNT!” he shouted. It was very innocent, he was just making noises but… hmm.

Never let it be said that having kids is dull!

Stop Press: He has just asked if I could show him some “pictures all about onions” on the computer.
“Onions?” I said. “Do you mean Daleks?”
“Yes! Garlics.”

Latest (20:30): Apparently he went upstairs to find McOther shouting, “Extra-erminate!”

He will kill me for this when he’s grown up… 😉

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If you thought The Wrong Stuff was the right stuff… and you’re interested. Location photos.

The other day, a fellow forum user on Goodreads, Ignite, said she’d love to know things about my books like, where they’re set, where the ideas came from, a bit about the cover art… that kind of thing. So, taking her words to heart, last time I was down in London I took some pictures of one of the locations.

The RAC Club features in The Wrong Stuff, K’Barthan Trilogy: Part 2, so here are some pictures of the bits mentioned – or at least, the bits that exist. A lot of the RAC Club in my book is imaginary.

The sight that greets Ruth when she walks into the RAC club

The RAC Club, the view up the stairs to the atrium as you come in. So this is what The Pan and Ruth would have seen as they came in and where they would have been greeted by Club staff.

The RAC Club, from in the atrium, looking down the stairs towards the street entrance.
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RAC Club Atrium

This is another shot of the atrium from the first floor but trying to show the glass ceiling. I should think there is very little up there apart from the roof, some water tanks, air conditioning/heating outlets and a lot of pigeon pooh. However, I like to pretend there really IS a roof garden.

The atrium, although we’re actually on the first floor by this time, or possibly the second floor because the atrium itself, above the swimming pool, is sort of mezzanine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s the view of the atrium, looking down at the fabulous carpet and the display of old car(s). This time it was just the one, I think I have seen a pair before. They can be anything from a vintage motor like the one here to rare road cars, rally winners, historic racers or grand prix cars. The only thing they have in common is that they are always interesting. But this is where the display of historic Lotuses in the book would have been.

RAC Club stairs where Big Merv and Lucy argue

The stairs at the RAC Club where Lucy answers Ruth’s phone call from the police station and argues with Big Merv about going to Paddington Green alone.

The RAC Club, stairwell

Here’s a picture of the view upwards… somewhere at the stop of the stairs is where Sir Robin/The Architrave’s apartments are hidden. Although I have to confess that I based the corridors and rooms upstairs on a different London club.

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More Light fluff from McMini

Here are a few more class quotes from McMini.

1 Week ago:

McMini enters the kitchen, crawling on all fours so he can wheel Action Man Motorbike – on said motorbike – up to my feet, where I’m standing at the counter chopping up things and announces.

“Action man is desperate for a pooh.”
“Ah. Right,” I say. “He’d better go have one then don’t you think?”
“Yes.” says McMini and Action Man is turned round and wheeled away.
A few minutes later the loo is flushed and he returns.
“Action Man has had a wee and a pooh because he has a special hole in the back of his trousers where the wee and pooh can come out.”
“Well, that’s good to know.” I say.

A few hours later, McMini comes in looking pensive. He thinks a bit and says.

“Dinosaurs don’t do any wee or pooh.”
“Well actually small fellow, I think they did.”
“No they don’t,” note present tense, “I have looked at all my plastic dinosaurs and not one of them has a pooh or wee hole.”
“That’s just because they’re made by prudish toy manufacturers who want to torture parents by not giving toys any naughty bits so that children ask their parents difficult questions.”

Two Weeks Ago:

McMini trundles into the kitchen with his plastic pretend mobile.

“I am on the phone. I am talking to somebody at my work so you must be very quiet.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Shush Mummy You must not make any noise.
A pause and he says.
“Hello? Hello?” another pause. McMini rolls eyes and snaps phone closed. “He cannot hear me.”

Latest…
“Mummy, I am going to do a pooh.”
“OK.”
“Will you look after me.”
“Alright.”
“This will be a stinky one. It will smell out the house. It will smell so badly that it will kill you and you will die.”

A couple of days later.

“Mummy, I am going to do a pooh. Will you look after me.”
“Alright.”
“Good. I am going to stink you out, it will smell the whole house.”
“Oh dear, I’m not going to die am I?”
“No no Mummy. It is not a kill pooh, just a very smelly one.”

He also has the most lovely way of getting things wrong. So for example, his Star Wars favourites are RD8 and the Lemington Falcon.

Then there’s the very clever grammatical stuff; wrong but very clever.

He says “ear wack”. But as a friend pointed out to me the other day – because her daughter does it – he’s actually being very clever. He doesn’t know spelling so he doesn’t know the difference between the x and the s. So he thinks Ear Wax is a plural.

He also says ‘somebolly’ as in ‘somebolly is sitting here Mummy.’

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McMini Says

Some more gems from McMini who is currently hoovering up his supper, or at least, munching it crumb by crumb, at the same speed glaciers move.

He sighed and said, “I have so much to do… I must do driving and eating and measuring and running.“
“That sounds like a packed social agenda.” I said.
“Oh yes I am very busy.”

Then he looked at his toy aeroplane and said.

“That is made in a factory with a machine and then a man puts it in a box and it is sent to the shops for me to buy.” he said.
“Well, yes that is pretty much how everything works.” I said. “Where did you get that from?“
“I watched it on I Can Cook.”

I was quite chuffed that he’s worked out how a factory works from looking at a short segment about packing and shipping bananas.

This morning we were out for a walk and the conversation went something like this.

“Mummy. It’s been raining a lot.“
“Yes hasn’t it? I’m glad it’s stopped now.“
“Yes and the puddles have gone.“
“Yes they have.“
“Where do they go?“
“Well, some of the water soaks away into the ground and some goes up into the sky. It’s the same as the steam that comes out of the kettle when it’s boiling — that’s water too — except there’s not as much so we can’t see it.“
“Ah… I think that’s how rain gets up into the sky, then.“
“Yes, that’s exactly how rain gets up into the sky.“
“Mmm. I see.”

I think he’s probably quite sharp. I quake at the thought of his teenaged years. I will win many arguments when he’s a teenager (not).

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Erk

My writing is going incredibly badly, not just a little bit out of kilter but oh blimey I think I’m going to have to re-write the first 50,000 words badly.

It does happen with every book I write but I’ve never had a two year old to look after or had my in-laws turn up to stay for an unspecified time until they find a house at the same moment. Usually I have time to concentrate, this time, not.

Hmm… It seems there are finally too many balls in the air and I’ve dropped the fucking lot.

Oh dear.

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The Value of Re-reading…

Hmm… here I am formatting my book for print, ordering actual bound copies to look at and evaluate and thinking that I am pretty much finished when I discover a massive and pointless continuity error…

I’d never seen it before so I’m delighted (not to mention relieved) to have found it now.  I suspect the moral of this story is that you can never proof read your stuff enough times.

On a completely different subject, the p key on my computer has broken. It still types, but the plastic lid won’t stay on so I have to put my pinkie directly onto the strange squishy rubbery mechanism… I guess the moral of this story is not to put your computer on the ground so your mobile phone falls out of your pocket onto the keyboard when you stand up.

Another small disaster was averted, too, yesterday when scion came rushing through my nice clean house shouting “egg” and juggling a real one from hand to hand – he is one and three quarters so this was… alarming. I did manage to rescue it and get it back into the pantry… I also managed to rescue the three other eggs he had dropped into the cereal box. Luckily none of them broke either… so no eggy cereal and no horrible eggy goop stuck, for ever, between the floor boards in the hall!

Points to the little one for manual dexterity, too, he’d unhooked and opened a wire egg basket and opened a cardboard egg box inside it.

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Kathy Lette says she admires me!

Yeh and even though she doesn’t know who I am, it feels good!

In an interview  on the writers and artists yearbook blog she was asked what female novelists she admired and said this:

“All female novelists who are also mothers. We should all just get a Booker Prize for finishing a book.”

The rest of the article is a great read, too – you can find it here but that particular bit made me feel all warm and fuzzy. And next time I am trying to sort out a problem with a plot in my head, while I am trudging up (0r down) the stairs with the latest clean (or dirty) mountain of washing to attend to; followed closely by small, huffing, puffing, scion carrying a large (full) plastic milk carton in each hand (cartons which are making worrying is-that-milk-going-to-stay-put-in-there-or-it-going-to-leak-out gurgly noises) I will think of that and feel part of a weird sisterhood of mother writers!

Mmm… Isn’t that a pip?

So, Kathy Letts thank you, thank you!

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