Tag Archives: writer mom

Am I what I eat? I hope not.

It’s Friday, not much is going on, McMini is upstairs ‘playing’ with a cross trainer, which is somewhat worrying but hey, he’s enjoying himself, taking some exercise and it’s keeping him quiet. Actually, it’s not, he’s shouting cheery numbers down to me as I sit here in the kitchen.

“One hundred a million!” clunk clunk, “seventy zero” clunk whirr clunk, “fifty a hundred three!”

Which reminds me, I don’t think I’ve posted anything about the conversation we had in the supermarket the other day.

After our splendid trip to Alsace, McMini has developed a liking for frankfurters or “les knack” as they are known in Alsace.

Dinosaurs meet.

Dinosaurs meet.

So I tend to buy them in packs of four, one sell by quite soon, one with a date a bit further away so I can keep it in reserve for later in the week. So there we are at the cold meats section and I’m rootling about at the back looking for one with a longer date. McMini is idly looking at the packets of stuff asking random questions and I am marvelling at the way his mind works.

For example, his question about precut salami: “How big is one of these sausages, Mummy, if it’s not cut up?” you get the picture, I’m sure. anyway, there we are.

“Mummy…?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what this meat is?”

“No,” I say, because Mummy is not really looking.

“It’s pterodactyl meat.”

I grab the latest sell by date knacks I can find and pop up to see what he’s looking at. Pancetta, cubati de.

“Is it really?”

“Yes. They catch the pterodactyl and then they kill it, and cut it into tiny pieces and then WE eat it.”

“I see. That’s… very interesting. Did your father tell you that?”

“No, I made- I found out all by my own. I know all sorts of interesting things.”

“I’ll say.”

At this point I notice an elderly man who gives me a lovely smile and walks away chuckling.

Later, on the way home, he says. “Mummy, I love you and Daddy and God more than anyone else in the whole WORLD even more than my best friends!”

This is how a five year old thinks and talks, I suppose and it’s really rather wonderful.

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“Come in to my parlour,” said the spider to the fly.

On our last day in Alsace the weather was blinding so we left later and spent a morning at the hotel pool. McMini was playing with model planes, micro mini planes, one of which was an X Wing fighter out of the StarWars films. The conversation, as reported to me, went like this.

McMini, “Get in! Get in! Get in.” rinse and repeat.
McOther intrigued as to what is going on asks, “What are you doing there?”
McMini shows him the X wing with it’s cockpit opened. “I am trying to get this ant to climb into my X Wing.”
McOther, “Why?”
McMini, “So he can go for a ride.”
McOther, “But he’s an ant, he won’t be able to drive it.”
McMini, “That’s alright, I will drive it for him so he can have a lovely time.”
McOther, “I’m not sure he’d like it, why don’t you leave him where he is?”
McMini, “But Daddy he will have such a fun time.”
McOther, “I’m not sure. Ants enjoy different things to humans, he might not like it.”
McMini, a little crestfallen. “Oh… are you absolutely certain, Daddy?”
McOther, “Yes.”
McMini, “OK, I will leave him where he is then.”

We’ve been giggling about this ever since.

This evening, McOther rang to say that he was on his way home and that there was a lovely moon. I suggested McMini could look at it through his junior National Geographic telescope (what was I thinking)?

McMini, “Will I see any aliens?”
MTM, “Maybe.” (What was I thinking?)

So we got the telescope out and set it up and he has a look.

MTM, “What do you see?”McMini: “Nothing, just whiteness.”
MTM, “Hang on, shall I just check it’s in focus?”
McMini, “Yes please Mummy. ”

So I check it and focus it.

MTM, “There you go.”
McMini, “I still can’t see anything.”
MTM,”Hang on, let me check that again,” MTM checks the focus again, “is that any better?”
McMini, “No I still can’t see.”
MTM, “Maybe it’s the angle, shall I check again?”
McMini, “Yes please.”

So I check the angle and yes, it’s all fine, the moon is bang in the middle and he should be able to see it. I wonder whether he’s closing the wrong eye. He has another look.

McMini, “I still can’t see any aliens, just white moon.”
MTM, “Well, you probably need a bigger magnification to see aliens.McMini, very crestfallen, “Oh…. I wanted to see some aliens.”

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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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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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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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I knew I shouldn’t have shown him that book on Florence Nightingale

McOther came home from work feeling terrible. He went upstairs for a rest. McMini and I arrived from school and went up to see if he’d like a cup of tea. He said yes please.
“When I’m ill I like to go to bed and have a little sleep and read my books, then I feel better,” McMini volunteered.
“Thank you,” said McOther.
“Come on, let’s go make Daddy’s tea,” I said and we went down to boil the kettle. While I was fishing a tea bag out of the tin and generally phaffing, McMini disappeared. When I went upstairs with McOther’s tea, there was our son sitting beside his Dad with a book on aeroplanes and a StarWars annual.
“I am just reading to Daddy, so he will feel better.”
“Good boy, do you feel better Daddy?”
“Yes I do,” said McOther’s mouth but his eyes said, “Help me…!”
“I think we should leave Daddy to sleep now though, eh?” I said.
“But I haven’t finished reading him StarWars.”
“I’m sure he would love to have a sleep first, it’ll be much more exciting if he has to wait for the next installment. Right Daddy?”
“Yes, that’s a great idea,” said McOther, with a certain amount of feeling.
“What d’you reckon?” I asked McMini.
“Hmm… Yes Mummy I think you’re right. OK Daddy. It is time for you to have a little sleep. I will come back to see you later and find out if you are better,” said McMini. “Let me turn the light off.”
He turned our three position bedside light onto medium, then bright then straight through off and back onto low several times, so I decided to save McOther’s retinas from a third searing by doing it myself.
“See you later Daddy,” he said.
I’ve managed to distract him with supper, TV and a game of football but he is very keen to take a star wars annual up to Daddy and read to him, even though it’s actually his Dad who’s doing the reading…

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Hang onto this…

It’s been a tough few weeks. Decidedly grim in fact. My father’s health has taken a turn for the worst. It’s age and atrial affibrilation – which is treated in such a way that gives you brain damage over time so if the person doesn’t die of a stroke or heart attack caused by the atrial affribilation they die over ten or fifteen years from the treatment. It’s a bit of a worry.

So two weeks ago, I had to make a mercy dash down to Dad and Mum. We sorted out a lot of things they will need to help with this, the new level. They have decided to stay home rather than visit my brother’s for Christmas so they will be alone. This is the right decision but it’s sad for my brother and for Dad and Mum. I know they’ll miss each other. As it’s our ‘turn’ to visit McOther’s side of the house there’s very little I can do to help because they’re having an even worse time of it.

One of McOther’s brothers died. Like my Dad, he was unwell but he managed his condition with good humour, common sense and intelligence. We thought he would be around for a lot longer than this. It doesn’t quite seem possible. We got home to discover that my Dad has had another fall but that he and my Mum didn’t want to worry us while we were down at the funeral. They are being well looked after by their ‘network’, which is reassuring but a worry because I can’t see any way I will get near them until after New Year.

McMini was excused school last week and we took him with us. Doubtless some of you will raise your eyebrows at the merits of taking a 4 year old to his uncle’s funeral. The fact is, we wanted to say goodbye and if we want to do something, McMini has to tag along. Because the buck stops with me and his dad. There is no-one we can leave him with. In the event, he coped extremely well.

However, as you can imagine, everything has felt a little unreal the last few weeks. I wondered if that’s why I seem to have kept a level head. Those feelings of unreality insulating me from the truth, but now I think it’s something else.

When we got home we had some parcels to pick up from the Post Office Sorting Office which they’d tried to deliver while we were away. So while McOther and his other brother stayed home with McMini I drove up there to pick up the parcel. On the way home, I went to the supermarket to get some milk. As I bipped my bottles at the auto pay station I could hear the automated voice of the machine beside me saying.

“Unexpected item in bagging area.”

The ‘unexpected item’ turned out to be a two year old girl, ‘helping’ her Mum. It made me laugh and I realised that it’s been these small normal things; shopping, conversations with McMini, washing up the dishes, stuff like that – and, yep, even writing – which has kept me grounded among the unreality of grief. I am a mum and I must look after my son many of these things which, on my own, I might have let slide, have to be attended to. And now I realise that these small events are the solid earth upon which I stand.

It struck me that this aspect of Real Life is relevant to writing fantasy science-fiction. If you want people to get their heads round bizarre creatures and outlandish locations you have to build these things on a credible bedrock. Your readers have to have that level place. There have to be certain generalities of geography or custom – or personality in your characters – for your readers to hang onto if you want them to ‘get’ the rest of it.

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