Back from the Future, conversation with an older me.

Let me look into my crystal ball...

 

I’ve read some interesting conversations this weekend: Authors talking to their younger selves: Candy Gourlay’s touching reassurance to her 17 year old self on Dear Teen Me and Teri Terry’s excited chat with her teen self about the upcoming launch of her first novel Slated over on Notes From The Slush Pile.

I thought I’d quite like a chat with my 17 year old self. Turned out she was busy writing haiku’s.  And quoting Bertolt Brecht. And rehearsing for a really important play  thank you.  I left her to it. I didn’t really have much to say to her anyway – she was quite irritating and  I know she figures things out eventually. Gives up one dream and takes up another.

The same dream the 43 year old me is still having. That…hang on… maybe the 63 year old me could answer some questions on….?!

43yome: Hello, excuse me, sorry to interrupt, have you got 5 minutes?

63yome: You look familiar?

43 yome:  I’m you from 20 years ago. I was wondering if we could have a chat.

63y0me: Quickly then, I’m snowed under today. Tea? Redbush right? Ah no- it’s morning – stand-your-spoon-in-builders.

43yome: That would be great, shall I hold the baby?  Oh, she’s gorgeous!

63yome: That’s our newest grandchild, there are two more outside.

43yome looking out the window: That one starting the camp fire has to be Archie’s.

63yome: Nope,  Emily’s. Her twin is on the playhouse roof.   I think you better leave them be though, you look rather too like their mother.

43yome: How’s she doing?

63yome: She’s good,  she’s in Greece at the moment, doing some work for the IMF.

We  share a smile of pride.

43yome: And Archie? Is he happy?

63yome: He’s out on a tractor somewhere.

43yome: He’s happy then. Maybe I could see him?

63yome shaking her head:  I know why you’re here. You want to know if the book deal ever happens, right?

I do an embarrassed sideways nod. I don’t know why, of all people who should understand,   she should.

63yome:  Which book were you thinking of?

43yome: I don’t care, any of them! Mouse? Does he make it? What about Laura and Shem? Maybe not  the current one, its a bitch to rewrite, every time I go through it I see more faults. I’m starting to hate it.

63yome: You’ve just got to be patient.

43yome: I’ve been patient for the last 15 years.

63yome: Ok, you’ve got to be patient and spent less time on the internet. Now drink your tea and get back to work. I’ve got an editorial meeting this afternoon.

43yome: An editorial meeting?! Yes!!! I punch the air. 

63yome: Don’t get too excited, you’re no J.K. Rowling, and for heaven’s sake, do your pelvic floor exercises. And moisturise, OK? It’s not difficult.

Aaaaargh!!!!

The Spy Who Liked Cake.

I have just rediscovered this work of genius by my son. He dictated it to me when he was four years old and we turned it into a little book. The illustrations were quite marvellous – red felt tip in abundance. I have scoured the house looking for the finished book but  all I can find is my typed out copy of the script – ah well, I shall share this joyous thing with you  - I think we could all learn some lessons from it. Not least where not to keep your cake.

The Spy Who Liked Cake.

I am Emily.

I am a lobster.

I am also a spy.

I am a spy lobster.

I have got a gun

I hide my gun in my pants.

Can you see my gun?

I don’t want you to see my gun.

That is why I hide my gun in my pants.

Can I come and play with you?

No!

Why Not?

You have a gun in your pants.

A gun can go bang. 

A gun can go bang when we play.

A gun can hurt you.

Put the gun away, then you can play.

Ok. Do you like cake?

Yes I like Cake.

I will bring some cake.

 Yes, but not cake that has

 been in your pants.

SCBWI – Is it worth the joining fee?

In a word, Yes.

Becky Earl posted on the SCBWI facebook wall asking this question: Will joining SCBWI help me get published?

Well that I can’t answer but I do know a lot of writers who have been published since joining.  Here are three very different, newly published  SCBWI writers:

If this book isn’t made into a film I’ll eat my hat. It’s classic high-concept with perfect marketing opportunities! I can imagine everyone will want a sympathy LEVO  - well done Teri Terry. ( I  had a sneaky preview copy but you can pre-order on Amazon)

Katie Dale’s novel had me in tears, tenderly written on a difficult subject , it’s a fabulous debut.

I heartily recommend Dave Cousin’s first novel – a  tough story told with humour and pathos – truly terrific – like a toughed up Jaqueline Wilson for boys. And girls. And grown women.

Is it worth joining SCBWI? If you get nothing else out of it you’ll meet some fantastic writers. And hey, Becky Earl, someone already blogged about you and you haven’t even joined yet!

How to be a writer – a homage to Meg Rosoff

I’m a big fan of Meg Rosoff.  Her latest book, There is No Dog, is a quirky and irreverent look at our potential deity – though you may end up despairing of him, it all makes quite a lot of sense. And the wonderful  How I Live Now is, as I type, being made into a film.  She’s a damned fine writer, Meg Rosoff,  so when I read her latest blog: Everything You Need To Know To Be A Writer I was laughing with joy.

I’ve always thought of myself as the woman who was so nearly good at so many things and now, instead of feeling like a failure, I can smile and say, oh yes, in that goes to the experience bank – it’s research don’t you know.  So here, after a special request by the lovely and talented Karen Ball is my list of:

Things I’ve Done That Will Help Me Be a Better Writer.

I belly dance. I fence.  I can make a poor fourth hand at bridge.

Doing acting....

I know what it’s like to work on a film, in the theatre and on a farm.

I’ve worked on the deck of the Mary Rose and I’ve worked in  The Gambia. I’ve sucked green oranges with a group of village women in Njawara and got sick drinking tap water in Banjul.

I’ve had an African  prince to tea.

I’ve been on an anti fox hunting rally.  I’ve lobbied my MP and had a warning from a policeman for demonstrating outside the Houses of Parliament.  I’ve been a guest at the House of Lords.

At 17 my heart was broken. My first love left me for a beautiful boy called Mark, one of my best friends. I behaved quite badly after that until, at 19, I fell in love again and stayed that way.

I’ve had two stalkers, one more scary than the other.

I am sometimes too nice for my own good.

I spent a decade living in a caravan. I have been cold and hungry. I know what it’s like to risk losing everything you own to make a better life.

I’ve built a business. I’ve built a house. I’ve held down three jobs at once, one of which involved dressing up as an octopus.

I’ve dropped pizza in the lap of a man in white trousers.

I lost my mother in  Singapore and my camera by a hot spring in Borneo.  I got another mother and, less painfully, another camera.

I had one childbirth that, 50 years ago,  would have killed me and my daughter. When it was over, I had a bitch of a midwife who was cruel and  stupid. I had extensive repair surgery. The surgeon had hepatitis C.  I  had another child by c-section thus curing my terror of the whole process – then I had a haemorrhage in the school playground because I thought I was invincible when, in fact, I was an idiot.

I’ve paddled beside a manatee in Mexico;  ridden a horse in Cuba;  found a stash of petrol bombs in my flat in North Wales;  belly danced at one of The Earl of March’s infamous parties and toured a play to the south of France.

I’ve let down a friend who never forgave me.

I’ve been to a muddy Glastonbury Festival, a sunny Glastonbury Festival and I’ve seen Leonard Cohen through a haze of dope smoke. I’ve had an argument with a woman snorting cocaine over her child’s pram.

I  had a bare knuckle fight with the bane of my life at St. Luke’s Comprehensive School. I was molested on my paper round and never told a soul.

I’ve been in two tornadoes in the South of England and a violent storm in Sarawak.  I’ve rescued my daughter’s bag from a warthog and my son’s fingers from a monitor lizard.

I’ve nursed a sick hamster back to life, had my fingers sucked by a calf and said goodbye to countless beloved pets. I’ve twice removed a wild owl from my sitting room.

I’ve written a lot of words and I’m writing some more but these one’s are by kind permission of                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Meg :

All my life I despaired at being a jack of all trades and master of none, but it all proved fantastically useful when I started writing.

This is by way of saying that when I suggest people not be in a hurry to write a book, I mean it. Because the more you live, the more you’ll know — in your head and in your heart. And the more you know, the more your book will come from a deep place of real resonance — in other words, not wikipedia.

Reading Meg’s blog made me realise everything we do in life is important. It all adds up to who we are.

It all goes in to the stories we tell.  Even the stuff we failed at. Especially the stuff we failed at.

Rosie The Cat

Rosie The Cat

Vet Biter

Dog Fighter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boy Walker

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fast Talker

Guilt Invoker

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paper Poker

Blanket Tester

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rat Arrester

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Baby,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Killer, Queen.

 

RIP, R.T.C.

Why I hate the wind.

Chalk Lane, 3rd Jan 2012

Wind is the weather that frightens me most. I have cowered in a caravan while wind has rocked it like a demented mother.  I have stood paralysed while a tornado blackened the sky and ripped its dark path though one greenhouse after another. I have held my breath in the after calm,  shocked by the devastation, fearful of its return and grateful that things were not much, much worse.

Yesterday the sky blackened once more.

Beloved  knew it was coming. Winds had been forecast , and they were already high, but he’d also had a phone call from Father-in-Law, who lives a couple of hours away, warning us a line squall had passed over his place and was heading our way.

I was working on the end of year report when it hit. My computer switched off. The power was out. In a heartbeat the gusting wind outside changed to a tearing, rain lashed storm force 10. Fence panels and gas canisters blew past my office window. My first thought was for the children.

Safe at school. Solid, brick built, sturdy school.

But  where was Beloved? I threw my coat on and battled outside. The rain was tidal, lashing in horizontal waves, the wind threatened to tip me over. I struggled to keep hold of the farm office door but he was there, and safe.

Narrow escape for the greenhouse

‘I’m scared.’ I said.

‘I know.’ He said.

We clambered through the fallen trees that blocked the track and pushed through the rain to check  the greenhouse. Some of the guttering had been torn free but it hadn’t smashed into the glass.  I ran on, turned the corner expecting to see upturned caravans, the farm camp looked intact. All seemed Ok until we saw the tunnels on Horse Field. Plastic flapped like the wing of some huge, distressed bird. Metal was buckled and flattened. The wind billowed under remaining covers, sheering  rope and threatening more damage. Beloved ran to the rope store. As rain washed  our faces and wind tugged tearing rope burns into our hands,  we lashed down the plastic and saved at least some of the metal work.

Crushed metalwork

Blown out glass

The wind eased, the sky cleared.

We headed out to the road. Trees blocked it in both directions. So much devastation in just 30 seconds.

‘I’ll get the chainsaw.’ Said Beloved.

That's my man.

Power or no power, homework can always be done.

But you might have to share your desk space.

Crisis at Christmas

It’s Christmas and I have a gift for you! It might not feel like a gift but IT IS! It’s the gift of giving. Just a little bit.

Have you ever wondered how awful it would be to be homeless and lonely at Christmas? How much you admire those amazing people who give up their own Christmas Day to help out at homeless shelters? I know, me too! And here’s the perfect gift to help you feel less guilty about that:

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=Redwoods1

My friend Lisa is actually doing it – giving up her Christmas to help others and raising money for Crisis at Christmas as she does so. Think how good you’ll feel knowing you’ve helped pay for someone cold and hungry to be warm and fed this Christmas and all you’ve got to do is offer five quid. Or maybe ten.  Go on – do it! Let’s nudge the total over a thousand and spread the Christmas Joy!

Happy Christmas to you all and thank you for reading and commenting – see you in the new year I hop!

Kathy xx