GIVE ME TIME

Many thanks for all your kind and helpful advice regarding sleeping. I am trying all of them (apart from Salman Rushdie which I can't face, Graham!)

The good news is that I've finished the first draft of my novel, GIVE ME TIME!!!
And the picture is of the woods where my protagonist goes to play his cornet.

I'm shaking with adrenaline, know I've got a lot of editing to do, but the foundations are down. I will now leave it to settle for a few weeks and begin the hard work....

Have a great weekend everyone!

Good news and 70s memories?

Good news on the medical front – Himself has now been discharged from Geoff’s care and has to report to Debbie, our wonderful cancer nurse in future. This means that he can hopefully go on to intermittent treatment and not take the hormone treatment all the time (Geoff is a bit old fashioned on that front, believing it better to play safe. What about saving the NHS some money? Himself’s drugs must cost quite a bit.)

Geoff was still of a sunny disposition, despite being the only consultant there yesterday meaning that he saw someone else’s patients as well. This meant waiting for over an hour in chairs that gave me chronic back ache.

But I noticed that his name badge has changed. He is no longer Geoff but GT and his badge is valid till 2012. Would he really still be there then? 2012 sounds such a long way off.

The other good news is that I sold the first piece on adenomyosis. For exactly the amount that it cost me to see Dr Gray privately, so that’s a good bit of irony.

So we went to the pub.

Now this morning I’m hoping to get back to Arthur who I’ve had to neglect in favour of journalism.

What I need is your memories of the late 1970s. Queen, David Bowie, that sort of thing. Punk on its way in.

What about make up and clothes? My memories are dim as a) I was in hospital for a lot of the time and b) I’ve never had any interest in fashion anyway. Google wasn’t much help so I’m appealing to you lot.

Where were you (if you’re old enough) and what were you doing and wearing in 1977?

Part Four

Over the next week, Arthur ignored Chapter Fifteen and devoted himself to his new project. It didn’t have a name, but it was a closer bond with Jane, and as he wrote she seemed to jump off the pages. He could almost smell a certain perfume she favoured which on anyone else he would have loathed. It was pungent, like too strong incense, and made him sneeze. But mixed with her French cigarettes, it had a certain cachet. It clung to his suit jacket, though, and reeked, according to the children. Marjorie never said anything. She just looked.

One morning Arthur returned from giving Mungo his morning run and settled down to the laptop. It was such a relief to be able to write again. ‘You wouldn’t understand, Mungo, but there is nothing more fearsome for a writer than being stuck.’

Mungo settled down in front of the still smoking fire with a hefty sigh.

‘Staring at that bloody screen and not having the faintest flicker of an idea. It’s terrifying.’

Mungo open one eye and shut it, turned over onto his side.

‘I really think that despondent trough I’ve been in might be lifting.’ Arthur was faintly aware of mixed metaphors but couldn’t be bothered to change them. After all, Mungo didn’t care.

Arthur settled down and as he opened the document which he had so far entitled, ‘Jane,’ his phone rang. Arthur stared at it with distrust. Few people knew he was here – Rosemary of course, and his youngest daughter Libby. That was all. Or had someone else found out? Arthur picked up the phone gingerly.

‘Arthur? Rosemary here. Listen, I need to know how you’re getting on.’

‘Fine.’ Arthur shut his eyes against the lie. Why was he so frightened of this woman?

‘So. When can I expect the manuscript?’ There was a pause. ‘Arthur. You’re not writing, are you?’

Arthur shifted in his seat and cast a hopeful eye at Mungo. Save me, he wanted to say. ‘I – well, I got rather stuck,’ he said. God how pitiful that sounded. What had he become? A shrivelled up weakling, unable to even talk to his agent. A scrap of a girl. Arthur thought back to their last meeting, which had proved Rosemary to be rather more than a scrap. She was a Rubenesque redhead with, he suspected, a temper to match her hair. He made a vow then never to anger her. The thought was at once terrifying and faintly thrilling – had he been twenty years younger.

‘Stuck?’ From the way she pronounced the word, Arthur could tell that it wasn’t one in her vocabulary.

‘Yes.’ Arthur felt like a little boy again, caught stealing his friend’s tuck. ‘Stuck. You know. Writer’s block.’

Rosemary sighed and Arthur shivered, glad that several hundred miles separated them. ‘Listen, Arthur. It is vital that you get this manuscript delivered to my desk on time.’ A poignant pause. ‘Your last sales weren’t good. As you know.’

Arthur glanced at Gertrude. Oh no, he mouthed to the impassive cat. This is worse than being at school, with the worst report of the whole school. Gertrude blinked and stretched out a laconic paw.

‘Arthur. Are you listening?’

He jumped. ‘Yes. Sales – not good.’

‘I’ve been thinking, Arthur. Maybe you should have a break for a while.’

He shuddered. He was being put out to pasture. This was the end of his writing career. No words that a writer fears more.

‘It’s either that, or –’

‘Or?’ he grabbed the chance like a lifebelt.

‘Or we try something new. A different genre. Something completely different.’

Arthur looked out of the window at the grey November morning. At the steady rain that had been falling for the last month. Beyond the sodden garden was the path leading to the beach. Where Jane would gather driftwood and scamper back to the cottage with handfuls of rubbish. ‘Look, Arthur, look!’ And she would unload her biscuit barrel, miraculously unscathed. A mobile phone, one day. An old lantern that she managed to coax into life. A bedstead that she painted up and sold, with her other treasures, lined up against the wall of the house.

‘What do you think?’

Arthur tried to bring himself back to the present. ‘Something completely different,’ he muttered. ‘Like – er – what?’

‘I don’t know, darling. You’re the writer.’ Rosemary laughed, a sound that cast terror into Arthur’s soul. It meant your career is over. Do This or you Die.

The Best Laid Plans

That is a good book which is opened with expectation, and closed with
delight and profit.

Amos Bronson Alcott, teacher and author (1799-1888)

Today’s one of those topsy turvy days as I have my journalist’s hat on this afternoon, interviewing someone for a feature on Inspirational Women. And this morning we promised to take the lovely James out this morning for coffee.

He’s much chirpier and very giggly which is good to know and introduced us to his Best Friend who is a lovely fellow; half Canadian and half Norwegian. Very intelligent and a good friend for James.

When we picked him up, James was fumbling about for something when Himself said, ‘are you all right, James?’

‘No.’ Giggle. ‘But I’m happy.’

I told him about Arthur and Jane. This is very curious, this story. There I was, a third of a way through my current novel, feeling decidedly down about life, bad back, writing – you name it. A real old misery guts. And then along came Arthur. Or rather, I blogged about Jane and you lot got me going. The other novel is sitting on the sidelines, like a shy debutante at a Jane Austen ball, while Arthur and Jane storm into centre stage, taking me with them. Where this is going, god knows, but it appears they want their story to be told.

I’ve realised I need to do some research on this story, it being set in the 1960s – or rather, that’s when Arthur and Jane met. And I want a title – something to do with a song of that time. Or a 1960s musical – they met in about 1966 at a party in London.

Hair is the obvious choice, given that Jane is very Extrovert and bohemian (very flower power and whacky backy), but Hair was on in Broadway in the late ‘60s so that’s too late.

I thought of Pajama Game’s Steam Heat but alas that was 1957. Drat.

So any of you out there with memories of the ‘60s or of the songs of that time – I need a good title for this tale. One that evokes the time and, of course, two very special people who fell in love……

And given that she’s an unconventional, feisty lady, what sort of jobs should she do? NO way would she be a secretary – she would want something different, probably lots of different jobs. She’s good at talking, very good at listening and is a good mimic. She’s also very attractive and has a good sense of fun. Any ideas?

Rejections and elderly shopping

Yesterday I got another rejection for the last novel. It floored me. One a week I can cope with, but three is too much, given that my hopes were raised by a very good critique which indicated that she thought this book should be published. Sometimes you can’t win. I was drained and felt I didn’t have the energy to keep doing this. To have my spirits raised and then dashed – there’s only so much you can take, on bad days.

To cheer myself up, I had a look at the Novel Racers blog and read that someone has just had 5 positive responses from agents. Within 48 hours. While I'm delighted for her - no, I am, really. I've just read her blog and she sounds great. I mean that. And she's worked very very hard on her book for over 2 years. But a little devil inside me is shouting, 'yah hah! Hopeless aren't you? Failure!' You can guess how that makes me feel.

Himself was wonderful, gave me a big hug and said, ‘I wish there was something I could DO.’ He does of course – he provides much needed moral support, and I told him so.

But I decided I needed a few hours off. As it happened, James rang asking if we could take him shopping as he wanted to get a watch. When we arrived he said, ‘I have a very small favour to ask. Could my friend come too?’

His friend is in his late 80s and blind, but we said of course. Wondering why someone who can’t see would want to go shopping. As it happened, he declined as he was having a doze, but the two men arranged to go for a walk round the garden when James got back.

So we took him to Asda, where he said to me, ‘You didn’t bring my shopping list.’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Because neither of us could read it.’

We both giggled at that and headed off towards the watches where I found one for £8 with a nice clear face. He was delighted.

‘And now I need to go to the chemist,’ he said.

‘What for?’

‘I can’t remember,’ he replied. So we headed towards the pharmacy department so that he might remember what he wanted if he saw it. After much discussion and a lot of guesswork he bought some glue for his dentures, some toothpaste and some mouthwash. (Has someone been saying something I wonder? Is there romance in the offing? It’d be nice to think so.)

Then we went to the next aisle and he stood before it, stroking his beard and looking puzzled.

‘Do you need anything to help you sleep?’ asked Himself.

‘No,’ replied James. ‘I need – you know – it’s to do with animals.’

I carefully avoided looking at Himself and asked, ‘what kind of animals?’

‘Oh,’ James giggled. (He has a wonderful giggle.) ‘I don’t know.’

And he lumbered off to buy himself three large bars of chocolate instead.

We had a cup of coffee on the way back and got him there in time for his walk with his blind friend, who expressed great interest in coming with us next time.

I can see at this rate word will get round and we’re going to be needing a minibus.

Perhaps we could enter the Guinness Book of Records for How Many Octogenarians can you fit into a Ford Fiesta?

The writing cafe

This will be brief as we’re off to Plymouth where I am going to the ballet with my mum, and Himself and Moll will tour the music shops searching for the Ideal Mouthpiece for his cornet. We’re then spending the night with my mum in Devon and coming back via Fowey so we’re having a weekend away.

But first of all – about the writing café.

We went, RT and I, after our meeting, and found a small café with the door open (it wasn’t overly warm outside) and a long bench type table in the window covered in newspapers and books. At the far end was someone carefully placing what looked like black plasticine cats on luridly coloured cakes – for Halloween, I presumed.

She greeted us and continued attending to the cakes while we looked around. A blackboard advertising the cakes of the day (numerous) and an Italian coffee machine, about six tables and chairs and a slow cooker bubbling away in the background. Books and papers scattered over various table tops. Comfortable, tables and chairs clean. (Though I did see a nasty damp patch coming in through her ceiling which she should have looked at. I thought of volunteering Himself’s services but didn’t think it quite the time.)

The cakes were piled on top of a worktop and just about all were chocolate, and those that weren’t were covered in thick layers of icing. A red light danger zone for someone with my metabolism.

RT ordered tea and a piece of chocolate truffle or something cake.
‘What kind of tea?’ said Patricia, and rattled off about 280 different choices.
‘Er – ordinary please,’ said RT.

We sat down and she presented us with copies of her children’s books and I said I’d ordered one from the library.

‘If you knew how I dread those words,’ she cried. ‘You do realise that if you get books from the library, I don’t get a penny? It’s only about six pounds on Amazon.’

‘Yes, but six pounds is quite a lot of money,’ I said, thinking what about PLR?

That went down like a lead balloon and RT and I exchanged glances. It was one of those times when you’re very glad to have a friend with you.

However, my coffee was fine even if RT’s cake wasn’t. Every time we talked about something, our host either joined in the conversation, or said something like, ‘what sort or organs do you think I should put on my cake? Something with blood dripping out of them?’

We weren’t sure whether she was addressing this comment to us, to the passers by or her son who appeared and drifted off, like a lost soul.

We ended up having a very useful talk about writing, though, and she did volunteer her services if we wanted to drop in one Saturday. She said she’s happy to look through first few chapters and synopsis of a novel so that could be very handy. She also gave RT some good advice about Not Giving Up the first draft.

So all in all, it was an interesting experience. She might well end up in a novel one day.

Itching Babies and Elderly confusion

I posted the novel off yesterday and as I left the corner post office my heart lurched with a mixture of panic and fear, as if I’d thrown my precious work as far as I could over the sea, and was watching it twisting and curling, hurtling further and further away from me. But we won’t go there – all I can do is wait now and get on with other writings.

On the subject of my other baby, we took Moll to the vet this morning after a largely sleepless night (me) as she was scratching and itching nearly all night. So I’m a bit grainy eyed and weary this morning. I’ve been taking her twice weekly to the vet to get her more used to it out of surgery hours, and she was a bit better but still got into a panic which upsets me no end. Which in turn won’t help her. Anyway, the vet thinks it might be fleas (though there’s no sign of fleas) or dermatitis, so she’s had her next lot of Stronghold.

For other pet owners, there’s a really bad infestation of fleas this year, so if your animals are itching, get some flea stuff and spray the whole house (I’ve just done that and am sitting with the windows open to try and ventilate the place).

But back to other matters. We took our elderly friend for coffee on Saturday again. Having had ten days in the new residential home, he looked surprisingly well; his eyes were clear and his face was more relaxed and he seemed in much better spirits than he has done for a long time. Though he doesn’t like the other people –says they’re not friendly. And the only other man is nearly blind and can’t speak. Not ideal for someone who likes a good natter.

While we were out, James said, ‘You know, I’m a founder member of –’ and then stopped as the necessary word had evidently flown the coop. ‘Founder member,’ he said, looking puzzled. Where had that word gone?

‘A club?’ I said.

‘Yes!’ he brightened. ‘You know – women – and racing.’

I looked at Himself. He looked at me. Women’s Formula One, I wondered? Women’s athletics?

‘You know,’ James said, evidently frustrated. And he mimed rowing.

‘Oh, gigs!’ we cried.

Yes – he was one of the former members of the Flushing/Mylor Gig Rowing Club. Phew.

As we left the building he took me to one side and pointed proudly to Himself. ‘I just want you to know that this man is a - a –’ and once again that sodding word would not come. ‘A success,’ he said, as if he knew it wasn't the right word but hoped it would do.

‘I know,’ I said. I got the gist, and was extremely proud to be married to – whatever he was.

It's Over!

Well – it’s over! Saturday was quite a day but with fabulous audiences who cheered and clapped and sang along in all the right places. For some reason, knowing Deb, Freya and Louis were in the audience made it all the more poignant and reduced me to tears for most of the time I was on stage, but I managed to do my bit and they all loved it. They came back stage afterwards – eyes growing larger and larger – and then Pip picked me up, we came home and ate and went off again.

Just standing in the dressing room, hearing “ten minutes, everyone, ten minutes,” will always make me tingle, I think. Even when he followed it with, ‘and can you lot get going tonight, because I want to get to the bar.’. Alcohol started to flow backstage in the evening – port being the main drink, and at the interval we all shared a bottle of Cava which meant about half a teaspoon each but was enough for me.

I was worried about what Pip and David and Jenny would think of it but they thoroughly enjoyed it as well – the show got better and better so I was glad they came on the last night – and we all had a drink afterwards in the bar which turned into an after show party. In fact they had to drive home to Penzance so they didn’t stay long, and we left at midnight. Two glasses of wine went straight to my head and we headed home and fell into bed.

It was one of the best experiences I’ve had and I’m very grateful that I was able to participate in it – particularly as I wasn’t even there for casting. At the beginning of the week I didn’t know how I’d get through it, but every evening was different and I started enjoying it more and more. I think we all did, as we became more confident and saw the show improving.

I’m now feeling very discombobulated. (Can’t think where that word came from but it will do.) I can’t imagine that it’s all over, and I have the soundtrack running round my head with ever increasing frequency, while Pip walks round humming jazz tunes. A very musical household. It’s as if Oliver is now in my bloodstream, and I can’t conceive that That’s It. Or that it will be November before we start another one – how will I cope? We are all meeting for a drink the week after next, and I daresay everyone else will be feeling the same way, but I can see exactly why people go from one show to the next. It really does get in your blood.

Now I really must get back to my poor neglected novel.....