Evaluating Education: 2013 365 Challenge #163

If my children go to a private school will I have to learn to iron?

I received a prospectus for our nearest public (private, fee-paying) junior school in the post today. Our daughter is enrolled in the state school and due to start in September, but I read it anyway because, why not? I’ll tell you why not! It took us long enough to choose the right primary school, without bending the brain yet further.

We’ve often talked of sending our kids to private school at some point. It would stretch us financially, but so does sending them to nursery so I can write (and they can make friends). You make your choices. Cheaper cars and holidays, no dinners out or weekends away, clothes from charity shops. Easy choices, actually, as they’re not things that bother us too much. But I’d always figured there wasn’t much point paying for education at 4 years old when there’s a perfectly good primary school funded by our tax (well, hubbie’s anyway!)

Our discussions about private education have never been straight forward, either. It’s not just the money. What if our children became ashamed of us and our concrete-coated ex-Council house? What if Mummy has to start shopping at Boden and wearing make up on the school run? What if an old car isn’t good enough? Would I need a Chelsea Tractor to fit in?

My little princess

I remember childhood embarrassment. Hiding in the foot-well as Dad dropped us off in his latest rusty yellow banger or when my stepdad picked us up from the school disco in his dressing gown and clogs. I was never embarrassed of them as people, though, or of our house. It would never occur to me not to invite someone home.

I do remember the chagrin of not having the same possessions or going on skiing holidays. I remember a whole school year of enduring taunting from a child several years younger than me, the grandson of my mum’s boss, who’d been put in state school after years of private education. He used to tell everyone I was his Grandmother’s secretary’s daughter, in that plummy voice that made me want to hit him.

What if I felt like that about my own children? I’ve battled insecurity and a lack of belonging all my life, and I dearly want my children to have a different experience. That’s the lure of a private education. The attention, the sport and music, the extra curricular activities, all help children find their niche and excel in it. That gives confidence and contentment that lasts well beyond the relevance of academic grades.

I see it time and again, comparing the friends with at least some private education versus those with none. Who wouldn’t want that for their child?

I’d have to learn to wear a mask over my foot-in-mouth honesty

But will my insecurities mean I suffer and they suffer with me? Will I lose my sense of belonging with my Mummies community, so they can find their place in the world? And should that stop us? Just reading the prospectus left me torn. Because that belonging starts right at the beginning. It says “there is no assessment for Reception year”, which implies there is after that. We might decide we can afford the school in a year or two, only to have them reject us and our child.

There are other factors too. Reading one of the ‘Related Articles’ below, suggested by WordPress, there are arguments I haven’t even considered.

Is it right to perpetuate the class divide by sending our children to a private school? Will they get a sense of entitlement, rather than learning that hard work is the only way to get results in life? I would still want them to work in the summer holidays, as I did, but would that fit with their life/friends/social engagements? It’s a tricky decision and one that will never be straightforward.

We all want the best for our kids. If only we knew what that was.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire tapped some commands into the SatNav and continued driving. Her throat begged for water, dry to the point it was hard to swallow. Inside her pulsing brain, her thoughts raged through the pain.

What is wrong with me? My best friend is practically a wife and mother, and I’m still doing the walk of shame at 5am.

Her cheeks burned as the events of the last twelve hours ran through her mind in unwelcome clarity. While Kim has a career, a man who loves her and a baby on the way, what have I got? She glanced around the inside of her car. A rusty old Skoda that’s my only travelling companion, a boss that wants to sack me, and a daily blog that needs more attention than a new-born brat.

Following the monotone instructions from the small plastic box attached to her windscreen, Claire tried to ignore the stream of self-loathing pouring into her mind. It didn’t work.

I wanted to stay at that gorgeous hostel for a few days. Visit Stratford, maybe take in a play. She thought about the programme to As You Like It tucked into her handbag, picked up from the hostel reception. The manager had informed her that she would probably be able to get a Monday night ticket, if she didn’t mind where she sat.

Instead I go and ruin it by getting semi-naked with a complete stranger. Not to mention bouncing on a bunk-bed in a single-sex dorm. I’ll be lucky if they don’t revoke my YHA membership.

Attempting to stop the torrent of thoughts with rationality, Claire tried to put the incident into context. Shacking up with total strangers and frolicking with them back in the bedroom was closer to her original impression of what hostelling was all about. But, then, she had pictured flea-infested bedding and filthy facilities. All her initial preconceptions had been proven to be rubbish.

Motorway lights paraded past in a blur, as the dawn dragged the darkness from the sky. Claire willed her eyes to remain open, and concentrated on the road ahead. Her eyes ached from staring out of the alcohol-induced fog filling her skull. At last The SatNav announced her favourite words.

“You have reached your destination.”

Claire looked up at the services. She chose not to think about the fact that she had passed one Starbucks only minutes from the hostel and travelled an additional 20 miles to find one that might be open. Her phone said 5.30am. Please be open.

Collecting her bag and phone and, checking the keys were in her hand, Claire pushed down the lock and slammed the car door.

The services were quiet, with only a few lorries parked in neat rows, and a handful of cars dotted around in careful solitude. The sun was only just thinking about hitting snooze on the alarm, and the sky remained steel-grey. Trees and shrubs added life to the paving and tarmac, and the services building reared up ahead in glass and tile. The words Claire longed to see emblazoned the building to the right of the entrance. All around was an air of peace.

Stratford might be a beautiful, ancient town, steeped in history. But service stations offer promise: journeys, moving on, respite and refreshment. They’re soulless, yes, but wonderfully anonymous with it.

The doors opened with a quiet hiss and Claire headed towards Starbucks. It was closed.

“Opens at 6am, love,” called a voice from behind the counter. “You can always go to the Coffee Nation.”

“I’d rather drink from the toilet,” Claire muttered quietly. She checked her watch. 5.35am. Taking her iPad, Claire found a seat and opened her book. The important things in life, like husbands, careers, good coffee, were worth the wait.

***

Education: private or state? (ruhramble.wordpress.com)
State school kids win battle for values (theage.com.au)

Editing Frenzy: 2013 365 Challenge #162

A busy day editing and scrapbooking

The lovely Pat Elliott has made me doubly happy today. She has reviewed Dragon Wraiths, over on her blog, saying – in her candid way – “There are a few minor editing errors, but you know, they didn’t stop me loving the book. I’d definitely read another by this author.” Big grins.

Pat has also, very kindly, read my chick lit novel Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes, and provided feedback. Despite having no intention of spending time on the novel this year, it galvanised me to work on it today, incorporating the suggested changes (unsurprisingly mostly to do with grammar.)

The frustrating part, for me, is that all three of the main formatting changes suggested by Pat involve reverting back to the way the text was before I began editing it last year! One is to do with commas: I know I don’t really understand commas, so I purchased a book on punctuation and learned as much as I could. As a result I removed a whole heap of the little buggers, figuring it was better not to have them than to put them in the wrong place. Pat’s main formatting suggestion? More commas!

I never quite found the right image for Helen

The second one is to do with layout: putting *** where the text breaks and there is a shift in time or location. I did that originally, but it looked messy, so I took them out and left just a paragraph break.

I’ve spent today putting them all back in.

They are more important in an ebook, as you have no idea what the pagination looks like. With a print book you can put them in only where it isn’t clear that there has been a shift, such as over a page break.

The third grammar point has me puzzled. Pat informed me (and I trust her judgement) that modern publishing no longer uses double quotes for dialogue. Apparently standard form is now to use ‘ rather than “. This poses a problem. Partly because that, too, would involve changing the entire manuscript back to the way it was originally – before an early Beta Reader told me to use double quotes (preferably smart quotes), as that was standard form.

Sharni, Derek and Maggie

It also poses a dilemma for me personally, because I have come to prefer smart/double quotes. A quick flick through the other ebooks on my iPad showed most of them to still use double quotes.

I Googled it, but still haven’t discovered a definitive answer. The best I can tell is that it is a UK/US thing, with the UK using single quotes and the US double quotes. As the majority of my sales are in the US, I think I will leave the double quotes. (Plus, that means less work!) I’m definitely going to keep Googling for publishing standards, though, as Pat raised a point I hadn’t previously considered. Self-publishing is full of hidden pitfalls and, thankfully, lots of lovely people with maps and compasses to help guide the way through!

The final style point was that my writing has too much internal thought in italics. I agree that such is probably the case, and I spent a chunk of today toning it down. It does make me worry about Two-Hundred Steps Home, though, as it’s probably 20% in italics! I’m not sure where it came from as a writing style, but if it is mentioned by other Beta Readers I’ll have to train myself to write a different way. This is the amazing thing about good Beta Readers – they don’t just help you with that novel, but with all your creative endeavours!

All this has a) given me a headache and b) reiterated that I need a copy editor. As I can’t afford to pay for one, that takes me back to my original plan: trying to find an agent to publish traditionally, so I get that stuff as part of the deal. In the mean time, it’s back to the Penguin book on Punctuation and some paracetamol.

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The steel light of dawn crept in through the curtains and lit the room. It took Claire a moment to realise where she was and what had woken her at such an ungodly hour. Loud, rasping snores resonated through the room. They sounded as if they were coming from behind her, which wasn’t right.

The acoustics in this place must be crazy. That woman needs to consider getting a single room; I feel like something’s sawing at my skull.

The next thing Claire noticed was how narrow the bed was. She felt precariously close to the edge of the bunk, with only a short rail separating her from a four-foot drop. The third fact permeating her foggy brain, seeping through the thudding pain, was the arm around her waist.

Bugger.

Like a movie on fast forward, the events of the previous evening sped past her eyes in brutal clarity. The gin. The quiz. The random questions she’d got right, to much applause. The congratulatory hugs from the group when they came third.

The Scotsman.

Bugger.

The weight of the arm pinned her to the bed. Claire tried to work out if either of them were naked. As far as she could tell, she was still wearing her t-shirt and pants from the day before.

Phew, that’s something at least.

A brush of warmth against her back informed her that the Scot wasn’t so well clad.

Oh, Christ. This is a single-sex dorm. I’m going to be in so much trouble.

Claire lifted the heavy arm and slid it behind her, holding her breath as the man murmured something unintelligible and rolled over to face the wall. Claire clung on to the foot of remaining bed, not wanting to fall in a heap and wake her room mates.

She peered over the bunk, looking for the ladder, and saw a girl asleep on the floor.

What?

Remembering how unsteady the beds were, Claire flushed as she imagined being in the bottom bunk with any sort of shenanigans going on above.

Crap. Poor woman.

Fully awake, adrenalin pushing the alcohol from her fuddled mind, Claire surveyed the room below. She hadn’t unpacked, so that helped. All she had to do was climb down from the bunk and retrieve her bag and clothes, without waking the girl on the floor or the naked man hogging most of her bed.

With the stealth of a ninja, she moved, one limb at a time. A loud creak filled the room and she stopped, breath held, listening. Ever nerve zinged like a live wire under her skin. She felt she might hear a mouse breathing or the trees growing outside the window. No sound of censorious women could be heard.

Deciding all or bust might be the better option, Claire flipped down from the bed, narrowly missing the sleeping woman. In one movement she grabbed her jeans, handbag, rucksack and shoes. Anything else would have to be marked up as lost through misadventure.

Cheeks flaming and ears ringing, Claire fled the room. Pausing only to pull on her jeans and shoes, she strode along the clean, silent, corridors and headed for the car park.

So much for an extended stay.

With her phone confessing that it was only 5am, Claire was behind the wheel and on her way.

***

Comma, Apostrophe, Quote, Grave, Prime, Foot and Inch (fontshop.com)
A Passion for Commas (webeditorhome.wordpress.com)
Those Pesky Commas (selfpubauthors.com)
What a Difference a Comma Makes (writejudi.wordpress.com)
DIY Editing: A comma conundrum (jwtroemner.wordpress.com)

My Problem with Pinterest: 2013 365 Challenge #161

My scrapbook for Finding Lucy. All images are from istockphoto © David Meharey

Last year I wrote a post about my love affair with Pinterest. I discovered it fairly late and immediately saw the potential for writers: a way to explore characters, connect with readers and a means to replace the scrapbook for storing ideas.

I quickly filled several boards with all the images I had on characters, locations etc for my novels. Then I started reading about people being sued for breach of copyright, And I got cold feet. The boards were stripped of all but photographs I had taken, or ones with a Creative Commons licence. I had assumed (wrongly) that, because Pinterest links back to the pinned source, copyright wouldn’t be an issue.

I was gutted, as it made scrap-booking much easier. No printing, copying, storing: just a quick click and a note and there it was for everyone to see. But, as someone who has worked in compliance before, the idea of breaching copyright terrifies me. So I went back to saving bookmarks and putting images in Word files. For a while I did post blog images on Pinterest (most pictures on the daily blog are mine or CC) but I’ve forgotten my logon and now my boards are dormant and bereft.

Cover and key story line of Finding Lucy

Purchased Cover Image and key story line of Finding Lucy

Then, today, I found the scrapbook I made for my first (unfinished) novel, Finding Lucy, and it occurred to me that Pinterest would never replace a decent scrapbook.

Instead of mourning a missed opportunity I need to stop being lazy and keep up with my scrapbooks. I look at the detail of my original scrapbook and realise having the same for all my other novels would be amazing. Because it’s all there.

All the stuff that ensures continuity and depth and three-dimensional characters. Birthdays, star signs, house layouts, what characters look like – not just one look but many different looks (stock photography is great for that. All the images in my scrapbook above are the same girl as my cover image).

When I get the time to go back and finish Finding Lucy, (the first draft was caught short by the early arrival of my second child), I won’t have to trawl through Word files to remember who everybody is. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m not 100% certain even how old some of my protagonists are for my later novels. For Finding Lucy their birthdays pop up in my phone like real people (It’s Andrew Finch’s birthday today – one of the leading men from Finding Lucy!). I do have notes and character maps for all my books, but they’re buried in Word files. You can’t beat flicking through pages, scribbling notes in the margin. Time to turn my back on digital and do it the old-fashioned way. Pass me the glue..

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Claire’s wrist throbbed by the time the Sat Nav announced her arrival. I had to sprain my left hand, didn’t I? It doesn’t really matter, these days, hurting the hand you write with. Who writes with a pen anyway? I can type as quick with both hands. Changing gear, though, that I can only do left-handed.

She curled her good hand around the swollen wrist and wondered if the hostel manager would be able to procure her some ice. What did the Doctor say? Something about rest, ice and elevation. Well, I’ve buggered the Rest part, let’s see what we can do about the other things.

Raising her wrist across her chest, Claire kicked the car door shut and headed into the building. As she took in the wide, white walls, the geometric lines and tall sash windows, Claire felt some of the pain ebb away. I might indulge myself and stay a day or two. What is it about these old buildings that exudes calm? Maybe I was born in the wrong century. I hope it’s as nice on the inside.

She walked through the door, and her soul lifted higher. It’s a refurb. God bless the YHA for investing in their properties. All through the building to her room it felt like a new hotel, not a Georgian mansion or a youth hostel. Everywhere she looked there were new fixtures and bright colours.

A bit too bright, she thought, as she headed for the bunk-beds, with their lime-green duvet covers and pillows. She gave the frame a rattle, as she claimed the last available bed. I’m glad I’m on top. It’ll be like sleeping on a boat, but I pity the poor person beneath me. This is going to shake like a bouncy-castle if I have a restless night.

With a look round the empty room, Claire decided it was time to ignore doctor’s orders and visit the bar. A whole weekend of wedding planning and baby talk had left her in dire need of a drink. At least it’ll help me sleep soundly. That should please the girl underneath.

“What’ll it be?”

“Gin and tonic, please.”

Claire looked round the lounge, surprised to see it so full. “Busy, for a Sunday night?”

“It’s quiz night. Most of these are locals.”

Claire scanned the tables again and realised most people were huddled in groups, whispering together. A young Asian man caught her eye, and grinned. “Come and join our team, we could use some fresh blood. Then we might come better than last!”

There was a ripple of laughter from the surrounding tables, and Claire felt herself smile in response. She turned as the barman placed her drink on the counter and told her how much. As she retrieved some money from her purse, she tried to think of a polite way to decline the man’s invitation, should he renew it. For some reason her brain seemed unwilling to come up with an excuse.

Sure enough, as she turned, G&T in hand, the man gave a small wave and patted the seat next to him. Not for the first time, Claire’s feet moved of their own volition, and she found herself hovering in front of the man’s table. He was sat with two other men and a young girl who looked like she might faint if asked to speak.

“Hi, name’s Mizan.” The man who had invited her over half-rose from his seat and held out his hand.

Claire shook it quickly, unsure what to make of the greeting. Is he trying to chat me up, or just being friendly. Deciding it didn’t really matter either way, Claire perched on the spare seat.

She smiled round at the group and was relieved when the others nodded in greeting. Clearly inviting random women to join them wasn’t an unusual occurrence.

“What’s your topic then and, more importantly, what’s your name?” The man next to Mizan spoke, in the soft burr of the Scotsman.

With a flush, Claire ignored the heat generated by the sexy voice, and replied a little too loudly, “Claire, my name’s Claire. I don’t have a specialist subject, I’ve never been to a quiz night before.”

There was a babble of words as all three men exclaimed at her confession. She wondered if she would be ejected from the team, but her value now seemed to be as a curiosity, rather than a participant. Really, is it so amazing that I’ve never joined in a pub quiz? They don’t have them in wine bars and pubs aren’t really my thing.

She sat back, as the quiz master arrived at the front of the room, and supped her drink. The alcohol fizzed its merry way to her brain and spread warmly through her body, carrying with it a wave of contentment.

I won’t be able to contribute, but it beats talking about babies.

***

KDP Select, Yes or No? 2013 365 Challenge #160

Smashwords

I’m thinking of putting Dragon Wraiths back in the KDP Select program. I came out of the program after my three months were up, because I wanted the book to be available for Nook as well as Kindle. I’m trying to be patient – it was only cleared for Premium Catalogue on Friday – but I’ve yet to find it on the Barnes and Noble site, which kind of defeats the point.

For those of you who don’t know, the KDP Select program allows self-published authors on Amazon to have a few extra benefits in exchange for exclusivity. Benefits include a higher royalty rate, the opportunity to offer the book free for five days every three months, and inclusion in the Amazon Prime lending scheme.

I had virtually no copies of my book borrowed in the three months I was a member. While I did have 1200 free books downloaded over the three months, it didn’t result in a mass of reviews or extra sales (unlike fellow author Rinelle Grey), and it doesn’t matter what royalty rate you’re getting if you don’t sell anything. So I opted out.

The depressing brown line

However, since doing so, I haven’t sold a single book. Not through Amazon or through Smashwords. Clearly there is some additional marketing or promotion that comes with the select program that is harder to quantify.

Sales aren’t about money for me at the moment. I pay more each month in National Insurance fees to be self-employed than I earn from book sales. But sales give me motivation. As long as I sell a few books each week I feel like a writer. The cost of childcare, the lost opportunity-cost of me staying at home rather than stacking shelves at Tesco, they’re all worth it.

Without those sales, though, I feel invisible. A wanabe. Darn you, Amazon, for catching me in your honey trap. I’ll give it to the end of the month. But if there are still only brown bars on my sales report I might have to rethink.

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Claire hugged her friend tightly, feeling already that pregnancy was putting some welcome flesh on her thin shoulders.

“You take care. If there is anything, anything, I can do in the next couple of weeks, please call. It’s important you don’t overdo it.”

“I know: happy pregnancy, happy baby. Mum tells me that all the time.”

Claire hadn’t meant anything of the sort – it sounded like hippy nonsense – but she nodded. Kim and her mother were in a much better position to know what might affect a growing foetus. She’d merely been worried that Kim wouldn’t enjoy her wedding day if she was so tired she fell asleep at 9pm in front of the fire.

“Sorry I have to rush off. I would stay longer, but I’ll have Carl on my case if I don’t start blogging again soon. I’m heading over towards Ludlow, so I won’t be far away. Blogging about a wedding at a hostel is going to be my trump card to keep the bastard off my back for a bit longer.”

“Did you tell him about your wrist?” Kim looked in concern at the still-bandaged hand.

Claire shook her head. “It’s the weekend. Carl has to be home with the kids or his wife will divorce him. That’s why he works such long hours during the week. I’ll email him tomorrow, not that there’s much point. Except I suppose I can write a post on how not to hurt yourself when learning to snowboard.”

Kim reached forward and hugged her friend again. Something in the embrace brought a lump to Claire’s throat. There was too much understanding in her hold. Trust Kim to see beneath the façade. She always did, damn her.

“Where is your next destination,” Kim said, when she eventually let go.

“Stratford-Upon-Avon.”

“Claire, that’s miles away! In Sunday night traffic too. You’re crazy.”

“It was the only hostel with a bed. Besides, it’s only a couple of hours and, once I’m over in the west, or The Heart of England as the YHA calls it, there are loads of hostels to stay in. I’ll be fine. It was that or some eco lodge in the National Forest. I’ll take a lovely Georgian Mansion any day. Maybe they’ll even have a last-minute seat at the theatre.”

“Okay, now I’m a bit jealous. I’ve got rehearsals first thing, all I’ll be doing this evening is sleeping. Well, as long as Jeff lets me.” She gave a knowing smirk. “He’ll be home soon. I’m sorry you missed him.”

I’m not. The thought escaped before Claire could squash it. It wasn’t true, not really. She loved Jeff. She’d even come to terms with how gorgeous he was, and no longer had to have a cold shower every time she saw him. But ten minutes of happy families was ten minutes too much.

“I’ll see him at the wedding. Give him my love.”

She reached forward for a last, quick, hug, and shouldered her rucksack. Time to hit the road.

***

Flash Fiction: 2013 365 Challenge #159

Holiday snaps that tell a story

Flash fiction is great for bloggers. In a world where everyone is always busy, being able to offer a story that only takes ten minutes to read is a real gift.

My installments aren’t flash fiction, but I do try and make them as standalone as possible, for the people who don’t follow every day.

(Thank you to those who do – if you’ve read every Claire installment, you’ve read 120k words since January. If you’ve read all my posts that probably adds another 80-100k words. Thank you, you’re amazing!)

One of my favourite blogs – Apprentice, Never Master – features daily Flash stories, as well as a weekly serial on Wednesdays. Interestingly I haven’t kept up with the weekly serial because I missed an episode and need to go back to catch up (Gwendolyn, if you’re reading, a catch-up ebook at the end would be fab, please! 🙂 ). With Gwendonlyn’s Flash Fiction, I don’t get the chance to read them all, but I am always drawn into the ones I do read. There are some fabulous scenes and moments. It amazes me how a story can be written in so few words. (As someone who struggles with the concept of brevity.)

Captions please?

The most moving (and shortest) piece of Flash Fiction I know is “For sale, baby shoes, never worn”, attributed to Ernest Hemingway, who apparently wrote it for a bet. Although, as a parent, I don’t necessarily see the sad meaning. I have plenty of baby shoes never worn, because the darn kids grow so fast…

Listening to the radio in the car this morning (a rare treat, as I’m normally forced to endure endless loops of Wheels on the Bus) I heard The Boxer by Simon & Garfunkel. It is a complete story in a little over 200 words. Songs, particularly folk and country songs, are often excellent examples of Flash Fiction (I wrote about it once).

On the subject of music, I also heard The Whole of the Moon, by The Waterboys, in the same set (chosen by Mark Owen from Take That, on Radio 2) and it transported me back – rather randomly – to a wedding I attended when I was around fifteen. Big hair, big hat, floral dress (me, not the bride. It was the 80s or early 90s). We stayed in a static caravan and the song played endlessly on the radio. Songs, like smells, can take you backed to the oddest moments in your life.

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“Oh, Kim, it looks gorgeous.”

Claire flicked through the pictures on her iPad, as the two girls pored over details of Wilderhope Manor. Jealousy twisted in her chest as she took in the traditional beams, the four-poster bed, the wooden floorboards and immaculate bathrooms of the refurbished hostel.

“I can’t believe this fell into your lap at short notice. Just goes to show, one person’s heartache is another person’s lucky break.”

Kim beamed. Then her face fell. “I hope it isn’t a bad omen, that the groom got cold feet and ran off overseas. It feels wrong, somehow. What if some of their guests turn up to our wedding by mistake?”

Claire giggled, “That could be quite funny. It would be ages before they figured it out – you don’t see the bride and groom for hours at a wedding.”

“Don’t! I’d be mortified. I don’t know that I would recognise all of Jeff’s friends without their rugby kit on. What if I welcome them in, only to discover we didn’t invite them?”

Realising that Kim was serious, Claire stopped laughing and turned to face her friend. “Kim, you just need to put a big sign out front, declaring it to be the wedding of Kim and Jeff. Two signs, three if it makes you feel better. Send out special passes with your invites, that people have to present on arrival. Don’t worry! It’ll be fine.”

Kim ran her hands through her two-tone hair and tried to smile. “I’m sorry. There are so many details to think about and mostly I just want to sleep. I’m growing bones inside here, you know.” She stroked her belly, and her face changed imperceptibly. Claire felt a chill, as her friend disappeared into a world containing only her and the baby growing inside her.

“Did you know the baby can already hear? Isn’t that amazing?” Kim looked up, eyes alight with joy.

Claire wasn’t sure how she felt about it. I guess it is incredible, to think there’s a little person growing in there. She hadn’t really talked about the pregnancy with Kim during her stay. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, it was just hard to find anything to say. The wedding was a neutral ground they could both have opinions on.

I might never get married, but what little girl hasn’t scribbled a design of her wedding dress in a school book, or draped a net curtain over her head. One of Sky’s apps came to mind. Of course, these days, little girls can create it in colour animation with a few taps of a screen. It’s a different world. By the time Sky gets married, they’ll be able to 3D-print her dress to her exact specification.

“What else can I do to help with the wedding preparations?” Ouch. That wasn’t the most subtle change of subject. If Kim noticed, she didn’t comment. She sat forward and reached for her camomile tea.

“Mum’s sorting the flowers, as she’s local to the venue. She’s going to get them from the market and do the arrangements herself. She arranges for the Church, you know.”

“Are there any other bridesmaids?” Claire couldn’t remember if Jeff had sisters or nieces that might be invited, or if Kim would include some of her acting friends.

“No, no bridesmaids. Jeff’s nephews might be page boys, but we haven’t decided anything. We can’t afford to hire suits – Jeff’s borrowing his brother’s, if it fits.”

“What about your sister? Will she come back for the day?”

Kim frowned, losing some of her new-found glow. “I don’t know. We Skyped the other day, but she’s really busy and of course the flights are expensive.”

“I’m sure she can afford it. I don’t suppose she earns a pittance, teaching English to Chinese businessmen.”

“Living in Hong Kong isn’t cheap though.” Kim bristled in defence of her sister.

Claire smiled inwardly. Blood’s thicker than water. Funny how we can be as critical as we like of our siblings, but bare our teeth and growl if anyone dare say anything bad about them.

“Have you and Jeff agreed an invite list? I’m happy to help you write invitations or place settings if you like?”

“We’ve invited most people digitally. Thank god for Facebook, Twitter and all that jazz. We don’t have to worry about seating plan as we’re having a buffet. The hardest part is going to be sorting the bedrooms.” She giggled mischievously. “We get the four-poster, that’s easy. But deciding who to put in the six-bed dorms is going to be fun. Do we go for chaste or racy?”

Claire giggled too, and suddenly they were both sixteen again, huddled under the duvet at a sleepover, discussing who had snogged whom, and all the other teenage gossip.

***

Why I Write Flash Fiction (elizabethkateswitaj.net)
Monday Creative Writing Exercise because it’s a good way to start the week: getting in the mood to write FLASH FICTION (bridgetwhelan.com)
Flash Fiction for Summer Lightning (youngbyname.me)
Rejected… (kate0murray.wordpress.com)

Baby isn’t so Blue: 2013 365 Challenge #158

I accidentally published a book today!

I got Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes out of the metaphorical bottom drawer this morning and dusted it off. I hadn’t intended to look at it again this year, having decided it needs too much revision and knowing how dangerous it is to revise it along side writing Two-Hundred Steps Home.

Last time I worked on it I kept confusing the protagonist Helen with Claire from Two-Hundred Steps Home, even swapping the names at one point. They’re not that similar, although I suspect they have a similar voice, as I’m aware I write mostly in my voice. They’re both late twenties, but that’s about it.

Claire is slightly older, more worldly-wise. She’s an Associate Director. Confident, maybe a bit arrogant in the beginning. Her career is important to her and she would rather lose her man than have kids.

On the other hand Helen chooses to give up her man to keep her baby, when her fiancé tells her to ‘Get rid or get out.’

Helen gave up her career to be with her fiancé, working for him as his hostess and diary planner. She isn’t a strong person, particularly where Daniel is concerned. She learns strength through adversity and necessity. She yearns for a happy home like the one she grew up in and is therefore happier in a relationship than out of one.

The park when Helen first suspects she might be pregnant

The park where Helen first suspects she might be pregnant

Claire is cynical about love and relationships because she didn’t really have a happy family home. Her formative years were spent in boarding school, with her family barely staying in touch. She keeps people at a distance. While Helen embraces her new photography friends and then Marcio and his family, Claire keeps everyone but Kim at arm’s length.

They both have a personal journey, and of course both are parallel-universe versions of me, taking tiny parts of my life and exploring them further. They’re different enough in character, if not in speech, that I can’t work on both novels together, not even to edit one while writing the other.

When I got Baby Blues out, though, and began skimming it to correct a grammar fault I didn’t realise I was prone to (not putting commas around names in dialogue) I found it wasn’t as awful as I remember. I can see some wordy chapters, probably a bit preachy, that want trimming. I need to find someone who reads Spanish to validate my lovely Google Translator bits of text, but it’s not awful.

Helen’s street in London

The best part is I’d already formatted it for Smashwords so it only needed tweaking to get it passed the Autovetter. So, if anyone fancies reading it and helping identify the weaknesses, the woolly chapters, or if anyone speaks Spanish, drop me a line. It’s not live on Smashwords, as it’s not quite ready to be released into the wild. But if you let me know your preferred format, either in the comments or via email/facebook/twitter I’ll send you a copy.

Postscript: Oops! The book is live on Smashwords because I uploaded a version then went to get the kids from nursery, forgetting to ‘unpublish’ it. When I got home, 41 free copies had been downloaded. I want to keep it live in case anyone leaves a review (the ultimate Beta Reader experience) but I have put a price on it now, so I don’t expect to sell any copies until it is cleared for the Premium Catalogue. The above still applies: if you’d like a free copy, let me know.

________________________________________________________________________________

“Where are we going?”

Kim looked over at Claire, who had her eyes on the road. “You could at least let me drive. The doctor told you to rest your wrist for 48 hours. I can drive, you know. Just because we can’t afford a second car.”

Claire bit back a sigh. When did Kim start worrying so much about money? I’m driving a Skoda, not a jag. She kept the words unspoken. Who knew what hormone-induced turmoil was churning in her friend’s mind. Maybe all the stuff with the wedding and the baby has made her realise that money is important. I doubt Jeff earns a fortune working for a charity and I know the acting doesn’t pay. Well, at least there’s one thing I can do without hurting her sensitivities.

“So, where are we going?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

“You sound like my mother.”

Claire laughed. “You sound like Sky.”

Kim tilted her head to one side and said in a sing-song voice, “Are we there yet?”

Claire turned the car into a side street and killed the engine.

“Yes.”

Kim looked around the residential street, perplexed.

“And where are we, exactly? I thought you said this was exciting.” She pouted. “I don’t call visiting someone at 10am on a Sunday morning exciting. I could be reading the paper over coffee and croissants. Or toast at least.”

“Well, seeing as you’ve given me no notice of your impending nuptials, time is of the essence. Sharon was free to see us. Remember it’s early on a Sunday for her too.”

“But who is she?”

Someone I used to work with. Well, she headed up Compliance, but we got on well.”

“I don’t need a Pre-nup you know.” Kim went pale. “Jeff would kill me. Besides, neither of us owns anything. If I ever make my fortune on the big screen I’ll be happy to share.”

“She’s not in Compliance anymore, silly,” Claire said, as she led the way along a path of nodding daffodils to ring the bell.

“Well, what does she do?”

“You’ll see.”

“You’re being horribly cryptic.”

“I know.” Claire giggled. “I’m getting my own back for your little bombshell.”

“You fiend. I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”

“Well, you’re about to be put out of your misery.”

Footsteps could be heard approaching the door, which was opened by a fresh-faced woman with short dark hair. She was wearing an apron.

“Claire! Lovely to see you, you look marvellous. I’ve been following the blog, travelling suits you. And this must be the bride. Come in. Only two weeks to the big day? You must be excited. I do love a whirlwind romance.”

Kim raised her eyebrows at Claire, before following the chatty woman down a corridor. “Actually, I’ve been engaged for ages. Call it a shot-gun wedding.”

“Oh.” The lady turned to face her, eyebrows raised, and her eyes twinkled. “Do you need a christening cake too?”

“Cake?”

“I assume that’s why you’re here. I don’t do flowers.” She laughed at her own joke, while Kim scowled at Claire.

“What?” Her voice was a whip.

“You said yesterday you were going to buy a cake from Tesco.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Kim hissed at her friend. “They do three-tier iced cakes for thirty quid. I can’t afford anything else.”

“You don’t have to, this is my gift. Look, come and see Sharon’s scrap book. If you don’t like anything, you can have your supermarket cake. And I’m sure it will be lovely,” she added hurriedly, seeing Kim’s expression. “I’m not saying Sharon’s cakes are better, only more personal. I thought you could have something incorporating the theatre and birds, you know, unique to you and Jeff.”

Sharon, who had discreetly left the girls to their muted discussion, now came back in with a tray, laden with coffee, tea and pastries.

“At least have your Sunday brunch.” Claire smiled and Kim shrugged in defeat.

All through coffee she maintained a polite flow of conversation but Claire could tell she was itching to open the scrapbooks on the table. At last, Sharon passed them over, and Kim grabbed at them like a child reaching for a Christmas gift.

Sharon caught Claire’s gaze and winked.

***

Advice for Amazon: 2013 365 Challenge #157

I’m relaxed about reviews

I have been amazed at the discussion sparked by my post Getting Stronger two days ago, talking about my one-star reviews on Amazon. The support has been incredible, even though I wasn’t really upset by the review. As I mentioned in the post, and the comments, I was low because I inadvertently made someone else sad/cross/irritated (I don’t like upsetting people) rather than by the comments themselves.

What it has demonstrated, however, is the depth of emotion generated by Amazon’s reviewing system. Several other blogs have had a similar discussion this week, including:

http://greenembers.wordpress.com/2013/06/05/why-amazon-thinks-youre-stupid-opinion-piece/ reblogged on readfulthingsblog.com

http://rinellegrey.com/reviews-do-you-read-them-or-not/

http://dclozeau.wordpress.com/2013/06/02/review-or-not-to-review/

Amazon’s arbitrary review system leaves me exhausted

The debate my post (and others) generated got me thinking – I rarely pay attention to reviews for books. I read them avidly for other products – cameras, ipads, vacuum cleaners. For any purchase, big or small, you’ll find me on Reevoo, trying to find a balance between the one-star and five-star comments.

With books, however, even though I do read the reviews sometimes, I don’t think I’ve bought a book just on reviews. I buy online the same as I do when in a bookshop – read a few pages and decide if I like the cover (yes I’m that shallow!).

The importance of reviews for a self-published author is more to do with promotion and sales than critique on the actual text. Which is probably just as well. Maybe it’s time Amazon came up with a different system for rating books. I’ve come up with one for them:

Would read again – (five-star)

Would recommend – (four-star)

Read it to the end but can’t remember what happened – (three star)

Read half, intended to finish, but didn’t – (two-star)

Didn’t get past chapter two – (one-star)

[The last section of this post came from a comment I left on Rinelle Grey’s post about KDP Select. Did I mention that I started writing today’s post at 9am with a 9.45am deadline. Oops.]

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire looked at her friend and swallowed the hard lump in her throat. Don’t cry, that’s too much of a cliché. She reached into her bag for her phone to take a photograph, blinking hard.

“You’re not going to put a picture on the blog, are you?” Kim’s voice was low with concern.

Claire shook her head. “Don’t be silly, of course not. I might post pictures from the day, if that’s okay? But more of the venue than you and Jeff. It’ll be a great advert for the YHA.”

Kim twirled in her floaty frock and beamed. “You can fill the entire blog with pictures once Jeff has seen it. I want it to be a surprise, that’s all.” She smoothed the bodice over her bump. “I hope this doesn’t get any bigger in a fortnight.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Are you going to buy it then?” Claire looked round the charity shop, sure everyone must be watching Kim’s performance. They had the room to themselves, however. I guess closing time on a Saturday isn’t their busy period.

“I can’t believe you managed to find the perfect dress in a charity shop. You’re so jammy.”

“Research, my dear. People on my salary learn to be frugal. I get most of my clothes from these shops. If you visit the right town then other people’s cast-offs are as good as new. Good labels, too. My coat is Boden and those jeans are from Marks & Spencer. Besides, you don’t get an item of clothing that’s less worn than a wedding dress.”

She gave one last twirl then reached round to try and free herself from the dress. “Can you unhook me, I think I’m going to pull a muscle if I try.”

Claire walked over and helped Kim take off the ivory dress. It was beautiful. I can’t imagine being that lucky, to find the perfect dress in a charity shop. Never mind one that doesn’t even need altering. She sighed. Kim gets all the luck. Fun job, gorgeous fiancé, understanding mother and now the perfect budget wedding.

“What are you going to wear?” Kim’s voice shook Claire from her reverie.

“You want me to get something from here?” Claire didn’t quite manage to keep the horror from her voice. Realising how rude that was, her eyes raised to Kim’s, concerned that she might have offended her friend.

Kim was smiling, but there was a faint line between her brows. “Of course not. If you can afford to buy something that costs more than I earn in a month, then that’s your prerogative.”

Claire bristled at the sarcasm laced through her friend’s words. It was unlike Kim to care about the difference in their salaries. It had been that way for so long, it was more a joke between them than a cause for bitterness.

I’ve never flouted my money. Have I? Sudden concern that she had been insensitive hit Claire, and she felt tears prick at her eyes. Bugger. Have I? Have I made her feel bad for earning less than I do? Her job is just as hard, it’s not my fault it isn’t as well paid.

With a glance around the charity shop, and another back at her friend, Claire made a decision.

“If it’s good enough for the bride, it’s good enough for her maid of honour. Show me the frocks!”

Kim shimmied out of the wedding dress and pulled her jeans back on. Carefully arranging the dress back on its hanger, she laid it over the counter and then took Claire’s hand, leading her to the rail of gowns sparkling at the back of the shop.

***

Reviews (stephanie-hurt.com)
Amazon Review Message! Urgent! Important! (legendsofwindemere.com)
Rating books (jfhilborne.wordpress.com)

A Good Day: 2013 365 Challenge #156

Keep up brother

I had a great day with the kids today.

I think that has to be said, to off-set the bad days. If you’re going to be honest about your failures you have to celebrate the successes. This wasn’t a super-mum day full of craft and baking, but a good parenting day.

A good parenting day (for me) is when the kids have had three meals that would pass an Ofsted Inspection (the UK authority that grades nurseries and schools, and insists no chocolate in a packed lunch box).

A day when the proportion of outside time to TV is at least 2:1 (we had three hours in the park this morning and another hour this evening, including a bike ride).

Taking Baby Annabelle for a ride

A day when littlest Martin has slept (okay, so he weed on the sofa but that was my fault for letting him sleep past the hour in order to pack away the shopping delivery and play a bit with my daughter).

A day when I’ve talked to (and listened to) real live friends more than I’ve read blogs and Twitter.

A day with no tears and plenty of hugs and minimal shouting (no shouting is unrealistic for the sleep deprived).

A day that started with remembering to brush teeth and ended with finally getting both children’s hair washed (I won’t admit to how long it’s been because I honestly don’t know. I’m guessing swimming doesn’t count.)

And, finally, a day when I didn’t get cross with hubbie for arriving home an hour later than suggested by his ‘I’m leaving now’ text message. Even though he got mobbed by the kids and dog and had to disappear immediately for some quiet time. I’m managing to walk the dog while writing this and even remembered to shove dinner in the oven on the way out.

All in all a good day. Let’s mark this and remember.

________________________________________________________________________________

“Will you have a hen night, do you think?”

Claire looked over at Kim with one eye-brow raised, a forkful of pasta halfway to her mouth.

Kim shook her head, her mouth full of Carbonara. When she could speak, she said, “No, what’s the point? You’re the only real friend I have. If I go out with the theatre crew they’ll expect me to get wrecked, and I can’t exactly tell them why it’s orange juice all the way.”

“You haven’t told them you’re pregnant?” Claire’s voice rose in surprise.

Kim shook her head again, more emphatically. “Lord, no. Remember what I said, about the Director being less than impressed? He’s already made some smart comments about me laying off the cakes. If I tell him I’m pregnant he’ll give the role to the understudy.”

Kim’s face twisted, as if her pasta was suddenly soaked in lemon juice. “Silly, jumped-up cow, she’d just love that.”

The girls laughed, but Claire felt heat rising from her stomach. “I think it’s outrageous. If Carl tried to sack me because I fell pregnant, I could take him to court.”

“So, it’s okay to try and force you to resign by making your life miserable, but sacking you unfairly would be illegal?”

Claire gave a wry smile. “Trying to make me resign is illegal too. It’s called Constructive Dismissal.” At Kim’s searching look, Claire nodded. “Yes, I spoke to an employment lawyer. I wanted to know where I stood. I do have a case against him, but it comes at a cost.”

Kim tipped her head to one side in mute question, her mouth too full to talk.

“You get a reputation, if you rock the boat like that. And it’s an incestuous industry. Oh, no one would ever say anything, but it might make it harder to get another job, if word got out.”

“Really? Now, that’s outrageous.”

Both girls chewed their food and sat considering the difficulties of their separate careers.

“Makes you think our grannies had it right, when they stayed home to raise the kids.” Kim’s face was thoughtful, and Claire wasn’t sure if she was serious or not.

She has to be joking. Spending all day with nothing but a couple of ungrateful brats for company and no money to call my own? Reliant on a man to feed and clothe us all. No, thank you.

“What will you do, once you’re on maternity leave? I’m guessing you don’t get maternity pay?”

“I’m self-employed, so I get statutory. Which actually works out not far off the pittance I’m being paid currently. It will be tough, though. I wonder if I could make some money as a live model?” She struck a pose, and they both giggled. “Or maybe the baby will be cute, and I’ll get her registered with a model agency.”

“Her?” Somehow giving the baby a gender made it all too real.

“Hopefully. I have this strange feeling it’s a girl. We find out in a couple of weeks. I can’t wait.” Her face lit with excitement, and Claire had a strange sensation that her friend was slipping away from her.

We’ve lived completely separate lives; different schools, different careers. This isn’t going to change our friendship. It’s just another alternative life choice, that’s all. She’ll still be Kim, even when she’s a mother.

The words rang clear in Claire’s mind, but there was something about the look on her friend’s face that gave rise to doubt. Motherhood was such a definite thing. A school could be changed, a career-path altered. But, once you became a mother, that was something you were forever.

A shiver ran down Claire’s neck, and she put her fork down on her plate, no longer hungry.

***

All about Expectation: 2013 365 Challenge #155

Swimming (from our holiday snaps)

I went to a spa with my Mum this afternoon. I bought her the experience for Mother’s day and she asked if I would come too as she didn’t want to go by herself. It was only local, meaning I could get my post written this morning and cook dinner before picking her up after lunch.

Summer has finally arrived here and it’s a gorgeous day. Thankfully the swimming pool had sky lights so we didn’t feel cut off from the sun.

I swam 25 lengths, relaxed in the sauna and had a back massage. Gorgeous.

But it wasn’t Ragdale Hall, the place I go with my friends. It was a third of the cost so I didn’t expect it to be, except our vouchers were half price, so at full price our 4-hour visit (without lunch) would have been expensive. After my recent discussions about reviews, it got me thinking about the importance of expectations. From the full price of the experience, and based on my visits to Ragdale, I had a certain expectation – one that wasn’t met:

The changing rooms were small and basic. In a travel review I’d called it Tired. There were no towels or robes, because the delivery driver had broken down, so we had a small hand towel each. When the delivery did arrive I went to reception to ask for a robe and was told they’d be brought out, even though I was standing there wet and dripping. Mum says her massage was marred by the sound of taps running in the next room. My ‘relaxing music’ was Indian sitars with lots of Indian men chatting in the background, as if they were playing at a street festival. I tried so hard to ignore it. To be happy. To practice gratitude. I even politely asked the girl to turn it down, but it didn’t help. Despite that, and the therapist’s long nails, I came out content and revived.

Relaxation

I met Mum in the relaxation room, but as there was no door shutting it off from the noise of the jacuzzi or the happy shouts of the young kids in the pool, it wasn’t terribly relaxing. After a short while, with still an hour left until we had to leave, I suggested we go for coffee. Then said, “Let’s save the eight quid and have coffee at home.”

Mum agreed.

I dropped her at her house – feeling only slightly guilty for shortening our visit – drove home and had a free cup of tea and read my book. And there was still time to walk the dog in the sunshine and write this post on my phone.

This isn’t meant to be a rant. I very much enjoyed my afternoon and would go back at the reduced cost. But it was interesting to see how critical I was because my expectations weren’t met. I’m afraid to say I even left negative feedback on the comments card.

Someone responded to my post yesterday by saying one-star reviews are more about the reviewer than the book. That’s probably true. But I think it’s also about expectations. Something in my cover image and blurb may have set the wrong expectation and the reader never managed to overcome that. I think getting the cover and blurb right on a book is essential – whatever we say, we all judge a book a little bit on its cover.

I have two covers for Dragon Wraiths and they represent the book differently. I’m very attached to them both but maybe they set the wrong expectation. Similarly for the blurb. For a marketer I’m rubbish at writing blurb, for Dragon Wraiths or the Claire books. Maybe I should run a competition for people who loved the book to write the blurb for me, though not sure what I could offer as a prize.

The other thing I need to establish is the price. I dropped it to see if I would shift more copies (I haven’t yet). Maybe people make a more considered buying decision if it’s more expensive. It’s all fascinating stuff I don’t have answers to. In the mean time I’m off to get the kids. Relaxing day over then!

________________________________________________________________________________

“How’s your Mum?”

“She’s great. Thank you so much for suggesting I talk to her. You were right – she’s been so worried about being the pushy parent, she’s been biting her tongue. Now I’ve given her the green light she can’t wait to get stuck in. I wouldn’t be surprised if she came to stay next week. What is it with mothers and weddings?”

Claire shrugged, unwilling to answer. I can’t imagine what mine would be like with a wedding to plan, and I doubt she’ll find out. She didn’t get a look-in on Robert’s and, from what I remember, Ruth’s was a paltry registry-office affair.

“You didn’t tell me what venue you managed to book for the wedding.”

“Wilderhope Manor, in Shropshire. It’s not too far from Mum and Dad, and the building looks amazing. We’re having to accept a sub from Jeff’s parents, as it isn’t dirt cheap, but even they must approve of the building, if not the bunk beds. Have you been?”

“No. Milton Keynes was the furthest south I managed to get to, and look how well that turned out.”

Kim pouted. “Oh, I was hoping you might be able to have a word with the manager, make sure everything is perfect.”

Claire’s laughter rang loud in Kim’s kitchen. “Kim, none of the YHA managers in the hostels I’ve visited even know I’m doing the assignment. The more places I stay, the more I know Carl is making the whole thing up. I haven’t had anything to do with Coca Cola either.”

Kim’s expression made Claire snort with laughter again.

“What are you laughing at?”

“You. You look so shocked.”

Kim shook her head. “Well, I am. I can’t imagine a boss lying to me on that kind of scale.” She gave her friend an accusing stare. “I can’t believe you’re okay with it, either. It’s not like you.”

Claire took a sip of coffee, then put her mug back on the table, while words churned through her mind. “I’m not okay with it.” She looked up at Kim. “I’m spitting mad, if you want to know the truth.”

Kim’s face became serious. “Then why do you put up with it? I hate to see you being taken advantage of.”

“Being taken for a fool, you mean? No, don’t apologise: you’re right. It must look like that from the outside.”

“But..?”

“But, I don’t think I’m doing this assignment for Carl anymore.” Claire sat back in the chair and laced her fingers, careful not to pull at her sprained wrist. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Kim nodded, sitting forward to give Claire her full focus.

“I had no intention of sticking it out. I was going to travel for a couple of weeks and then use my holiday and the salary they’re still paying me to jet off to Maldives. I’m not sure what I planned to do then, I never thought that far ahead. Send Carl a rude email, probably.”

“What stopped you?”

Claire sighed again, and ran her fingers through her hair. A scent of daffodils wafted in through the open window and somewhere a blackbird was singing.

“Josh, I guess. To begin with. He made travelling fun. Then it all went wrong, and I got mugged. I wanted to leave at that point.”

“I’ll bet!”

“But, somehow, there was always something stopping me. I had to look after Sky, and now, with Ruth sick…” She stopped, but Kim’s face showed her understanding. Claire couldn’t leave the country not knowing whether Sky might need her again.

“What will you do, then? Will you finish the assignment?”

Claire gazed out the window at the clouds scudding past, foretelling the arrival of another rain shower.

“I don’t know, Kim, I really don’t. I’m only on hostel number thirty or thirty-one. That leaves so many still to do. Plus the stupid activities Julia keep sending me. Did I tell you, she emailed me to suggest I learn to windsurf? She has no idea. Stuff like that isn’t for an idle afternoon. It takes time and commitment. It’s all very well trying to make the blog interesting – not to mention humiliate me – but it does hurt.” She looked at her wrist as if the pain was entirely Julia’s fault.

“Maybe you could sell your story to a newspaper, have them sponsor your blog. It’s a great adventure. I can’t be the only one loving it.”

Claire was going to dismiss the idea as foolish, but something stopped her. That’s actually not entirely crazy. What if I approach the YHA myself? Or a paper could work. Get a travel column. Claire looked over at her friend and wondered when she suddenly had all the answers.

***

Getting Stronger: 2013 365 Challenge #154

Just keep smiling

Yesterday I received my first one-star review for Dragon Wraiths. Aside from being aggrieved at the effect on my average rating, because I still don’t have many reviews, I was okay about it because the reviewer said ‘not my style’. Fair enough.

But, as if one-star reviews are buses, low and behold there’s another one today.

And this one’s a proper attack from someone who has read the book (as they’re quick to point out, possibly in retaliation to the five-star reviewer who reviewed while still reading.)

I’m obviously a bit low about it, but only because I’ve inadvertently wasted hours of a person’s life (as they were also quick to point out!). I’m appreciative that they read my novel to the end – I certainly wouldn’t have done if I’d disliked a book as much. And I’m grateful for the honest feedback. I’ll particularly take note of the bit that suggests the climate change theme is preachy and inaccurate.

But I’m not devastated by the review.

Hard to be sad here: The Mill House at Sacrewell Farm

Which isn’t like me at all. Lost keys or finding a typo can leave me sobbing. I’ve been trying to work out why I’m not upset. I think some of it comes from the fab support I got on my Facebook page in response to the first low review. There are other factors too: Partly it’s because I’ve come to believe in my writing, partly because I’ve thought books and films were awful and been in the minority, and partly because at least it got a reaction. At least someone bothered to tell me what they thought.

Surely every artist wants to know what the world thinks of their work, good and bad.

Not that I want every person who buys or downloads a free copy of my book to leave a one-star review. But at least this person bothered to give a reason, unlike some of my one-star reviews on Goodreads. Now that is annoying. I cannot learn and grow as a writer if I can’t accept criticism, and I certainly can’t learn what to fix if no one tells me what’s wrong in the first place.

Ironically I’ve never been strong enough to join a critique group, because my low self-esteem hears critique of my writing as an attack on me as a person. Having such an attack come from someone who doesn’t know me at all makes it much easier to keep the two separate.

Besides, I was also nominated for a Very Inspiring Blogger Award today, (thank you astridcook.com) and, as an author, you take the good with the bad and Just Keep Writing…

________________________________________________________________________________

“Morning, sleepy head.”

Claire turned towards the noise and prised open sticky eyes. Kim was standing beside the bed, a cup of tea in one hand, a plate of toast in the other.

“I thought you might be hungry, as you said you didn’t eat dinner yesterday.” Kim slid the cup and plate on the bedside table, then perched on the edge of the bed.

“How are you feeling this morning? How’s the wrist?”

Claire wriggled upright, blinking her eyes into focus. “How are you so fresh and awake? What time is it?”

“It’s around 11am.”

“What?” Claire jerked, as if to leap out of bed. Kim held out a restraining hand, and smiled.

“Shhh don’t get up. It’s fine, you needed sleep. Sleep is the best healer.”

“Kim, I haven’t slept in until lunchtime in years.” Well, not without an incentive to stay in bed at any rate.

“You’ve had an accident, you need to rest.” She tilted her head, and grinned. “Besides, I need you awake to discuss wedding plans with me later. My concern is purely selfish.”

Claire looked up at her friend, noticing for the first time the blonde roots showing through the bright red hair. As if sensing her scrutiny, Kim put a hand to her head and smiled sheepishly.

“I had to stop dying it, when I found out I was pregnant. Looks like I’m going to have to wear a wig after all. Not sure what I’m going to do for the wedding. I can’t decide whether to get a blonde wig and look like me, or get you to pin it up so the roots don’t show.” Kim stopped abruptly. “Sorry, I’m wittering on again. I talked your ear off last night, when you arrived, didn’t I?”

Claire shook her head, hoping it seemed sincere. She reached for her tea, to mask any expression on her face that might give her away.

“I did, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just I seem to be bottling words at the moment. There’s so much going on in my life, in my head, and Jeff isn’t here all that much. We’re in rehearsals stage at work, so there’s no time to chat…” She trailed off, as if unwilling to explain her need to talk with yet more words.

“What about your Mum, can you talk to her? Not that it isn’t nice to talk to you.” Claire’s words slurred with tiredness, and she took another gulp of hot tea.

“I don’t really feel comfortable talking to Mum. I know she isn’t thrilled about the pregnancy, and the wedding being all rushed.”

“I thought it was Jeff’s parents insisting you get married before the baby arrives.” Claire cradled the mug and let the steam warm her face.

“They didn’t insist, we guessed. No one has really said anything, it’s all just dark looks and sharp intakes of breath.”

Claire tried to remember Kim’s parents. From what she could recall, Kim had a great relationship with them. Much more open and loving than hers. She remembered hearing Kim’s mother call, ‘I love you’ as Kim ran in to school. Kim would yell her answer over her shoulder, long hair flying, face bright with joy. I don’t think I’ve ever told my parents I love them, or heard them say it to me.

“Maybe you need to sit and have a good chat with your Mum. She doesn’t seem the disapproving type. Perhaps she’s worried about saying the wrong thing, or getting in your way, over-stepping the mark. It must be tough for her, too.”

Kim stared at the floral duvet cover, a crease between her brows. The girls sat silent for a few moments, the only sound the slurp of Claire’s tea.

“You’re right.”

Kim’s sudden words made Claire jump, and she was thankful the mug was empty.

“I need to call her. I don’t want to plan this wedding, or have this baby, without my Mum. Will you excuse me?”

Claire nodded, envious of Kim’s decisiveness. Her friend disappeared from the room, leaving Claire to eat her cold toast alone.

***