Snowy, crafty day and 2013 365 Day #20

The Great Hall, Oundle School, in the snow

We’ve had a glorious family day today.

The kids got dragged around the job centre and supermarket yesterday so we promised them a new magazine, a trip to the coffee shop in Oundle, our local town, and sledging at grandma’s today.

And that’s what we did.

I have been cutting, sticking and colouring for about three hours this afternoon and I put a much happier little girl to bed tonight than last night.

Great fun magazine cutting, sticking and drawing. My little girl enjoyed it too…

I love how kids live in the present and don’t hold grudges. You get back what you put in, then and there. Wonderful.

Unfortunately I also got another rejection email today. A really nice one from Julia Churchill:

Thank you for giving us a chance with this. I’m sorry to say I don’t think it’s one for me.

While this has some nice points, when I take a new writer on I need to feel such a high level of conviction that I could sell their work, and I’m afraid I’m not quite there with this. Of course, it’s a really subjective business. Another agent may well feel differently.

Wishing you the best of luck with it, and a good 2013.

Sledging family fun. No hills round us so more pushing than sledging…

How lovely is that? As rejections go it actually left me smiling. Unfortunately I really liked the sound of the agency Julia works for, so I was disappointed.

What I take away from it though is that I really need to work on my query letter and/or synopsis for Dragon Wraiths. The response came back so swiftly I can’t help but think it was rejected off the cover letter. I have struggled to sell the story in limited words because it’s a four-part novel and it’s difficult to encapsulate it all in one or two paragraphs.

Cutting and sticking. Very theraputic, although not as much as colouring-in.

My husband still thinks I should self-publish Dragon Wraiths but I am reluctant. The more I read about self-publishing the more I’m not sure it’s for me. I really do need help in selling myself and my work and I can’t afford to hire an editior.

I would take a punt on Dragon Wraiths if it was easy to get it kindle-ready but unfortunately I have four different fonts in the novel that are essential to understanding the story and my kindle software changes them all to one font! (Unlike bloomin Microsoft Word which has decided to change my novel document into about four different fonts when I copy it over to WordPress. I’ve had to retype the whole of today’s post while listening to my husband snoring upstairs. Not happy!!)

Anyway I haven’t had any time to do research today so not sure what Claire is going to be getting up to. I’m struggling to keep my eyes open already and my darling husband is cooking dinner while I tap away… I think I might chuck her out into Berwick and see what she finds.

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So, this is the northernmost town in England? Whoop-di-do. Claire looked around the high-street and sighed. There isn’t even a bloody Starbucks. Caffé Nero just isn’t the same.

Claire had gone back to her room after breakfast to type up the notes on her interview with Hattie. She’d been determined to spend the day in her room playing on the iPad, but the greyness had closed in until she was driven out to seek colour and coffee.

Before she left the hostel, Claire did a quick search on interesting information about Berwick. Her research threw up thrilling facts like Berwick meant Barley Farm. That seems about right. Stupid hick town. I wonder why Scotland wants it back?

Claire decided to explore Berwick in an attempt to discover what made people think hostelling was so amazing. As yet nothing had cropped up to recommend it. Her idea of a vacation was to bake on a beach and read airport-purchased paperbacks. She always did some sight-seeing but it was the normal tick-box stuff: pyramids, opera houses, mountains. As far as she could tell Berwick’s best offering was a few boring bridges.

What do Backpackers do all day? They can’t shop; they have no money. There’s no Sky in a hostel, internet is only available at £3 an hour unless you have a smartphone and what penniless student can afford one of those? How many times can you wander round places staring at the architecture?

After two hours of exploring Claire’s feet were throbbing, her back ached and her brain was numb. What am I going to tweet about? The number of arches in the Royal Border Bridge?

She remembered Hattie recommending a trip to some Priory on a nearby island that apparently was accessible by car at low tide. The old woman had raved about it so much Claire had almost been tempted until she’d checked it out on Wikipedia. It looked like a pile of old rock. She had never heard of Lindisfarne, and doubted anyone she knew had, so it didn’t count as a tick-box visit.

Spying a bookshop, Claire decided the best thing she could do was plan her route and get through it as swiftly as possible. I wonder if I can stay in more than one hostel at a time? The wind whipped round her as she crossed the street and ducked into the store. She paused beneath the warmth of the heater while thoughts churned in her mind. The brief didn’t say anything about having to actually spend the night. Maybe I could check in, make a cup of Earl Grey in the kitchen, and move on. Cheered by the thought Claire scoured the shelves for a map of Britain. She needed to plot all the hostels and work out the shortest possible distance to drive around them all.

In the back of her mind a nagging feeling tore at Claire’s new resolve. No matter how much she loathed Carl it was not in her nature to shirk a responsibility or put in a half-hearted effort. The happy feeling seeped away like a wave on the sand. I am going to have to do this properly or not at all. Not for them but for me, for my professional pride. Damn.

On the shelf near the maps Claire saw the colourful spine of a Lonely Planet guide to Britain. She grabbed it and took her finds to the till. The sky seemed a little more grey as Claire hobbled back to the hostel on blistered feet.

Claire spent the afternoon in the Bistro cross-referencing the YHA hostel guide, the Lonely Planet book and the map. When she finally collapsed into bed at 9.30pm she was almost smiling. At least I know where I’m going tomorrow. Well I know what it’s called anyway. I wonder what Wooler has to offer.

She was about to close her eyes when her mobile phone beeped. Two thoughts went through her head like lightning. Ruth’s got her results back, and Carl is texting to gloat. Reaching for her phone without turning on the light Claire held the screen up to her sleep-blurred eyes. She blinked until the words came into focus.

Hey Claire. How are things? I miss you. Can we talk? Michael.

Claire’s heart thudded beneath her cotton nightie – bought for dorm-sharing days. What the hell does he want? She tried to think dispassionately about Michael but couldn’t manage it. Instead her mind filled with the look of pain in his deep brown eyes the last time she saw him. As if she had reached around during an embrace, stabbed him in the back and yelled, “Speak hands for me!”

***

365: 19.01.13 #19 Snow day (ghostwritermummy.co.uk)

No Excuses – the 2013 365 Challenge Day #19

Snow Monster – Kara loves the snow

I’ve always had bad knees but, since I took a Learn to Row course back in the summer, my right knee has been so painful sometimes I can’t walk on it. Rowing used, or tried to use, a heap of muscles that haven’t been needed in a while and I ended up pulling my knee cap out of line. (That’s how I understand it anyway, I’m sure it’s nothing like that if you ask a doctor.) I had physio until we couldn’t afford it anymore then I had some free physio with the NHS. Very different experiences but both came down to the same thing – I must do daily exercises to retrain my muscles. I knew that – I’ve been told that before.

But I’m rubbish.

I do the exercises religiously three-times-a-day for a week or two then I forget or am too tired or whatever excuse I use and that’s it. I hobble in pain for a while and another opportunity to fix it is gone forever. I think the problem is that no one notices or cares whether I do the exercises or not so it’s easy to be lazy. I just can’t seem to get the exercises to become a daily habit, even though it means I spend a lot of time in pain.

But, until recently when my husband took over the task to give my knee a rest, I walked the dog every single day I could. Only when I had the kids all day did she just get a quick play with a ball in the garden. Rain, hail, snow, tired or not, I walked her. Because that’s what I signed up to by getting a dog. In Terry Pratchett’s Thud! the lead character, Sam Vimes, says something like ‘if I miss it for a good reason even once, I’ll start missing it for bad ones.” He was talking about reading a bedtime story to his son but the theory is the same. He made a commitment.

I’m walking in a snow storm as I write this into my phone. And I’m glad I came out. I didn’t have to come – falling snow and poorly knee were excuses enough. But the dog looked at me, then longingly out at the fresh snow, and I had to come. And I’ve enjoyed my walk.

Blogging was the same. When I didn’t have a living beast to care for it was easy to make excuses not to post. I didn’t have anything to say, I had other commitments, I was doing NaNoWriMo etc. Now I have my daily challenge there is no room for excuses. Apart from the time in Italy when I had no laptop or internet I have written every day since 1st January because it’s a thing I must do. And that’s made it simple, and fun. Even when I’m shattered and I know it’s the writing equivalent of throwing a ball in the garden I have to write my daily post.

Now if only I could find the thing that would make me do my knee exercises every day…

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“Hello there, Good Morning. How did you sleep?”

Claire flinched at the bright voice and wondered if she could ignore it. She didn’t recognise the wrinkled face beaming at her, but a vague recollection of the night before threw up a name card.

“Hattie? Yes, I slept okay, thanks.” Years of training allowed Claire to be nice when what she really wanted to say was, Sod off, I’m not here to make friends, I’m working and, even if I weren’t, I’m not about to be best buddies with an octogenarian.

A quick glance round the café showed Claire a surprising number of bodies tucking into breakfast. Hattie patted the seat next to her and Claire had little choice but to sit with her new friend.

“Is it always this busy?”

“Yes, dear. The hostel has a dozen or so rooms and it’s very popular. The locals come too, although not so often for breakfast. Between you and me…” she leant in close to Claire and a cloud of talc and perfume wafted over her, “…their dinner is better. I think the chef doesn’t like mornings.”

“But you eat it anyway?” Claire looked at Hattie’s plates of bacon, eggs and other Full English delights and shuddered.

“Not every day, only at the weekend. They have a lovely little kitchen on the top floor but it gets a bit mucky on a Friday night, what with takeaway boxes and late night munchies.”

Claire smiled at hearing a word like munchies coming through pristine false teeth. “You sound like you’ve been here a long time?”

“I have, dear, on and off. At my age there’s little point spending money on rent and bills. Besides, it gets lonely. There’s only me and I hate cats.”

Claire turned round in her chair, taking her eyes off the laminated menu to stare in wonder at the beaming, line-patterned face. “Let me get this straight. You live here? In a hostel dorm room?”

Hattie nodded enthusiastically. “Not always here, although it is a lovely hostel. Where else could I stay with all my bills paid for £7 a day? It used to cost more than that to heat my flat. I don’t have to clean and I meet some lovely people.”

The words entered Claire’s brain but made no sense. Why would you choose to give up your apartment and live in a hostel? Share a room? No one could be that poor, surely.

“Have you been travelling long?” Hattie spoke around a mouthful of sausage and her chewing gave Claire a chance to choose her answer. In the end she decided honesty was probably easiest. There was no need to impress this garrulous old biddy.

“Not really. This is my first day actually. I’m… I’m writing a blog about hostelling.” Well, that’s true enough.

“Oh how charming. What will you write, will you include me?” Claire was touched to see how delighted Hattie was at the idea, like a small child being offered a tremendous treat.

Claire shrugged, why not? I have to put something in the damn blog.

“Of course. Would you like to tell me about your travels? Why did you choose the YHA? Do you feel it promotes a healthy lifestyle?” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke and she realised at last she was back in her comfort zone. She might not know about making her own bed with a flat sheet or how to start a car with a manual choke but she knew about social media and she knew about fulfilling a brief, however stupid it was.

As Hattie began to talk, waving her hands and nearly knocking over the vase of flowers on the table, Claire sipped at the coffee recently deposited in front of her and scribbled notes on a napkin.

***

Habits (attitudeforgratitude.com)
Why Doing NaNoWriMo Was a Terrible Idea (bekahgraham.wordpress.com)

Silly Mistakes and 2013 365 Challenge #18

Dewar's Lane Granary (The Berwick YHA building prior to coversion) from Sallyport to Barbara Carr

Dewar’s Lane Granary (The Berwick YHA building prior to coversion) from Sallyport. Photograph by Barbara Carr

I made a basic error yesterday when sending out a query email. I have a track sheet with all submission guidelines (length of synopsis, how many chapters to send etc) for my shortlisted agencies and I spent three hours compiling a cover letter and pack for The Blair Partnership (I’m working through the list in the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook, approaching agencies that seem a good fit and will take email submissions). I hit send in time to go and collect the kids, feeling happy with a job well done. Until I started looking at the next name on the list and realised (oh no…) that I’d accidentally followed their submission guidelines for The Blair Partnership. So I’d sent a long synoposis and 3 chapters instead of a one-page synopsis and one chapter.

IDIOT.

What a waste of three hours. I resent my submission but I can’t help but feel that has plonked me directly in the reject pile. A tweet I read from an agent yesterday said

“Am ruthless when there’s loads of submissions to read: If they can’t be bov to read our guidelines, I might not be bov to read their book.”

Good advice which I tried very hard to follow today when I sent my next batch of query emails.

The quote was reweeted by someone I follow and I didn’t pay any attention to who wrote the original message. When I went to copy it into this post I noticed that the message was written by Julia Churchill of the Greenhouse Literary Agency. The same woman I sent a submission to earlier today! It’s a small world. I wish I’d noticed the connection, I could have mentioned reading her tweet in my submission and how it made me double and triple check that I sent her the right stuff.

Another missed opportunity.

It doesn’t matter how many blogs, books and articles you read on how to send query letters it’s still a huge learning curve!

This evening is all about researching the first hostel on my list – Berwick. I still haven’t received my YHA membership card so I can’t send off for a hostel guide. Google it is then. It has reminded me that Claire doesn’t have YHA membership so might incorporate that into today’s post somehow.

P.S. After three hours of wandering around the web I have an excessive amount of information about Berwick YHA in my head and on my computer. My brain is too full to write my post! This level of research is new to me and I am learning that you can know too much, it stifles your creativity. What I can’t find is a picture of the front entrance so I’m going to have to put Claire somewhere in the hostel… Right, let’s write.

Usual disclaimers apply – I haven’t visited this hostel, my writing is part fiction part research and no offence is in anyway intended.

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Claire peered through the dark at the place her sat nav had decided was her Final Destination. It looked like a small car park surrounded by an eclectic mix of buildings. Her ears rang with the silence of the evening as she pulled into a bay and turned off the ignition. Every part of her body ached.

I’m not going to have to worry about how to stay fit without my annual gym membership; this car is a workout all by itself.

Claire looked through the windows for the green YHA sign that she thought would greet her arrival but all she could see were cars and walls. She pulled out her iPad and loaded up the hostel page but there was no more information.

Bugger. I guess I’ll just have to wander around until I find it. Claire got out and looked around the car park. She didn’t welcome the prospect of staggering about in the dark. I wish I’d managed to get here in daylight. She turned and glared at the car.

“We would have done too if you hadn’t overheated three times in that traffic jam. Stupid car.”

She could hear a clock chiming the half-hour and realised she had no idea which hour it was. The last fifty miles had passed in a daze of exhaustion and misery. It was one thing travelling around the country in a modern Audi, knowing you were staying in a four star hotel when you got there. A bit different hauling this heap of shit three hundred miles up the country to stay in a flea-infested hostel.

Claire dragged her rucksack from the passenger seat, not willing to leave it in the car even though she barely had the strength to lift it onto her shoulders. Please God let this damn place be close by.

“Are you lost my dear?”

Claire looked round but couldn’t locate the source of the voice.

“Are you staying at the hostel, perhaps? The YHA one?”

Claire caught a faint scent of perfume, the kind her grannie used to wear. She looked down and saw a petit lady standing in the shadows smiling at her.

“I guessed by the rucksack. I’m staying there too, would you like me to show you how to get in? It’s easy to miss in the dark.” When Claire didn’t answer the lady walked a bit closer. “Do you speak English my dear?” She enunciated the words as if talking to someone hard of hearing.

“I’m English,” Claire managed. “And yes, thank you, I am looking for the YHA.” Claire was too tired to question why someone who looked the wrong side of seventy was staying in a Youth Hostel. I guess I don’t really count as youth either if it comes to it. She followed the lady a short distance to a building which loomed four or five stories above them, blocking out the star-spattered sky.

“I’m Hattie, I’m in one of the dorms. Are you staying long?”

Claire forced her scattered mind to focus on the voice. “Er, no, two nights.”

“That’s a shame. Lovely hostel this.” When Claire didn’t respond Hattie peered up into her face. “You look done in. Get yourself checked in and get some sleep. I’ll probably see you at breakfast?” She made the statement into a question but turned and scurried away before Claire could answer.

Claire let the rucksack drop from her shoulders and gazed around without seeing, unsure what to do next.

“Can I help you?” Another voice hailed her, male this time. “I’m the hostel manager. Are we expecting you?”

Claire turned and smiled at the man. “Yes, my name is Claire Carleton.”

“Ah yes, you’re booked into a twin room for two nights. Come with me I’ll get you checked in and you’ll be snuggled under your duvet in no time. You look like you could sleep standing up.”

Twin room? Claire’s mind latched onto the only part of the sentence that mattered. By myself? No sharing, no strangers snoring? For the first time in weeks Claire was conscious of a feeling of gratitude towards AJC. She stood waiting by her rucksack but the man didn’t offer to carry it, just walked off without checking whether she was following. Claire felt her cheeks flush red as she stooped to retrieve her bag.

The next ten minutes were a blur of forms and questions. Claire had a vague recollection of being shown a bistro which seemed just a sea of lime green. Very on-trend was Claire’s only thought. She was then ushered into a lift and escorted to her room on the third or fourth floor, she didn’t notice which. This doesn’t seem right for a hostel. I thought they chucked a key at you and handed you a sheet? They certainly don’t carry your bag. Claire felt the straps digging into her tired shoulders and gave up trying to make sense of it all..

As the hostel manager opened the door to her room Claire felt she might weep. It was bright and neat, if slightly like a posh prison with its grey wall and grey metal beds. Not a plush hotel by any means but the duvet looked thick and comfortable and she could spy an en-suite through another door.

The hostel manager handed Claire a sheet. “You’ll need to make up your bed and you can hire towels if you haven’t brought any. You’re booked in for breakfast and if you want dinner you can go down to the Bistro, or there’s a pub and an Indian not far away. I can’t imagine you’ll want to cook tonight but, if you do, the guest communal area is on the fifth floor.”

He stood for a moment as if waiting for Claire to respond. When it was clear she had no words he nodded a farewell, handed her the key, and left the room. Claire’s senses were overwhelmed by twelve hours of new experiences. Her body fought conflicting needs: a shower, coffee, dinner and sleep all seemed equally important. Half-heartedly flicking the sheet over one of the beds Claire collapsed full length and dragged the duvet over her head.

Sleep first, everything else could wait.

***

Before You Send Out Your Manuscript (farafinabooks.wordpress.com)

Brrrrr – 2013 365 Challenge Day #17

It’s very cold here today but also very beautiful

We sent the kids off to nursery this afternoon. The youngest is teething, and the eldest is going through a period of nightmares, which means sleep is a rare commodity. With my husband looking for work it’s tough having clingy/grumpy/tantrumy kids in the house, so it seemed fairer to all of them to have them go play with their friends for the afternoon. I spent my bonus four hours sending out just one query letter (have I mentioned how long a process it is?) Hopefully it’ll be worth it one day.

I had a lovely surprise yesterday when I found out that someone wrote about my 2013 365 challenge on their blog. One Wild Word mentioned my challenge in relation to a post on a daily writing routine. I left a comment on the post about the writing routine that I am starting to develop and thought I’d repeat it here.

My writing routine has settled into starting the post as soon as the children are in bed, while cooking dinner for me and my husband. I then polish the writing during the evening (with my fingers in my ears if what’s on the tele is more interesting!). If I get it finished by bedtime I schedule it for the next morning (I work a day behind so I always have a slight buffer in case I don’t finish it). If I’ve had to go up to the kids two or three times during the evening I have the next morning to finish my post by my self-imposed 10am deadline. It’s kind of working so far, although some days my mind is blank after 10 hours of tantrums and I don’t really know what I’ve actually written! This is the first time I’ve ever written every day and it’s a very new experience. I think I actually prefer writing just on nursery days (2 days a week) but now I have committed to the challenge I must continue. There’s nothing like announcing something on the web to force you to get on with it…

Blyth Services in the snow. Spot the Costa sign.
Photo taken on 06/12/2010 by Ian Sykes

So, now you know! (You also now know that when I say things like “it’s been really cold today” that’s actually the day before because of my built-in buffer. As many of my readers are in the USA the time zones are all mashed anyway.)

Anyway on to today’s post. I have been Google-Mapping today to work out Claire’s journey to Berwick. Have found this useful site http://motorwayservicesonline.co.uk to help me decide which Services she might stop at. As one blog I follow puts it Have Internet, Will Travel. (I also discovered that a large coffee at Starbucks is a Grande but at Costa it’s a Massimo. The things you learn doing online research!)

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Claire looked at the white shape on the road and shivered. There had been a heavy frost overnight and the Skoda looked like an igloo recently teleported from the North Pole.

“Great. Just what today needed.”

She pulled her jacket tighter and scurried back to her parents’ house to get some warm water. This was beyond what could be battled with de-icer.

The house was dark and silent as she let herself in through the kitchen door. All goodbyes, such as they were, had been said the night before as Claire had gone up to bed. Her mother had managed a muttered “Good luck” and her father had told her half-heartedly to call. Not once in the two days she had spent at home had either of them asked what her assignment was. Of course she hadn’t wanted to tell them so that was fine by her.

At last Claire was inside the car staring out through the only part of the windscreen that hadn’t immediately refrozen. My Audi would have told me how cold it actually is out there, warned me to drive carefully and heated my seat for me. The Skoda seats were freezing and she couldn’t hold the steering wheel with her bare hands. Please start, Claire prayed as she yanked out the choke and turned the key. She raised her eyebrows as the Skoda fired up immediately.

I guess being designed for Eastern Europe must have some advantages. Who knew?

The sat nav was already programmed to take her to Berwick-Upon-Tweed so Claire stuck it to the windscreen and tried not to dwell on the five-hour journey time. The current estimated time of arrival was 11am but Claire knew it was going to be nearer twelve hours on the road by the time she had coaxed the car three hundred miles north.

Claire had been driving for nearly three hours when her gurgling tummy prompted her to take a break. The sat nav said she had travelled only a third of the distance to Berwick. Despite most of the driving being on the dual carriage way or motorway Claire was exhausted. Driving the Skoda was much more involved than driving the Audi. Remembering to turn on the fan when the engine got hot; pushing the choke back in when the car coughed and spluttered; trying to judge the gaps in traffic with wing-mirrors that moved out of position when the car went over fifty miles per hour; overtaking with zero acceleration. Claire sighed and began looking out for Services signs.

A sleek black BMW pulled up behind her in the outside lane and immediately began flashing his lights. Claire looked down at the speedometer: she was doing 72 miles an hour.

“I’m doing the speed limit you arsehole. Can’t you see I’m overtaking?” She looked left at the articulated lorry doing 56 in the inside lane. As she pulled ahead of the lorry it also flashed its lights and Claire wondered what he had to be grumpy about. Then she realised he was telling her it was okay to pull in. Her cheeks flushed hot as she swung her car in front of the lorry and raised a hand in thanks.

At last she saw a sign for the Services and gratefully took the exit. “Robin Hood Airport? I want to go there!” Claire smiled for the first time that day as she headed for the roundabout. She was tempted to drive into Bawtry and have a proper stop but she wanted to get nearer to her final destination before she relaxed. She followed the signs for the Services instead and heaved a huge sigh as a Costa billboard filled her vision.

“Coffee, hurrah.”

Claire sat at wobbly metal table, surrounded by harassed families and focussed business men. She looked at her phone and was shocked to see it was only ten o’clock. Hey, maybe I will be in Berwick by lunchtime.

She gazed out the window, her massimo skinny latte clasped between her hands for warmth. It wasn’t quite Starbucks, and there were more calories in a Costa, but after three hours of driving it was extremely welcome. A strange feeling settled over her. Claire tried to analyse it. It was a soft feeling, the kind associated with snuggly duvets and the Sunday papers in bed. She felt… relaxed.

“Oh my goodness, Claire? Is that you? What are you doing in this hell hole?”

Claire didn’t register the voice immediately. There was no reason for anyone to know her here. The hail was accompanied by the tip-tapping of heels across the polished floor. The voice spoke again, nearer this time.

“It is Claire, isn’t it?”

Claire turned and saw a wave of blonde hair surrounding immaculate red lips and an insincere smile. Her stomach plummeted as the snuggly feeling evaporated.

“Linda. How lovely to see you. Apologies, I was miles away.”

The woman adjusted the strap of her handbag and took a seat opposite Claire without asking. Stifling a sigh Claire hitched a smile on her face and tried to remember all the pertinent facts about the woman sat beaming in front of her. She was marketing director for an electronics company but the name of the business eluded Claire. I’ve never forgotten details like that before. What’s happening to me?

“So, what brings you this side of the country? I thought your stomping ground was Cheshire.” Linda looked Claire up and down, taking in her jeans and hiking jacket. “Holiday?” The sneer was palpable.

“In a manner of speaking.” Claire had no intention of giving anything away to this woman. It would be all over Twitter before her coffee got cold. Claire’s tone of voice would have silenced lesser beings but Linda was made of more impenetrable stuff.

“How… novel.”

Claire ground her teeth and tried to think of a way to get rid of the woman without being rude. Thankfully Fate intervened in the guise of Linda’s ringing phone. Signalling her apology, the woman got up from the table and trotted to the door to get a better signal.

I hadn’t factored in meeting people I know. I haven’t really thought this through at all. Even with a new Twitter Handle, Facebook page and blog, people are going to find me. This is so not cool. Carl I am going to make you wish your sorry arse never crossed my path.

***

Rejection and the 365 Challenge Day #16

This was actually taken a few years ago when I had time to do such things! It looked like this outside today though…

I received my first rejection for Dragon Wraiths today. I’m quite happy about it. I’ve sent out about a dozen query emails for the novel (did I mention just how long it takes to research an agency, choose the right agent, pitch the query letter as close as possible to what they want and then send it?) and this is the first reply I’ve had. So it was a rejection, so what? Aren’t you meant to get about forty rejections before you’re accepted? So that’s one step nearer.

Our dog Kara enjoying the snow

It reminded me of a bit in Clare Balding’s great autobiography My Animals and Other Family where she and her brother are told a jockey isn’t a real jockey until he’s fallen off his horse a certain amount of times (I think it was sixty but if I go and check I’ll start reading the book again and I already have no idea what I’m writing for today’s Claire post so that will scupper it entirely.) Anyway, the kids keep falling off their horses deliberately, in order to build up to the magic number. Their frustrated mother points out that it doesn’t count if you do it on purpose. I’ve sent out query letters before but I haven’t put my heart and soul into them. This time I’m doing it properly so this is my first genuine rejection. Only 39 to go.

Taken in the field across from our house. I get to walk this every day (when my knee isn’t playing up as it is now!)

As mentioned above I don’t know what I’m writing about today for my novel. I’ve spent the last twelve hours with two fragile, screaming, over-tired preschoolers, taking them to play with their friends and then going sledging. My nerves are zinging and I’m only fit for bed. So I’m just going to write and see what happens. Apologies if it stinks! I have joined the YHA and am just waiting for my membership card in order to be able to send off for a guide to the hostels. Once that arrives I’ll be able to start my proper research, plan out Claire’s travel route and get on with the novel proper. Until then it’ll probably be another post introducing characters which hopefully won’t be as boring as it sounds.

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“Please pass the salt.”

Claire located the salt pot amidst the silverware on the table and handed it to her father. He thanked her without making eye contact and returned to demolishing his lamb roast.

Chewing the slightly over-cooked meat, Claire looked up at her parents’ bowed heads and wondered when they got so grey. And boring. I remember when they used to talk at dinner. Maybe I’m making them feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t a nice thought. Claire was used to not getting a prodigal-son welcome when she came home but the constraint surrounding her at the dinner table that evening was suffocating.

“Kim’s dyed her hair red for a role in a Shakespeare play.”

“Hmmm.” Her mother speared a green bean and put it in her mouth.

“She looks great, like a life-size pixie.”

“Hmmm.” This time it was a baby carrot that felt the fork.

“She’s having her nipple pierced and leaving Jeff for the cleaning lady.”

“Hmmm… I beg your pardon?” Her mother’s face whipped up and she looked at Claire for the first time since they sat at the table.

“Joking. Just wondered if I was actually here.”

“It’s not healthy to talk and eat, it causes you to take in too much air. Your father suffers from heartburn so we have silence at the table.” She spoke the last words pointedly and returned to the massacre of the vegetables.

Sighing quietly, Claire focussed on eating her dinner as swiftly as possible. She had had plenty of time to regret coming to visit her parents in the two days since she’d arrived. She had barely shared three words with her mother and tonight at the dinner table was the first time her father had even appeared. She was shocked to see how old he looked.

Has it really been so long since I visited, or has he been aging in double-time since he retired?

Claire tried to turn her mind away from the mausoleum of the dinner table and think nice thoughts. Her future wasn’t exactly swimming in them. In the morning she had to load her hated rucksack into her loathed old banger and drive 300 miles to stay in a flea-ridden youth hostel. She had taken the decision to invest in a Sat Nav, having found it difficult to even get home to her parents’ house without the inbuilt one in her company Audi. It had taken until an hour ago for her to bring herself to plot in the route to Berwick and she was shocked to find out it was going to take at least five hours to get there when she left in the morning.

Probably six or seven in that stupid car, it only manages seventy-miles-an-hour downhill with the wind behind it. I’m going to have to leave at 5a.m. to get there by dinner time. She looked around the table at the chewing waxwork figures of her parents and gave a tiny shrug. That’s not going to be a hardship. I might not want to go to Berwick but I can’t wait to leave here.

As she tried to get comfortable in the z-bed her mother had deigned to put up for her, claiming the linen in the spare room was in the laundry, Claire mused that at least she’d had some practice sleeping in a lumpy bumpy bed. That was the only prep she had done for the big adventure that was due to start in a mere twenty-four hours.

It’ll be fine, she thought sleepily. I’m good at winging it.

***

Rejection! Rejection! Rejection! – Guest Post by AJ Myers (paigenolley.wordpress.com)
Writing A Query Letter (bittersweetnovel.wordpress.com)

Let it snow, Let it snow, Let it melt. Day #15 of the 2013 Challenge.

My husband and I had fun building this while the kids were at nursery

I’ve spent most of today trying to get back to editing Pictures of Love while watching the snow get steadily thicker outside. I need to monitor the snow to make sure it doesn’t get so heavy we can’t get to nursery to pick the kids up.

My kids looking very unimpressed to be out in the snow at 7.30am

I took them out in the snow before we left this morning, in case it doesn’t hang around, and they were ready to come in after five minutes. They prefer a nice deep muddy puddle or a warm sandy beach I think. Daddy’s going to be disappointed – he’s desperate for them to be able to put their own gloves on so we can all go skiing.

It’s been hard getting back to Pictures of Love. I know it so well now I am truly sick of reading it (hence why the first chapters are so much more polished than the last. This is the fifth time I’ve sat down to edit it and I don’t think I’ve made it to the end once). My boredom makes me think I should just bin it and accept it’s never going to fly.

Somehow I can’t do that.

My husband was rather pleased with his snowman

It isn’t just all the hours that have gone into writing it. It’s more the ‘not giving up’ ethos that I know goes with being a writer. Who am I to say it’s awful? Anything that’s familiar becomes ordinary no matter how beautiful it may appear to someone else.

I recently got back the critique of the first chapter I paid for as part of a competition and it was surprisingly enthusiastic. I’ve had the first chapter critiqued before and they basically tore it to shreds, finding nothing to commend it. I’m okay with criticism but you’ve got to have something to build on! This time, though, it was praised for its strong voice and humour – things I was worried it didn’t have.

So I’m not giving up, just plod-plodding along. I’ve decided to send out some query letters – the novel isn’t ready to be self-published so I may as well fill the time somehow. At least I know the first three chapters are polished! (By the way, how bloomin’ long does it take to write query letters and find people to send them to! I can’t believe how many hours I can lose and still only send one query…)

Enough rambling. Here is the latest installment of the YHA Novel.

_____________________________________________________________________________

“Claire, over here!”

Claire looked round the half-empty pub for a familiar face but nothing jumped out. She was casting her gaze back across the bar when she saw a hand waving from a dark corner.

“Kim, there you are.” Claire made her way through stools and tables to reach her friend. “Your hair! My God, I didn’t recognise you.”

She bent over to kiss her friend’s cheek before sliding in next to her. Her eyes fixed on the bright red points sticking up from her Kim’s head. “I don’t know what’s more dramatic, the colour or the spikes.”

“I know, wicked isn’t it? Mum hates it…” She giggled like a little girl.

“Kim, you’re not sixteen anymore you know: pissing off your mum doesn’t need to be your primary concern.” She laughed, but in truth she was shocked. Kim’s hair had always been a beautiful blonde. It was the reason they met.

Claire remembered it, even now. She had crossed the playground on their first day at primary school and asked if she could touch Kim’s hair. It had been soft, like a fairy princess’s. Claire had tugged at her own thick brown locks in disgust. Now Claire stroked her dark straight hair and marvelled at her friend’s bravery.

“Oh I didn’t do it just to annoy Mum, although that’s always fun. No, I’m in a play, it’s part of the costume.”

“Is it a wig?”

“Nah, they offered one but where’s the fun in that?”

Claire laughed at her friend. “Shall I get drinks?”

Kim nodded. It was an unspoken rule between them that Claire got the drinks. Kim had been an actress since University and had yet to secure anything that paid more than a pittance, while Claire’s work had always been well remunerated.

“So, what’s the play?”

“Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’m playing puck.”

“Hey, that’s great. I thought puck was normally a boy?”

Kim smiled cheekily, looking every inch the playful character. “There’s no ‘normally’ in Shakespeare. You’ve got to remember they were all originally played by men.”

“Talking of men, how’s yours?”

Kim flushed and grinned. “Hot, hard, handsome.”

Claire felt a pain under her rib cage at the look on her friend’s face. Kim had been engaged to her fiancé Jeff for two years. They were waiting for more affluent circumstances before they got married. The girls hadn’t seen each other for months, not since Michael, although they were linked on Facebook. Claire tensed, waiting for Kim to start the twenty questions. She stared at her drink then flicked her eyes up to her friend’s pale pixie face.

“Your mum told me you were starting a new assignment.” Kim gazed at Claire over her glass and they shared a look which said they knew what wasn’t being discussed. Claire smiled gratefully then took a gulp of her G&T before taking in what Kim had said.

“Mum said that? Blimey, I thought she never listened to a word I said. Wonders never cease.”

“So, come on, what’s the assignment? What drags you out of Manchester mid-week to visit folks and old friends? Not that you rang me…” She raised an eyebrow in mock censure.

“Sorry Kim, my head’s been all over the place. I only decided last night that I was going to come home today.” Claire paused, trying to decide how much to say. Even though they had known each other for over two decades, she and Kim hadn’t been close all that time. When Claire had been sent to public school the girls had drifted apart. They’d got back in touch during their University years and caught up for drinks when Claire was in Cambridge, which wasn’t often.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Kim didn’t sound put-out, just genuinely as if she didn’t want to press her friend for information. Claire thought about the people at AJC she had regarded as friends. Maybe there’s more to friendship than sharing a taste in shoes and handbags. And hairstyles, she added, glancing at the pillar-box red locks shining above Kim’s face.

“They’re trying to make me resign.” It was the first time Claire had said it out loud as if it were fact. She was gratified to see the horror on Kim’s face.

“How? Why?”

“The how is easy, I’m not so sure about the why.” Claire took a deep breath before launching into the tale of her last few weeks, right up to buying her new boots. She angled her foot out from under the table. “Gorgeous aren’t they?”

“I’d rather have the £130 quid!” Kim laughed. “I could buy some fake Uggs for a tenner and pay two weeks rent with the rest.” She let her cheeks fall into an approximation of a serious expression. “So, you’re taking on the assignment then?”

Claire hadn’t told Kim about her Maldives plan. She didn’t want Kim to think of her as a quitter. “Yes, I’ll be driving up to Berwick on Friday.”

“Wow, you’re so brave. That’s about as far out your comfort zone as me putting on tights and heels and tip-tapping into your office to sit at your desk.” She grinned at the mental image and mimed typing at a computer. “Would it suit me?”

Claire laughed too, feeling some of the tension leave her face and shoulders. “You’d be brilliant. You could give Polly, Molly and Sally a run for their money.”

“What are they, the office cats?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Make sure you stay in touch. I don’t get to see much of the country unless it’s the inside of a theatre. Post pictures.”

“That’s part of the assignment. Not that I’ve given it much thought. I suppose I’d better think of a blog name, a Twitter handle, all that bollocks.” She took another swig of G&T. “What should it be? My boss is trying to hound me out?”

“How about Posh Girl Goes Camping?” Kim sniggered. “Not that it’s anything like camping. Most of the rooms are en-suite these days.”

“How about Around England in Thirty Starbucks?” Claire thought about her budget. “Not that I’ll be able to afford them anymore.

“Have Helly Hansons, will travel?”

“Now you’re being silly! No, nothing’s really grabbing me.”

“You’re an Advertising Guru, surely you can think of something?”

Claire sighed. “Apparently I’m not a very good one. Advertising is all about promotion, but who wants to read about my slumming it in hostels for a whole year? I bet Coca Cola had nothing to do with it, it’s all just a sham cooked up by Carl.”

“What if it isn’t though?” Kim looked thoughtful. “I mean, Coca Cola, that’s huge. A horrid Corporate conglomerate peddling a disgusting unhealthy drink but, in your world, it’s big cheese. It might be your chance to get your revenge on your stupid boss.”

Claire considered Kim’s words. She’d forgotten Coca Cola. What if the assignment was for real?

Maybe I should start taking it a bit more seriously.

***

Marriage Proposals and 2013 365 Challenge Day #14

Tangled – A proper modern fairytale

I had a glorious three hours at home by myself today, as Daddy took the children to the local Farm. Normally it’s my favourite place to go, and it was a lovely sunny day today, but the children decided they wanted Daddy to themselves and I had to admit that it was probably time to do a bit of cleaning. Spending my spare time writing about Claire is having an impact on the house!

I did manage to hoover the bedrooms but what I spent most of my time doing was watching Tangled (I am still poorly!) We recorded it at Christmas for the kids but I hadn’t managed to see it and it was a delight to become absorbed in it without a dozen “what’s she doing?” every minute. I have always enjoyed Disney movies but this is the first princess one I’ve seen for a while. I must say, it isn’t my intention to analyse it here (though I could) but I thought it was very well done.

Generally I don’t mind my daughter watching Disney movies (not that she’s seen many – they are so expensive!) but I do have an Usborne fairytale book that I try not to read if possible for the simple reason that, at the end of every story, when the prince asks the girl to marry him she always replies “yes please”.

I mean, what?

Have a happy ending, that’s fine, I happen to be an advocate of marriage. But not “yes please“.

[Deep breath, avoid ranting.]

Phew. Anyway I liked Tangled because we see the man’s journey as well as the woman’s and at the end he jokes about her asking him to marry her. It’s nice to see the man have a character arc too instead of being a dummy in a suit.

Sorry, that was a total digression, but I thought I’d add it so I could put a nice picture from the movie as my page picture (taken from the television, Disney, before you try to sue!) and it was in my mind after reading the two articles I’ve listed below, from the Ubiquitous. Quotidiant. blog that I have recently discovered (worth a look).

It is slightly relevant to my story-writing as well because this novel is only from Claire’s POV (so far) whereas usually I like to write from the male and female protagonist’s perspectives. I haven’t decided yet whether there is going to be a significant male in this story but we may find one coming in later.

On to Claire….

___________________________________________________________________________

Claire parked around the corner from her parents’ house and turned to contemplate the rucksack on the back seat. Taking it in with her was going to raise questions, but leaving it in the Skoda was tantamount to putting a sign on it saying “Steal Me”. Even in this part of Cambridge there were bound to be people handy enough with a wire coat-hanger to break in.

She pulled the tiny silver handle to open the door. I could probably break in myself if the need arose. Maybe I should start carrying a piece of wire in my handbag. I’m bound to lock my keys in at some point.

She pushed down the lock and checked she was holding the keys before slamming the door shut. One of the quirks of this particular car was that it wouldn’t lock from the outside. I miss my beep-beep button already and it’s only been a day.

Claire opened the front door to her family home only after ringing the bell to see whether anyone was in. She wasn’t surprised to find the house empty. The journey had taken much longer than expected and her mother was probably already at her WI meeting. Her father was rarely in during the week. Despite taking retirement he kept himself busy during normal working hours, as if the groove made by fifty years of work was so deep he could do nothing but run along the same path.

She looked around the hallway and lounge, trying to tell if anything had changed. It was unlikely. If her father’s groove was created by time spent in a suit and tie her mother’s ran between her charities and the WI. Home decoration and interior design had never been her thing. Claire supposed a house of magnolia and pine was better than frills and flowers everywhere but it did make the place feel cold. When they were little there had been a few photographs of her and her siblings around the place, the odd painting tacked to the wall. Now the pictures were as bland as the furniture.

Claire shivered, cursing herself for forgetting to unpack a cashmere from the rucksack. The house was always several degrees colder than was comfortable. Another quick yell confirmed that the house was empty. Walking through to the kitchen, Claire headed for the kettle, hoping her mum had thought to put some semi-skimmed milk on the sign for the milkman. There was a note by the kettle. Mum does at least know me that well, Claire thought with a smile.

“I bumped into Kim at the supermarket and mentioned you were coming home for a few days. She said to call her if you fancied a drink.”

The note was written in beautiful curling handwriting on a piece of pink paper torn from a notebook. Claire stared at it, wondering if she was feeling strong enough for a night out with her oldest friend. Nothing cuts through your life to the core like an hour spent with someone who has known you since you were five.

Claire poured steaming water into a large mug and gave the teabag a prod, watching the rich red-brown colour spread out like spilt blood. She was conscious of a strong pulling sensation somewhere in her chest. It was the lure of the Maldives; of empty sandy beaches and no one having any idea where she was.

***

Related Articles:

How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love Disney Princesses: Ubiquitous. Quotidian (http://rmbenson.wordpress.com)

Fairytale Fact Check: Do Dreams Really Come True? Ubiquitous. Quotidian (http://rmbenson.wordpress.com)

Basil Fawlty, a Cameo and Bugs: 2013 Challenge Day #13

Basil Fawlty from Fawlty Towers. A Classic moment in TV History.

Still germ-infested here. I only made it out of bed yesterday because my son tripped over and fell into a door and the adrenalin kicked in as I went to retrieve Mr Bump from the fridge. Today it was husband’s turn for a lie-in so managed to drag myself out of bed to watch TV with the kids. We only survived the day by taking them to town and wandering round until they were tired enough to sleep!

This is quite a long post because it’s mostly narrative rather than dialogue. I am finding it a challenge to keep the instalments interesting when sometimes things just have to happen to build the story and move Claire around. Hopefully I’ll get better at it! It’s teaching me about ‘conflict in every scene’ if nothing else…

I’m trying to work out how to set up a Pinterest Board so my followers can pin to it if they want. If anyone knows how to do it, please let me know! I’m also open to suggestions as to what I can call my novel (currently just called the YHA Novel. My titles are usually pretty unimaginative, considering I used to work in marketing.)

See if you can guess who the (posthumous) cameo is based on my previous posts…. 😉

___________________________________________________________________________

“Just start, you stupid stinking heap of junk!” Claire smacked her hand against the steering wheel, then winced as pins and needles shot up her arm. It felt like the wheel was made of iron rather than the cushioned leather she was used to.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry.” Claire inhaled deeply and stared out of the chipped windscreen. She was still parked outside her flat. No one had towed the car away in the 24 hours since the Skoda had arrived to replace her company Audi and so she had no choice but to use it to drive to her parents before heading up to Berwick to start her assignment.

Claire dropped her head back against the seat, wincing again at the hardness of the headrest. She had never been in a car with fewer comforts. She tried to recall what the man in blue overalls had told her. The words manual choke floated into her head, although she had no idea what they meant. Claire fished out her iPad and typed the words into Google. She scanned through the information on ehow and began searching around the steering wheel for something that looked like a lever she could pull. She found it eventually near the handbrake and yanked it out. When she turned the key this time, the engine spluttered into life with a throaty roar more suited to a tractor than a tiny tin-pot car.

Claire looked out the window, hoping none of the neighbours were watching. Even though she wouldn’t be back to the street for a year she didn’t really want anyone to question why her shiny company car had been traded for this East European relic.

Claire managed to find first gear, after a quick tour of third and fifth. The gear stick was a giant baton, like a cheerleader might twirl, and the distance between the gears could be measured in inches. It had been months since Claire had driven a manual and that had been a hire car. Bunny-hopping down the street nearly gave her whiplash as she tried to find the bite on the spongy clutch.

Claire headed out of town to the motorway, weaving through morning rush-hour. What possessed me to leave this early? Idiot. The truth was Claire didn’t know any other way than to get up at 5am.

Traffic ground to a halt as they approached a roundabout and Claire could hear the engine growling at her. Looking around helplessly she realised she hadn’t pushed the choke thing back in. She was sure ehow had said something about it only being needed for a few minutes and she’d been driving for twenty.

Damn this car.

She inched forward in the traffic wishing that she could get anything other than Commercial on the ancient radio. After the third advert for PPI Claims she turned it off and tried not to worry about the sounds coming from the engine behind her. She glanced in the rear mirror and saw something fogging her view even though the way was clear in front.

What…? Is that mist?

Claire turned to look over her shoulder. There was steam pouring from the boot. That can’t be good. She looked down at the dash and saw that the temperature needle was thrusting at the red. Bugger. Claire searched around to see if there was a way out to the hard shoulder, or better still a service station, but there was just stationary traffic all the way to the roundabout. Double Bugger.

Claire coaxed the car onto the roundabout and down to the motorway, praying they would make it to Knutsford services before it conked out entirely. The cars around her hemmed her in like a pack of lions surrounding a sickly calf. The horns started as she crept down the slip-road, not daring to go above twenty.

She was practically sobbing with relief by the time the Skoda crawled into the petrol station. Climbing out of the car Claire resisted the urge to kick it. If there had been a tree branch handy she could quite happily have bashed the bonnet like Basil Fawlty.

“Problem love?”

Claire looked up to see a kind face twinkling at her from beneath a motorbike visor. An elderly gentleman in a black leather jacket with a red scarf around his neck was just putting the petrol cap back on what looked like an old police bike. He pulled the disposable gloves off his hands and walked over to where she was slumped against the car.

“Overheated?” The man looked to where steam was still pouring out the back of the car.

“I guess.” Claire shrugged. “It’s not my car; I normally drive a 2011 Audi.”

“Ah, I imagine you’ve been having fun with this then.” She looked up to see if the man was being sarcastic but it seemed he genuinely meant it. Maybe if you ride a motorbike then even a Skoda seems comfortable. Claire never understood the appeal of being out in the cold and rain when you could be nestled in a heated leather seat.

“Did you turn the fan on?”

“The what?” Claire watched as the man reached into the driver’s seat and pulled a lever. The boot popped open and he went round to inspect the engine. His voice was muffled as he spoke from the depths of the car. “These old things often have a bodge for the fan. A manual switch under the dash.”

Claire walked closer so she could hear him better. She had learnt her lesson about paying attention. “You need to flick it on in traffic but remember to turn it off when you’re parked otherwise you’ll flatten your battery.”

He looked around the forecourt and located a bucket of water, then pulled on his large leather gloves and twisted off some part of the engine. A plume of steam whooshed out and the man leant away before turning back to pour some water into the hole.

“You’ll need to take it steady but I don’t think you busted anything. Are you a member of the AA?”

Claire looked puzzled. What did Alcoholics Anonymous have to do with her car overheating? Unless he was worried she might turn to drink in her anger and shame.

“The AA? Breakdown cover? I recommend it if you’re not used to driving an old car. Temperamental things. Need love and care.” He stood up and slammed the boot shut. “Bought my daughter one of these when she passed her test and she ended up taking the carburettor off when it broke.” He beamed with pride as if he could imagine nothing finer than a daughter who would get her hands dirty.

Claire looked down at her perfectly manicured nails and wondered if her father would be proud of her if she turned up at home covered in oil. Her mother would freak.

“How do I get AA?”

***

A Germ-Infested 2013 Challenge Day #12

Short post today. My kids and I are all poorly and I didn’t manage to get ahead of myself while the kids were at nursery this week (I was buying party favours and decorations!)

Writing daily and poor sleep is still exhausting my inspiration. I need to find some energy soon as a big chunk of research is coming up, seeing as I haven’t actually been to a YHA youth hostel in the UK before!

I’m thinking about starting a Pinterest board and asking people to pin their photos, stories and comments about YHA hostels on it to help me with my writing! Maybe I could run a competition to win a cameo-role in the novel: My brother-in-law already wants to write an installment about Claire being chatted up by an American nincompoop in a bar (he’s American, I’ll let him decide whether it’s autobiographical!).

Anyway, on to today’s installment….

_______________________________________________________________________________

“Hi Mum, it’s Claire.”

“Your sister’s results aren’t back yet.”

Claire realised guiltily that she hadn’t given a thought to Ruth’s tests beyond being glad to hand back parental responsibility as soon as her sister got back from the hospital. Claire had enjoyed her two days with Sky more than she had expected to, but it had been exhausting on a level previously unknown.

“Ah okay, will you let me know when the results are back?”

“If you want, although it wouldn’t hurt you to ring Ruth once in a while.”

Claire inhaled through her nose. The phone works both ways. “Yes Mum,” she said then hesitated, choosing her next words cautiously. “I was calling to ask if I might come home for a few days, see you and Dad?”

There was a pause and Claire held her breath.

“Of course. You are always welcome…”

Claire tried not to snigger and then not to curse as her Mother continued.

“…Not this weekend though, your father is playing golf and I’m on shift at the shop.”

Well by the weekend I’ll be in some Northern Province so that’s not a problem. “I was actually thinking of tomorrow.”

“Why? What’s happened? Why aren’t you at work; are you sick?”

Claire could just imagine her Mother’s reaction if she were to suggest coming to stay while infested with germs. There was an intake of breath down the phone before her mother added, “Don’t tell me you got laid off?”

“No, Mum. Besides, Directors don’t get Laid Off.” Claire hoped her Mother hadn’t discovered an unprecedented interest in her daughter’s career. “I have a new assignment that means I’ll be travelling a great deal for the next few months.” To the Maldives hopefully. “I thought it would be nice to come home for a short visit first, as I’ll be out of reach for a while.”

“Well, if you want to I can make up the spare room. How long will you be staying?”

Claire tried to ignore the lack of enthusiasm and focus on the question. “Only until Friday morning. I have to be in Berwick by bedtime.”

“Berwick-Upon-Tweed? Why on Earth do you want to go all the way up there? It’s practically Scotland.”

Claire stifled a sigh. “It’s part of the assignment, Mum. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

“What time will you be here? Only I have a hair appointment at ten and a WI meeting in the afternoon.”

“Mum I still have a key. I can let myself in, if that’s okay with you? If it’s too much trouble I can go visit Ruth instead.”

“I will not have you bothering your sister when she’s poorly. Come to us.”

When did Ruth become the golden child? Claire thought back to when they were all living at home. Ruth was always the one in trouble, needing to be collected from the police station or A&E, while Robert and Claire were home finishing assignments.

“Okay Mum, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Claire hung up the phone then scrolled through her contacts trying to decide whether to ring a friend to suggest a late drink or just call for takeaway. She looked at the familiar names but for some reason none leapt out as someone she wanted to spend her last night in Manchester with.

“Hello, yes, can I order a Number 27 please?” Claire laughed, “Yes, it’s Claire. Okay, that’s great, see you in twenty minutes.”

Claire hung up and got out her iPad. Soon she was engrossed in shooting birds from a catapult, trying not to dwell on the journey that would start when she closed her front door for the last time in the morning.

***

The Highs and Lows of a Daily Writing Habit – 2013 #11

My daughter having fun at her third birthday. Was it really a year ago?

It’s day 11 of my 2013 challenge to write an instalment of my novel every single day and I’m starting to notice some unexpected side effects of having a Daily Writing Habit. Last year I wrote only on the days the children were at nursery, 2 or 3 days a week. As I discussed in guest post Always Writing I usually have my novel in my head but know that I can’t sit down every day to actually write because it would result in me ignoring my husband and kids too much.

I thought I would do more or less the same with the daily challenge – write most of it on nursery days and just do the blog entries daily. I didn’t allow for how the idea would set my brain alight.

Side Effects of a Daily Writing Habit:

Sleep (or lack thereof): I haven’t slept properly since 1st Jan. My mind is racing all the time with things to do: either things to write at the top of the next blog post, pictures to include, bits of dialogue for Claire’s next chapter, or things that haven’t been done around the house, like laundry, ironing, boot washing, dog feeding, dinner cooking, hovering, physiotherapy exercises, birthday party prep… The list is endless. The result is that I sleep for two hours at a time, wake up exhausted, and so it goes on.

Effervescence: I’m constantly fizzing with a need to sit down & write. Although, due to the previous point, it’s actually more like the buzzing of a dozy fly against a window than the sparkle of bubbly champagne. The short instalments are addictive: writing 500-1000 words and then editing it is very different to a normal first-draft-stream-of-consciousness-write-10,000-words-in-a-go experience. I find I like the finished nature of each post, it is very satisfying, like publishing a short story every day.

Enthusiastic Fear: People are reading my blog, liking posts, following me. I’ve had more visits and likes this year so far than in the whole of the last quarter. I’m scared and excited at the same time. I feel a responsibility to do Claire and the story justice.

Self-Doubt: When I first pitched my idea to my husband on 30th December he was concerned that a daily blog would put too much pressure on my already strained resources of patience, energy and sleep. Now he’s enjoying the novel he thinks it’s a great idea and I’m the one with doubts. I’m worried it’s taking over my life and putting Writer above Mummy. That isn’t acceptable.

Hopefully it will all settle down soon and I’ll find a balance. I have to: I have a Jungle-themed birthday party to organise for an amazing little girl who has talked about her next party every day since she turned three, 354 days ago. Now that’s a consistent daily blog…

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Claire looked round the empty apartment and fought a wave of self-pity. The YHA / Coca Cola assignment had been hard enough to swallow when she thought it was intended to help her get on the Board of AJC. Now she knew, or at least suspected, that it was a ploy to get her to resign the whole thing made her miserable.

I’m good at my job. I landed that Vodafone account, and the Birds Eye one. Not to mention the twenty other clients I’ve acquired since the beginning of last year. How dare Carl do this to me?

Feeling the fire of anger burn away the pity, Claire got up from where she had been curled into the leather sofa and went to the kitchen to make an espresso.

Drat, of course, the espresso machine was mine. I’ve boxed the darn thing up.

The removals men had been put-out to discover Claire didn’t have Tetley tea or milk or anything useful to make them a ‘brew’. They’d hauled her boxes down the flights of stairs to the street, paying no attention to Claire’s yelps of concern as they man-handled her shoe collection and the box containing her precious espresso machine.

Claire looked at her watch. 11.30am on a Monday morning. I should be at work. This is just wrong Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Carl had told her to take the week off before starting her assignment, to give her a chance to sort out her affairs, empty the flat, give back the company car. It felt like she’d been put on Gardening Leave.

Or maybe it takes most people more than a drunken Sunday evening to box up their whole life? Perhaps with hindsight it was stupid to agree to the removals men coming on Monday. What am I going to do in an empty apartment with no espresso machine for a whole week? There’s only so much Earl Grey a girl can drink.

Claire grabbed her bag and headed for the door. I need coffee. She walked the five minutes to her nearest Starbucks and gratefully ordered a skinny latte, realising she’d missed breakfast. Before long she was encased in her favourite chair, looking out the window at the people rushing by. Claire sipped her coffee and tried to formulate a plan to survive until Friday, when she would be checking into the Berwick YHA. Thinking beyond that point gave her a headache.

God forbid but I might just have to go see my parents.

The coffee cup was empty too soon and Claire looked around for something to fill another hour. Failing to find anything she decided to head to Deansgate for some retail therapy.

Claire wandered aimlessly along the street for an hour before she realised there was no fun shopping when you knew you weren’t going to be able to wear or carry your purchases for weeks. What was the point in giving in to the allure of the strappy heels that had called from one shop, or the beautiful dress that had yelled from another, when her trip to the Maldives was so far away? Still, a need to spend burned deep in Claire’s throat and she walked back and forth trying to find somewhere to wield her plastic.

She stopped outside a shop that had never registered on her radar before, due largely to the window display of hiking boots, camping gear and anoraks. The mere sight of all that healthy outdoor stuff made her want to head for the nearest Spa. Now, though, it seemed the only place where she could shop with a clear conscience. Shrugging her shoulders Claire thought what the hell and pushed open the door.

The interior was more crowded than Canal Street on a Saturday night. Racks of blue and grey clothing crowded round her while rucksacks that could eat hers for breakfast climbed the walls and loomed ominously. Along the back, row upon row of aggressive boots marched up in formation. Claire was about to back out when a young voice hailed her from the depths of the store.

It wasn’t immediately clear where the voice had come from until a man emerged from between the rows of clothes. Claire looked up into a tanned and handsome face. Gleaming white teeth shone from smooth, snoggable lips. Wavy blonde hair bounced above an attractive face while sea-blue eyes twinkled at her in welcome.

“You alright there?”

His voice did disturbing things to Claire’s tummy.

“Er, Um.” Claire looked at him helplessly, fighting the urges his proximity was raising in her midriff. He grinned, whether at her discomfort or out of friendliness Claire couldn’t tell. She looked around vaguely, trying to find a purpose for being there.

“Er, I’m er, going hostelling.”

The man gave her a glance that suggested he’d heard more believable urban myths but his smile didn’t falter. “That’s awesome. Where are you off to? Going Walkabout? To The East? Over the Pond?”

Claire looked confused. As far as she knew The Walkabout was a bar on Quay Street, The East a Chinese Takeaway over on Faulkner Street and she didn’t think she knew any ponds, although wasn’t there another Takeaway over in Salford called Pond something?

“No, not eating out. Hostelling.” Claire wondered if maybe hostelling was actually some kind of student slang for getting pissed and eating take-out. “You know, travelling?”

They stared at each other in mutual confusion before the shop assistant gave in first. “What country will you be traveling in?”

“The UK. I have to visit every YHA in England and Wales as part of my job.”

“Ah, you won’t want much camping kit then. Pretty tame country and the hostels are all mod-con, not much need for a Billy or an Esky.”

Again Claire looked at the man as if he were speaking a different language. She guessed from his accent that he was from Australia or New Zealand and wondered if he was talking Maori or Aborigine. She nodded, hoping that was the right response, and gave him a smile. Feeling something more was required she added, “I have a rucksack and a Maglite.”

“Well that’s a good start. What about a soft-fibre towel, washing line, travel wash bag, ear plugs, sleep mask, sleeping bag, waterproof coat, hiking shoes or winter boots?” As he said the last items he glanced down at what she had thought of as her sensible shoes – her black leather Gucci pumps with the 1 inch heel – with a slight raise of an eyebrow.

Half an hour later Claire left the shop with a smile as large as the shopping bag bashing her hip. On her feet were her favourite purchase, although the man had said they weren’t really necessary in England. Still, the Helly Hansen Eir Boots had been a bargain at £130 and they really were very comfortable.

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