Consider This a Naming Ceremony...

I'll do my best to keep this brief. I know I ramble on at times but I've got exciting news. Yes, keep reading because shit’s gonna get real.

After fourteen months of full-on writing, plus a previous six-months of character creation and plot planning, I'm happy to reveal my new book has… A NAME.

Exciting times, yes? Well, keep reading because in the teeniest of moments, I'm going to share that name with you. But first, let me explain the delay.

When I wrote Carry the Beautiful, I knew the title before I’d worked out the plot. The Ralph Waldo Emerson quote* had been in my head for a while, and I liked the way I’d twisted it to give a catchy (imho!) phrase that summed up the entire theme of the novel I wanted to write. I liked that lots of people weren’t sure if 'Carry' was a character (Spoiler: She’s not!) and I enjoyed saying, ‘It’s the verb not the noun’ at regular intervals. Mainly because it showed I knew what a verb and noun were. So until book two, I found the whole process of ‘giving a book a title’ a piece of piss.**

This is a dramatic reconstruction
the exact way I worked out my title.
Including the fluffy pen.

Two years ago, I started to create characters for the next book. This was before Carry the Beautiful came out – in the down time between writing to agents and learning about trim sizes. At this point I should say that making up character names is one of my favourite parts of the whole shebang. Beyond a cursory Google to check main characters don't share names with famous murderers, it doesn’t really matter what names are chosen. It’s early days and as long as they sound right for the story being told, there’s a load of creative freedom. Publication is still ages away.

So, here’s what happened. I spent the following year and a bit writing, editing and shaping the thing. I had a really good backstory as to why my narrator's first name was what it was – click here if you want reminding – and I was ready to share it with people. But I still hadn’t come up with a title for the book.

I’d decided I wanted the narrator’s full name in the title somehow. I’ve worked hard at not copying other novels out there, but certain tropes seemed to exist. The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 and ¾... The Diary of a Wimpy Kid... Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great... Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. These were the sorts of titles my book belonged with (I know! The AUDACITY of lumping myself in with Judy Blume and Sue Townsend! But still.) I needed to use my character’s name or alias in the title. It felt right.

Around the time I was thinking all that, the Golden Globes happened. Back in January. Frances McDormand won for Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. I’ve written about her before, but the opening line of her speech stuck with me. She got up to the stage, accepted the applause and waited. Then she said, ‘Well...I have a few things to say.’ Bam. It was commanding in its deadpan. It was confident and purposeful. She wasn't messing around and she was here to say her piece. It reminded me of the ten-year-old protagonist from my book. She sees the world very clearly, and has started to notice when adults talk rubbish. She might not have Frances McDormand's award-winning acting chops, but she knows her own mind. I wanted to convey that idea in the title. We might as well hit the ground running from the front cover onwards. It’s better for everyone if you know what kind of narrator/main character you’ve got from the start. So Frances McDormand and her opening line stayed with me.

And with that, the title was born. Ready? Drum roll please...

Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say

Catchy? Something you’d want to read? The best title you’ve ever heard? I'm happy with an emphatic YES to all of those questions. 

There was just one small hitch. I’d enjoyed working out the surname for my character and her family. I’d played around with a few. I knew it sounded better if it was multi-syllabic, so I shortlisted ones that began with Mc. Eventually I settled on McAuliffe. I liked how the title sang its way across my mouth as I said it. It all sounded marvellous and I was happy. Then, a few weeks ago, just as I was adding the title to the manuscript I sent to my editor, I realised something fairly obvious. 'Leeza McAuliffe' is not a million miles away from the name of a real-life friend of mine. No wonder it sounded so natural as I said it aloud. Just like every Year Four story I ever marked, I’d called the main character the name of my mate! A basic error.

The good news is, I’ve talked to the real life Leeza (who isn’t actually called Leeza.) She’s fine with it. I will put on record that no aspect of the story relates to her life. Or if it does it’s massively coincidental. I’m just putting that out there before I hear from her legal representation. If anyone needs to sue me, it should probably be my parents and siblings. I’ve nicked many a Bond family experience and ramped up the negative detail for comedic or dramatic effect. It’s fair to say my oldest brother’s childhood personality has been milked to convey the more annoying of Leeza’s brothers. But there we are. It’s done. 

David, it's just the title so far.
But thank you for your support!

So for now, spread the word far and wide. Leeza McAuliffe Has Something to Say is on the way to an online store near you…soonish - hopefully by the end of the year. Watch this space. You’ll literally be the first to know.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*You know. The Ralph Waldo Emerson quote that I wedged into my last book. "Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not". That one!

*'Piece of piss' is a technical publishing term. 

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A Calming Yin to a Stressful Yang...

Blimey, it's been a busy few weeks for news, hasn't it? Sometime ago, I wrote that I was going to try and use my phone less, in a bid to aid my sanity. But that didn't take into account the fact the world was going to implode. Night after night I scroll through madness, reading every hot take I can on the Helsinki summit, electoral fraud, Brexit, and the rise of fascism. Sleep has not been that easy of late. 

The obvious thing to do is put my phone down, close Twitter and listen to whale music so I drift off. But then that feels wrong too. If bad things are happening, I don't want to ignore them. I want to stop them. Clearly, my Wonder Woman complex gives me far more imaginary power than I actually have. But the fact remains that when I read the reports on T***p's child separation policy a month or so ago, the only way I could stem feelings of utter revulsion was the fact I had the 13th July in my diary as the day I would be marching against him and his horrific policies. Being part of the Women's March gave the briefest of releases from the sense of helplessness that tends to dominate most of the time. 

With the excess of globally significant news right now, I've gathered quite the bunch of journalists that I turn to, to make sense of everything. Marina Hyde in the Guardian is the best. Simply the best. Mixing razor sharp comedic writing with the keenest eye for bullshit, her pieces are always informative and entertaining, without glossing over the horrors of a situation. I once tweeted to her - in a moment of fan-girling - that I wished she could write about aspects of my own life, because I'd be able to see everything really clearly whilst finding it all piss-funny. And she replied! My fandom was assured forever. Then for more of a legal, nitty-gritty read, I've found Seth Abramson's Twitter feed fascinating. He writes long threads about every detail of the investigation into the current US president. On the one hand it can be hard to follow at times, but on the other, it reassures me that behind the scenes, progress is being made to right the wrongs. I've read a lot of his stuff recently, trying to make sense of what is going on. It's all a bit of a head-frig.

And so, there has to be a balance. A calming, relaxed yin to the gut-churning news-based yang. After a day of following parliament's votes on the Brexit white paper amendments, I found myself watching a vid of Hugh Grant talking about his best roles. Sixteen minutes of lovely, self-deprecating, funny Hugh. It was a joy. I momentarily forgot my anger at the shafting of Jo Swinson's paired vote while she was on maternity leave, because Hugh Grant was joking about how he'd played the same role repeatedly and hoped no one had noticed. Likewise, I've been watching a lot of Caitlin Moran recently. (Yeah, I'm banging on about her again.) She's promoting her new book so she's doing lots of media stuff at the moment. Watching her be interviewed in her bath by her best mate Sali Hughes, was exactly what I needed the other night. 

In fact one of Caitlin Moran's book promotional vids, sent me on an amusing train of thought. It was My Life in Objects and she talked about the various things she has in her life that define her. She referenced black eye liner, her backcombing brush, her laptop, and a present her younger brother made for her when they were kids. It was all very lovely, and set me off on my own mental tangent. What would my life in objects be? What is the stuff that defines me? Because it was a damn sight more sleep-inducing than reading about the perils of a no-deal Brexit, I let myself work up a list as I drifted off. So, with no plagiarism whatsoever, here is Stuff That I Like That is Part of Me. (See? That's completely different to My Life in Objects. Definitely.)

1. Ribbet

This is Ribbet. I have no idea why I called him that back in 1980 when he was given to me, but that's just how it is. He has Joey (a name that makes a lot more sense) in his pouch, and has lived with me since I was two. He's also lived in every classroom I've ever taught, as well as having been an active participant in the Australia role play area that I shoe-horned into the Year One curriculum when I was newly qualified. These days he sits on the bedside table of the spare room. He is my second oldest possession (first oldest is my Peter Rabbit dish) and was a present from my Auntie Marie. He will ALWAYS be in my life.

2. Wrist Stuff

For as long as I can remember, I've worn stuff round my wrist. Not - let me be clear - anything that would be immediately recognisable as a bracelet. No, I prefer tattier, less polished bits of string, bobbles, old rubber bands or leather shoe laces. I think it stems from my love of 80s home-made punk fashions. My wrist stuff is always changing. I tend to leave things until they rot and fall off naturally. I've seen many a friendship bracelet end that way. At the moment, my current wrist stuff comprises of a Fitbit, a leather thong with an engraved name and year, a silver chain, and a Eurovision wristband. My wrist stuff always lives on my right wrist, and is complemented by my bass clef tattoo. Pat Badger - bass guitarist from the 90s band Extreme - had a large bass clef on his arm, and my fourteen year old self decided I was also going to do that one day. So I did.

3. Black nail varnish 

I don't know when it happened, but at some point over the last decade, I went from occasionally wearing nail varnish when I got round to it, to never leaving the house without black nails. It wasn't a conscious decision. It's just how things have ended up. I have many shades of polish, but there's nothing lighter than a dark purple in my collection. The idea of a French manicure or a pinky peach, makes me wince. Lovely for others but not my style at all.

4. Slippers

So sue me, I like slippers. If I'm feeling fed up or periody, I often find myself chucking a new pair into the trolley as I do my weekly shop. They cheer me up and make me feel comforted. But until I took this photo, I hadn't quite realised how many pairs I had on the go. They were scattered all over the house, you see. I obviously like my feet to feel cosy in whichever room I walk into. Perhaps I'll wait til I've worn a few of these out before I buy any more. 

5. Comfy Clothes

I've come to realise I fundamentally dislike formal clothes. I'm lucky that I get to wear pyjamas to do my work. And when I have to venture outside, blinking into the bright lights of Tesco or Costa, I can wear scruffy jeans and T shirts without anyone caring. Dress codes do my head in. I'm always put off a restaurant or bar if I can't be my fabulously casual self inside. And then there's my Spiderman shorts. Look, I'm not going to lie to you. Spiderman is not the reason I love these shorts. I'm not really a Spiderman fan. I'm sorry if that shocks you. If you have to rethink everything you thought you knew about me, then take your time. We'll wait. But meanwhile, the reason I love my Spiderman shorts is that they're the comfiest things I have ever found to sleep in. Honest. Between the baggy elastic waist band and the stretchy T shirt material, my Spiderman shorts piss all over silky negligee shenanigans every day of the week. (Apologies for the gratuitous crotch shot. Once again, if you need to take a minute, please do.)

6. Booze

When I was little, my parents had a 1970s drinks cabinet with a dropdown door. It was mainly filled with glasses. In terms of booze, there was always a bottle of sherry on the go - for trifles and my Grandmothers - and there was usually a bottle of gin which was my parents' tipple of choice. I think on some level I equate a drinks cabinet with maturity. I grew up with Margo and Jerry Leadbetter, Fresh Fields and Terry and June. The characters would walk over to their drinks cabinet, continue their amusing sitcom rant about the self-sufficient neighbours, or the unreasonable boss, or annoying Sonia from next door, and get themselves a drink to signal the start of the evening. In my head I think I've always aspired to do that too. Except of course, I don't really drink spirits, and my beers are in the fridge, and I don't do sitcom rants while I use tongs to pick up ice cubes from a bucket in my lounge as my fictional spouse faces the audience and winces at my intolerance. But still, the thought's there. Here's my drinks cabinet. It gets absolutely shafted at Christmas but is barely touched the rest of the year. I do like the way it looks though.

7. My Mug

Let's keep this simple. I drink a lot of tea so I like a good mug. Too small and delicate stresses me out. Too large and pint-sized makes me need to wee more than I want. And don't even start me with a cup and saucer nonsense. This mug has been my new favourite since I got it in March. It replaced a similar sized one that is now chipped a bit. A good cup of tea is a good cup of tea, except when the mug lets you down. This is a reliable mug. It does not let me down.

8. Glasses

In 2015 when the then-editor of The Guardian, Alan Rusbridger, left the paper, there was a tweak to the online logo that day to include his trademark glasses hanging from the 'e' of 'The'. I remember it clearly because his glasses were like mine. In fact, his glasses were like the millions of people who bought on-trend black rims a few years ago, before the oversized clear-framed craze came in. (Not a craze I can endorse, I'm afraid. My face needs added definition, not transparent nothingness.) Anyway, back to glasses. I don't imagine I will ever edit a national newspaper. So therefore, when I resign, I don't imagine a national newspaper will feel the need to use my glasses silhouette to tweak their logo in homage. And yet if they wanted to, they could, because like Rusbridger, my glasses are part of me. They're either on my face or on my head, and when I don't have them with me I feel panicky. I can't drive without them, can't see people walking towards me with any clarity, and they mask one of my many cosmetic issues - that of wonky brows. 

My glasses, like everything else in this list most definitely belong in Stuff I Like That is Part of Me. Remember that's what this was all about? Yeah, I know, I've rambled on for far too long. But look, if I've managed to distract you from reading gloom and doom in the news, then hurrah. And if I've bored you senseless, then huge apologies. For now, I'm going to tentatively open Twitter again. Because you never know, there might be news of an impeachment, Hugh Grant might have been elected PM, or the heatwave is over and snow is forecast! We can but dream.

Have a lovely week, folks.

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It Nearly Came Home...

They think it's all over. It is now. Yeah, I'm sorry, but if there's ever an appropriate time to read that sentence, it's the morning after the World Cup final. Back on 18th June - the morning of the first England match - I wrote that I was feeling a general indifference to this tournament. But blimey, that changed over time. Once England got going, and I was showered in the Southgate charisma, I was glued to it all. It was my first full-throttled unabashed enjoyment of international men's football since 2002. The vibe was different. The national team was charming. Gone were the egos of recent years, leaving the cohesive efforts of a bunch of lads that seemed as unassuming as they were talented. It was all so satisfying.

There are plenty of standout footballing moments. The ones that in years to come, will cause a misty eye and a hazy look, as memories surface of Maguire's headers, Pickford's saves, or Walker's pace. But for me, this tournament has been about more than just football. I apologise for sounding like a dick there. I don't mean that kicking a ball on a field equates to some transcendental experience that non-football fans need to embrace or be spiritually bankrupt. No, I mean that in amongst the marvellous football, there have been moments of utter loveliness off the pitch too. Whilst many will pick their top ten goals, saves or tackles, I give you... 

My Top Ten Moments of Unexpected Loveliness from the 2018 World Cup.

1. The redemption of Gareth Southgate. Because I put these things in perspective, I never felt anything other than sympathy and concern for Southgate after his missed penalty resulted in the elimination of England from the 1996 Euros. (The first time I watched a match in the pub!) Yet for all that, it was an incident that followed him round in the years that followed. Watching his utter glee at winning the penalty shoot out against Colombia, was quite the moment. He was so happy! And because he has shown - via interviews, temperament and management choices - that he isn't an arse, it was a joy to watch. Most touchingly, however, was the fact that he comforted the Colombian player that missed the penalty that knocked his team out against England. It was a classy move and showed Southgate to be worthy of all the positive attention he has received over the past month. And when Croatia finally knocked out Southgate's solid England side, it was testament to the ethos he has created, that their first action after the final whistle was to stand, face the fans and applaud them. It was all such a lovely change from previous scenes of individuals sobbing self-pityingly into the pitch.

2. This was a feminist World Cup. Or something. Statements like that were fanfared in the media, as experienced England players such as Eni Aluko and Alex Scott took their places alongside The Men in the studios of the BBC and ITV. And because intelligent and accomplished women have to work their arses off to prove their worth, when Gary Neville and Ian Wright are paid for turning up and finding the right room, it made for a refreshing and (for me) more enjoyable display of punditry. (The vid shows the randomness of Patrice Evra clapping his colleague, Eni Aluko for doing her job. Not, as the furore suggested, a sackable offence in my opinion. Rather, a fairly common occurrence where a woman has performed to a decent standard and shown up the lack of effort from the more established male name.) But then the early stages of the tournament were over and the female pundits were sidelined to the literal sidelines of the pitch, or the pre-recorded films played in the build up. Hey ho. What are baby steps today turn into leaps and strides tomorrow. 

3. For all the hurrah about the inclusion of female pundits for the first time, Jacqui Oatley coolly and calmly got on with her ITV presenting job with aplomb. She's been around for a long time now, being the first female football commentator for Match of the Day in 2007. Having had to put up with what can be either be described as silly temper tantrums, or out and out misogyny from fans who didn’t want to hear a female voice commentate on the beautiful game, she just got on with it. Always a safe pair of hands in the anchor role, she knew her stuff, kept it flowing and showed what professionalism really is. 

I often try to recreate
Gary's expression here.
Harder than it looks.

4. On the other channel, Gary Lineker gave us another equally valid version of professionalism. Just because someone excelled on the pitch doesn't mean they can present live sports coverage for a major tournament. I vaguely remember thinking he was a bit wooden when he replaced Des Lynam on Match of the Day in 1999. But those days are long gone. His boyish giddiness and irrepressible excitement as England got closer and closer to the semi finals was endearing. For those of us that remember his England career with nostalgic affection, it was a lovely watch. 

5. Something closer to home now. Via the must-read shenanigans of the family WhatsApp group, I have anecdotal evidence that times they are a-changing. My four year old niece, upon listening to her Dad talk about the last World Cup, interrupted him to ask if he meant the women's or the men's tournament. This makes me deeply happy. I couldn't have imagined such a world when I was four.

I would have loved to have found a gif
of Delph chatting to Logan after the match.
But I couldn't. This will have to do.

6. Back to Russia. England midfielder Fabian Delph, flew home after playing Panama, to be with his wife for the birth of their third child. Then he flew back. And finally, to complete the set of actions that would never have happened under any other manager in the history of English football, Gabby Logan asked him about it in the post-match interview after the Sweden game. Delph talked about how great his wife was ('She's a machine!') and that he would get back to Gabby once a name had been chosen. Logan seamlessly moved from post-match analysis to human interest story, and everyone loved it. This was unprecedented and groundbreaking, whilst at the same time being utterly normal behaviour in any other walk of life.

Managers being chuffed when
their team scores, is always lovely. 

7. Time for a bit more Gary Lineker. In the later BBC coverage, there was a short film shown of the route to the Italia '90 semi-final against West Germany. Lineker was there as a young striker, alongside the manager of the day, the great Sir Bobby Robson. Once the film had ended and Present Day Lineker had to speak into the camera, he couldn't. He was emotional and choked up. He reminded anyone who needed it, that as much as there have been some utter horrors in football over the years, there have also been some shining examples of loveliness. The love Lineker had for his late manager was etched on his face as he muttered 'Bobby, bless him,' before turning to the pundits on his right, and carrying on. 

8. The change of expectation over England was interesting. It can be summed up in the way people said, 'It's coming home.' For a while there was a lot of sark. It's coming home, yeah right. Then after the Tunisia and Panama wins, people said it in a nervous, slightly disbelieving way. 'It's like it might be nearly coming home, perhaps.' Then after the group stages had gone, and the quarter final was assured, even the most disbelieving of fans went full kit wanker, and shouted 'It's Only Bloody Coming Home' fifteen times an hour, whilst tweeting memes of cats miaowing the same sentiments. There was a confidence in the national team that we hadn't seen since... forever. Fine, it didn't help us make the final, but we got further than we've had for so many years. Perhaps we needed something to be positive about in these troubled times. Perhaps the England team proved from day one, they were worth supporting. But the sense of actual possibility was a welcome change from the entitled swagger of previous teams, that didn't deliver from the start.

From George's Twitter feed.

9. More on It's Coming home. I was filled with admiration for George Ezra last week. He was on Twitter encouraging people to get Three Lions to number one, instead of letting his single Shotgun remain there any longer. It put me in mind of Ed Sheeran. In a bad way. When there was a campaign to get Last Christmas to number one for the first anniversary of George Michael's death, Ed decided to ignore any lurking charitable tendencies he may have had, and instead released three versions of his own single so that the combined sales would push him into the top spot. Booo to Ed, but a standing ovation for George Ezra. This tournament has brought out the best in people.

10. At the end of the day, England got to the semi-final of the 2018 World Cup. They got down to the last three teams. For people who've been enjoying the (horrific!) heatwave, this is what summer has been all about. It's what 1990 was all about when I was twelve. It's a new sporting, cultural, and social history for today's youth to emotionally reminisce over in years to come. Just without a Pavarotti trigger. It's given a bit of sporting hope to the nation. It's even made me watch men's football again.  

I suppose what all these examples and moments of loveliness show, is that people, including sportspeople, aren't machines (apart from Fabian Delph's wife, of course.) It's nice when their humanity shines through. For me, sport is much more enticing to watch, when it's about people doing exceptionally impressive things, rather than robots performing as programmed. So, there we are. It's another four years until we see if this young team can continue to develop and have another bash at World Cup glory. The future looks bright. And for those that want the buzz of international competition sooner, I'll see you next year for the Women's World Cup in France. Il rentre à la maison!

Have a lovely week folks.

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Climb Every (Writing) Mountain...

This week I had a bit of a panic. I got a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach, where I found myself saying, 'Oh shit,' to no one in particular. I'm fine now, but I had to calmly talk myself back from the potential drama it could have been.

Let me set the scene. Over the course of writing My Next Book (that's a placeholder BTW - title TBC) I've avoided reading anything fictional with a similar style. Books that are conversational and informal, easy to read novels full of dialogue and colloquialisms, stories with humour and relatable plots. Now that mine's all done bar the nitpicking, I've finally been able to read for pleasure, confident that nothing will subconsciously emerge in my own writing. 

Caitlin Moran's new book.
I'm saving it for my hols!

Last week, Caitlin Moran's new novel - How To Be Famous - came out. Because it's a sequel to her last one, I decided to reread that first. I read it as soon as it was published in 2014, but I've slept since then. I knew I loved it, but couldn't remember much about the plot and characters. Yesterday I re-read Chapter One. 

Here's where the panic came in. Fairly early into the chapter, Moran references The Sound of Music. Not just once, but several times. She describes it playing on the TV as the large fictional family interact with each other. It's funny. It's specific. It sounded strangely familiar. That's when the 'Oh shit' feeling kicked in. Reader, I have referenced The Sound of Music throughout My Next Book! The coincidence is uncanny! 

The Sound of Music isn't current or topical. It's a clear oldie having been released in 1965. There's no obvious reason why it came to both of us independently. And it came to Caitlin Moran first! It's a really random coincidence for two authors to reference the exact same film in their novels about family life. Isn't it? Too random to be believable because I've subconsciously nicked it? Cue sinking feeling and 'Oh shit' utterances.

Twirl, Liesl, twirl!

My first reaction was 'I've got to rewrite everything.' If it was just the one reference, I could swap it for another film title and think no more of it. It's not mentioned once though. It's a fairly established piece of background for my narrator. Her full name is Liesl, named after the eldest child in The Sound of Music's Von Trapp family. Liesl (or Leeza as she's known in my story) identifies with Screen-Liesl because they're both the oldest of a large family. She feels a mental connection with her. Plus, it's her mum's favourite film and gets played a lot at home. It would be a nightmare to start changing all that. 

But back to the random coincidence. Could it really be that something I read four years ago had lodged in a recess of my brain, only to emerge as 'my top idea' two years later? I worried about that for a bit. Then I came up with an alternative theory. One that shows my motives are innocent and well-meaning. Hear me out. See what you think.

Growing up in a big family is a fairly unique experience. Except it's not. Not really. Quite a few people experience it when you get chatting to them. But seeing a large family on TV depicted positively, is rare. It feels like it's a unique experience because there aren't many positive examples of large-scale family life out there. Large families are usually framed through a 'benefit scrounger' lens. Or a 'Nine Kids to Eleven Men' caption on Jeremy Kyle, as some poor woman gets yelled at by a baying crowd. So what's left? Where are our role models? Why, in The Sound of Music of course. 

Classic Bond family move

As the eldest of what eventually became seven, I loved The Sound of Music when I was a kid. I don't think it was even about the big family-ness* back then. I liked the songs, the fact it was the only VHS cassette we owned when we got our first videoplayer, and I loved Liesl's swishy frock that she wears to sing 'Sixteen Going on Seventeen' with Rolf the Nazi. It's a timeless classic but with a large family, shown in a (reasonably) positive light. I am the oldest of seven children and Caitlin Moran is the eldest of eight. Is it any wonder we referenced the same film?

There could be more similarities between the two books if I looked for them but I'm not going to. I don't want to obsess over it any more. Sharing a similarly oversized nuclear family means sharing a similar perspective of the world. The fact is, there are loads of universal truths that children from large families instinctively understand. Here are my top three. 

1. Lack of money. Basic economics states that the more mouths there are to feed, the less disposable income there will be. Clothes are multiple hand-me-downs. When something breaks, it stays broken forever. Branded foods are a decadent luxury. The Tooth Fairy is not reliable. 

2. Tired parents. When there's a new baby every couple of years, then the rolling programme of sleepless nights goes on for over a decade. Babies tend to take up parents' waking hours too, the needy little buggers. Parents are tired or busy or both. And as a result of that comes...

3. Self-Sufficiency Children from large families can entertain and amuse themselves with very little adult help. Building dens from two brooms and a table cloth. Playing allotments by digging with a twig and planting blades of grass. Reading the entire contents of the local library. These are all things that multi-sibling units learn as standard. With no money, and parents occupied with sterilising bottles, changing nappies, and dealing with wet patches, imaginations become limitless. Resourcefulness is engrained.  

Caitlin Moran's last book.
I'm rereading it calmly, now.

These are basic truths that have informed My Next Book. (I will defo decide the title soon). I think, upon re-reading Chapter One of her last novel, these are things that could have informed Caitlin Moran's writing too. But beyond that, the story differs. The plots are separate. The families are distinct. The characters are original. It's all OK. Instead of panicking that I've ripped off one of my favourite authors, I'm going to relax and accept that this must happen all the time. It's fine.

So for now, I'll breathe calmly again. I'll keep spell-checking my manuscript, and I'll crack on with rereading How to Build a Girl. Panic over, everyone. As you were.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*While typing the word family-ness, I reminded myself of The Family Ness. Remember? A happy thirty seconds of You Tubing ensued.

An Elevator in a Skyscraper Works Best...

Just one of many things myself 
and Mariah Carey have in common.

Here's something I've learnt over the last few years - I'm terrible at pitching. No, not lobbing a ball about in a field! I mean pitching. Pitching an idea. Summarising a writing project in as exciting a way as possible so that anyone listening can't help but make a mental note to 'check it out' at their earliest convenience. Pitching. I'd be useless on Dragon's Den, no matter how revolutionary an idea I'd invented. I just can't do it.

I realised I was crap at pitching when I was writing Carry the Beautiful. When people asked me what it was about, my first response would be 'Erm...'. Then I'd waffle a bunch of words that vaguely made sense, but didn't convey anything remotely like the enthusiasm I felt for the story. I knew it was a great read, and I knew people would like it. I just didn't know how to convey that in a succinct way, when they politely asked me what it was about. I think it's called an Elevator Pitch. Can I summarise my idea in as short a time it takes for someone to get to their floor? Can I be brief yet draw people in? Can I make them want to hear more?

Now THAT is who I need to channel when I get
into a (metaphorical) lift and pitch my ass off.

The answer to all that is still a definite no. I'm now working on my next book. The title is TBC but lots of other things are in place. The editor will be working on it over the next month, and ideas for the front cover are being sketched. It's all coming together. It's just me that needs to get my elevator pitch right.

Here's the problem I've been having since the start. It's a fairly fundamental issue. The thing is, I don't know who I'm writing it for. Yeah, you heard right. I haven't got a clue who this is aimed at. My last book was easy. It was adults who like a decent story. End of. This time, it's not so clear. 

First of all, like any book ever written, it's for the author. I've told a story I want to read, so I'm the main audience at the most basic level. But obviously, that's not enough. What motivated this particular story, is my feeling that there's been something missing in pre-teen fiction over the last decade or so. Back in the day, when I taught a class of eight and nine year olds, the novels available to them seemed very samey - basically, they seemed massively influenced by Harry Potter. Stories contained magic, spells, superpowers and all sorts of things that just don't happen in real life. And for the kids that devoured that sort of stuff, fair play to them. They had lots of reading material to choose from. I just knew I'd be struggling if I were eight or nine at that time. 

You tell 'em, Judy!

I always preferred real-life stories. I worked my way through Enid Blyton's schools' series and Famous Five books but drew the line at the Faraway Tree stories - where kids climbed a tree and it turned into an enchanted land of magical characters. Nah, soz. Not for me thanks. Clearly I got off on the gritty realism of boarding school, or child and canine detective teams. Even more real was Judy Blume - my favourite childhood author. She was American so there were some cultural differences to navigate (grades instead of school years, for example) but I learnt more about puberty reading her books than anywhere else. (I've still never encountered a sanitary belt though. Answers on a postcard?) She wrote stories where my life - or a version of realistic life - was reflected back to me, and these were always my favourite. And that is what prompted my new book to be written. It's about a large family and is told from the perspective of the eldest daughter. (*Coughs* Defo not autobiographical.) She is ten. She is frustrated by her younger siblings, feels like she has no control in her life even though she KNOWS she's nearly a teenager, and has constant drama with her friends at school as they all stress over their SATs and the move to High School. It's relatable and it's real. 

The thing is, I still think adults would like it too. I've found myself laughing as I've written parts of it. (Could I be any more self-absorbed?) But it's pretty funny in places. I've also put in some emotional bits. Even when the ten year old narrator doesn't realise it's emotional, the reader can read between the lines and see the scene being played out. At least an adult reader could. I've swung between thinking this is for adults and thinking this is for children for the past two years. And now it's nearly ready and I'm still not entirely sure.

One thing I am sure of - it is definitely suitable for children. There are no bad words or sexy times! I strategically use the word 'penis' - you may clutch your pearls now - in relation to a scan photo, and later 'willy' in the same context. I think that's more than acceptable considering it's just biology. So yeah, it's SFW! Safe for work, AND safe for children to read and put on their book shelves. And yet, I still think adults would get something out of it too. 

So for now, I'm going to crack on with working on that elevator pitch. And just for funsies, I'll leave you with a blurb I've discarded as being not enticing enough. See what you think. Picture me blurting this out at you in a lift!

It is January and Leeza McAuliffe faces a year of change. The move to high school is getting closer and puberty is just around the corner. As she prepares for the inevitable, she realises that no amount of planning can prepare her for the changes she didn't see coming.

 Between her household of brothers, her vegetarian parents (who have no idea about her love of ham) and the drama of juggling two best friends, Leeza shares her thoughts the only way she can – with her diary. 

No worries, Jake.
You have yourself
a cracking day!

Either that will whet your appetite for more, or you'll be able to mentally say 'Not for me, thanks!' and walk away. Whatever you feel, thanks for listening!

Have a lovely week, folks.