Dear Universe...

I've been thinking a lot about cosmic ordering this week. You? No? Fair enough.

Actual satellite footage.
(Not really.)

I only know the phrase because of Noel Edmonds. A few years ago, he wrote a book called Positively Happy about how - and I'm massively paraphrasing here - the secret of happiness is to ask the universe for the things you want, and then stand back and wait for them to be given to you. And they will, because the universe will respond to your energy. In this article, Noel says, 'When I first started in radio, I had a dream of owning a helicopter and racing powerboats. Now I do both.' So there you go. It's that easy. Disclaimer: I haven't read the book, but I have read articles about the book, which in 2018 is as much as anyone can expect, surely. 

The idea of putting out a request to the universe - AKA cosmic ordering - is not new. As Melanie McDonagh points out here, it sounds like another way of describing prayer. Except maybe people don't pray for helicopters and powerboats, but instead pray at their most desperate times? For a loved one's health, or to be rescued from the depths of despair. Either way, asking the universe to give you lovely things is just the same isn't it? Answers on a postcard, I've no idea.

And I believe the children are the future.
(Not really. I believe in Science too, Hillary.)

As for me, I consider myself spiritually arid. A dry husk of a thing when it comes to faith and belief. Despite the fact I barely scraped a C in GCSE Dual Award Science (three sciences for the price of two grades - bargain!) I maintain a soft spot for empirical research. As a student of Psychology I learnt that nothing can be fundamentally proven. But I also learnt that statistical analysis can be applied to research data, which can then conclude that an incidence is mathematically probable to reoccur in similar circumstances. Anything less tangible than that, doesn't really work for me. 

And yet - yes, there's an and yet - since I went on my slightly mortifying but definitely interesting networking course three weeks ago, (more about that here) I've made a bigger effort to - as the saying goes - put myself out there. Nothing major. My personality doesn't lend itself to being confident when sober. But in little ways, I've pushed myself towards the more action-packed end of the proactive/reactive scale. I've sent some emails to publisher people. I've chased up things I've been putting off for my next book. I've even sent my manuscript to children I don't know (via someone who does) for their unfiltered critique. I've made an effort. For me, anyway. 

Me and a friend (you can choose
whether I'm Robin or Barney)
 celebrating that the cosmos
has made all my dreams come true.*

And has the universe paid me back? Well, obviously I'm still waiting for that ten-book publishing deal and the gazillion pound advance to fall into my lap. (Any time you want, Universe!) But, here's the thing. Stuff has happened. A friend of mine got talking to a client at work. She told him she runs a writers' group. He told her about me. She passed on her details. I emailed her. She told me about the group and I went. Yes, I attended my first writers' group meeting! I also read out a short burst of my new book - a bit I'd rewritten that week. Everyone was lovely. It was great. I walked out feeling slightly less isolated than I had felt before. The universe had paid me back. 

Look, I'm still not buying the cosmic ordering thing. But I really like how opening myself up to a bit of possibility, ended up providing a bit of possibility. Weird, huh? Maybe I should read Noel's book now. I can sort the rest of my life out AND get a helicopter. Win.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*The fact that there's a chippy near to where I grew up called the Cosmos, makes this whole sentence widely comedic. To me, anyway.

Echo Chamber Angst...

I'm trying to make peace with my echo chamber. This is not, as you might think, a reference to my lady-bits, but to the online influences that fill my life. Basically, it's Twitter, folks.*

The first three people I followed in 2009. 

When I joined Twitter, I loved that I could follow famous people that I liked. I could get their take on all sorts of things, whether that be the news of the day, or the food they were eating that very moment. Back then, in 2009, the most prolific tweeters I followed were Phillip Schofield and Stephen Fry. Their tweets seemed to be a mix of their latest TV production news and the funny things that had happened to them, out and about. Fast forward nine years and it's all so much more shouty. 

I just checked and I follow 710 people. Not all of them tweet regularly, and some are businesses that only tweet offers and promotions. They're easy to scroll past. The shoutiness comes when journalists, politicians, comedians, writers and everyone else with an opinion, type their conflicting thoughts about everything, every minute of the day. The urge is to mute or unfollow the people that are at odds with my way of thinking. 

At times I have done that. I unfollowed a TV presenter because of their angry tweets about licence fee money being used for Eurovision. They tweeted this ON Eurovision night. Just rude. I also unfollowed a TV personality after excessive tweets about their latest cause (which I didn't care about) filled my timeline for days. It made sense at the time. Last week it was reported that they'd left Twitter after a news story broke over something random that they'd done. I'd forgotten all about them until then. If they aren't in my timeline, I lose track.

The last three people I followed, in recent weeks. 

That being said, I really try not to ditch everyone I disagree with. I try to keep people in the mix who are nice and polite but have different views to me. The problem is that Twitter isn't that nice and polite at times, so it's easy to justify an unfollow. A TV writer I have enjoyed for a long time was recently binned by me. Their initial confusion over a human-rights issue became out and out discrimination the more they tweeted. I tried to stick with them. I tried to see things from their point of view, but it was doing my head in. In my own time, on my own phone, I don't want my head done in by prejudice, no matter how much I enjoyed their TV comedy in the past.

But an echo chamber is an echo chamber and I don't want to lose touch with the ability to listen to a conflicting view. I deliberately follow MPs of all persuasions. (Not ALL persuasions, obviously. I've no place for xenophobia or racism thank you very much.) But a range of MPs' tweets regarding political issues means I see all sides. Mostly. I also manage to get the gist surrounding the latest Big Brother/I'm a Celebrity/Insert Other Show Here scandals without having to watch them. Twitter gives me an insight into an area of popular culture that I choose to avoid in real life. I can take part in conversations at the hairdressers/in Costa/with my mother and have a vague clue what it's all about.

Wrong bodyguard. But still.
There's always room for Frank Farmer.

In recent weeks, I've found a new Twitter activity that makes me forget any echo chamber angst. In the moments immediately following Sunday night's episode of Bodyguard, I click the hashtag #bodyguard (deliberately ignoring #bodygaurd that trends at an equal pace) and read the entire viewing population's thoughts on what's happened, what conspiracies are still to be discovered, who's not really dead, who switched the bullets, who's pulling the strings, and what about Vicky's new fella? It takes a good hour to scroll back and read through the collective comments about this month's must see TV - longer than the episode itself. It's definitely an echo chamber - everyone's a fan - but it's an echo chamber I'm happy to be part of on a Sunday night as I drop off to sleep. I've made my peace with that one, at least.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*I really like this joke. The echo chamber/lady bits one. But it came into my head so easily that I MUST have heard it somewhere else. I've tried Googling key words to see if it pops up, but I think my tentative use of the search box isn't helping me much. So, if anyone can tell me someone that said it first, I'll be happy to credit them in a follow-up tweet. Thank you!

Back to School With an Oomph...

A big fat sorry to teachers everywhere but LORDY I'm glad it's September. 

On second thoughts, apologies to school-attendees of all ages who've dreaded the start of this, the ninth month; watching their freedom dwindle as the days have passed by. Basic skills such as waking before ten or holding a borrowed ballpoint, have been lost. A dead writing arm from the shock of re-use is a real condition. The giddy thrill of the last day of term is a distant memory. The party is over.

He doesn't feel that way inside.

I was in sixth form when it dawned on me that school-adults felt the same way as school-children. My Psychology tutor made a comment about being gutted the holidays were over. I found it shocking at the time. I may have been a decent A Level student, but I was pretty thick when it came to realising teachers were human just like pupils. It's been seven years since I left teaching, but the first week of September still makes me remember the 'return to school sick feeling'. The panic dreams take many forms... arriving on the first day to find the classroom has old wall displays because I forgot to do them over Summer... standing in front of a class as they disregard my attempts to take control... being told the OFSTED call has come. Literal nightmares.

Yet despite these visceral memories, the start of September is now one of my favourite times of the year. It's the new-startiness of it all. The feeling of renewed motivation and the cleaning the slate. Regardless of where I'm up to in my writing plans, they always feel rejuvenated come the end of Summer. I buy a new academic diary, I work out a complex colour-coded gel-pen system, and I micro-manage every minute until December. I calm it down by then.

No longer blank pages of
emptiness. Full of plans now.

Last week, when the my old colleagues were thigh-deep in their INSET day, I was on a course of my own. I'd been dragged/invited* by a mate to a networking skills training day as part of the London Screen Writers' Festival. Whilst teachers up and down the land were sitting in school halls, squeezed around canteen tables, and listening to their headteachers outline the year's school improvement priorities, I was learning how to make connections, keep eye contact, and hug appropriately. I'll admit, there were times when I yearned for the clear cut agenda item of Key Stage Two Maths Training. Learning how and when to touch potential contacts in a networking situation felt fairly alien. One clear rule of teaching is that a hands off approach is essential. But after a day at 'Networking Tuesday', I came away with a bunch of confidence that hadn't been there on 'Train-to-London-Monday'. So much so that once home I sent out some scary emails I'd been avoiding** and filled my September planner with tasks that require more oomph from me. I think that's what I got from my course - more oomph. And whatever form that takes, I don't think it can be a bad thing.

About to nail Year 11.
Full of oomph. Or something.

So for anyone who has just returned to school - student or teacher - I hope your INSET days and whole school assemblies have given you lots more oomph. And if they haven't, it's only seven weeks till you can down tools and forget how to write once again. 'Til October half-term, everyone! Hurrah!

Have a lovely week, folks.


*Delete as appropriate

**Emails along the lines of, 'Hey, you don't know me, but you should really read my stuff. I am marvellous. Blah blah blah.' 

A Week in the Life...

Exciting things have happened since last I wrote. No, not Coca Cola buying Costa - although I'm intrigued to see whether it'll have an adverse effect on my high street office and the work I do there - but other exciting, marvellous things. In the past week...

A teaser...

My Newsletter Came Out
Now, steady yourselves. If your inbox did not receive my end-of-month missive, it's because you're not a subscriber to this blog. If you were, you'll have caught up on all my official August engagements and be braced for the sequel at the end of September. If you missed out, subscribe in the box at the top of the desktop version of this blog. You'll receive a weekly blog link, plus monthly newsletter. FOR FREE. I know!

Ahhh. I was very relaxed
 here. I'm not now because
I've just spent half a day
making this gif.

I Went on Holiday
Yes! In the week between That's Number Wang! and this, I've been on my hols. In fact, last week's blog was posted from the glamour of a North Wales Travel Lodge, where I'd begun my getaway with an overnight trip to my parents' gaff. The three days that followed were in deepest, darkest Wales. Well, Aberystwyth. Not that deep or dark, to be honest. Lots of sea air, crashing waves, and time away from my laptop. By day four, I was mentally refreshed. My self-imposed digital ban* had done it's job and I was ready to get back to it. I've now returned to the thrust of my routine - dealing with a backlog of emails, catching up with all sorts of episodes on the planner, and managing a face full of spots after not eating a vegetable for four days. That mental image is my gift to you. 

So many errors. So SO many.

My Editing Team Got Busy
When I say editing team, let's be clear. That's two parents, assorted siblings, and some in-laws. They've all read the final draft. As each of them got to the end of it, they sent me an email full of my errors. I corrected them, addressed any queries, and saved my new final draft. But then another family member would email corrections and I'd repeat the process. As everyone read at different speeds, I had a steady stream of emails full of changes, over the past week. My final draft has been final many times. My parents are now on their third read and the changes still keep coming in. One day I will draw a line and tell everyone to down tools and accept that the end has come. But not yet.

My Brother Found His Diary
My book is the dairy of a ten year old - Leeza McAuliffe. When I arrived at my parent's place on Sunday, my brother had rooted in their loft and found a box of his old things, one of which was his diary from when he was ten. He then proceeded to read out selected extracts over the course of the day. A few observations. Firstly, it was hilarious. From dead budgies, to a daily record of meals eaten, to his lengthy descriptions of my love life** - it was highly entertaining. Secondly, I'm glad I didn't read it before I wrote Leeza's diary as I'd have plagiarised it, willy nilly. Thirdly, I may have given my fictional ten year old, Leeza, a more mature outlook and clearer sense of narrative than my brother had, BUT she isn't a million miles away from the style he adopted. It was reassuring that I'd not completely ballsed up how to write as a child. Reassuring and hysterical. 

It hasn't looked that
sleek or neat since.
Purely down to the fact
I've had a that'll do 
attitude whilst being away.

I Got My Hair Cut
Look, I'm running out of things to add to this list. I have had my hair cut. It's significantly shorter than it was, and it's exciting to wash and feel the shampoo run out quicker each morning. But yeah, I'm scrambling for ideas now. But still. Short hair. Yay.

So there we go. This week was significantly busier than others. Mainly because while I switched off for a few days, my family-editors didn't, and now I'm busy working through all their changes. In terms of the next few weeks, it's all systems go. The cover is being developed, the blurb, acknowledgements and author bio are all on my To Do list, and I'm planning to read the whole thing aloud with a ruler*** as soon as the family-editors' emails die down. But for now, I'm going to go back to Costa - my high street office - and check the Coca Cola Christmas van isn't blocking the fire exit. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Obviously this digital ban did not cover Whatsapp, Messenger, Netflix or Google. I'm not an animal.

**I'm seven years older than him. It was all kicking off for me back then. I did not return the favour and share my own diary from that time. Definitely NSFW.

***Line by line, with a ruler to make me go slowly, making sure I notice every bloody letter, space, and bit of punctuation that's there. Or not there.