Join Me in my Sofa-Clinging...

Hello. Thanks for meeting at the assembly point. Shall we do a head count? No? All right, I'm sure we're all here. Just a bit more bloated and booze-soaked than this time last week.

It's that time of year of which I've become a big fan, the older I've got. As the circumstances of my Christmas period (not literally this year, whoop!) have changed, my post-Christmas days have gone from me being a bored and fed up child, to the middle-aged sofa-clinging security of nostalgic TV and a diet of picking at bits from the fridge. (My death row meal would definitely be picking at bits. FYI)

Here's what I posted this time last year. The first chunk of it is 2018 specific, but what follows is still true today. Christmas provides a TV planner that brims over with festive specials, old films from childhood, and this year's big budget dramas. If you want to remind yourself of Christmas past, then do click the link to see what I watched this time a year ago. Or, if you are rooted firmly in the present, then read on. Here's the festive TV that I am recommending this season. (Everything is available on catch up, streaming services, or cinema listings I think.)

Photo from BBC iPlayer

What We Were Watching, Christmas 1979 (BBC iPlayer)
This is the kind of thing I love circling in the Christmas Radio Times. It's a compilation show of clips of Christmas TV. This time they went with 1979; a year in which I was technically alive, although my memories are deeply repressed or non-existent. (I was one.) Packaged up as a fun look at yesteryear's fashions and TV craziness, it's actually a fascinating historical source. Grace Dent starts the intro by showing us Penelope Keith start the intro in 1979 for a similar retrospective of the seventies. It's all very meta. Then we're thrown into clips from Hi Di Hi, Tomorrow's World, Doctor Who, Butterflies, and Parkinson. It's properly absorbing and perfect to watch with a mince pie and fairy lights.

Photo from the BBC iPlayer

Gavin and Stacey (BBC iPlayer)
This was broadcast on prime time Christmas Day so was the flagship hope of the BBC. I, on the other hand, only got to watch it on 27th. I was full of food and entirely horizontal, and not sure I was in the right emotional place for seeing one of my favourite series of the 21st century cock up their come-back. But then I watched it and everything was OK. (Not everything obvs. There was a problematic use of a problematic word in a song I like apart from that word's inclusion. Weird that the creative choice was to leave it in, but there we are.) When I say, everything was OK, I don't mean 'adequate' or 'satisfactory'. I mean all my worries were unfounded. Ten years on in the lives of fictional characters is hard to get right. They aren't the same people they were then, but they have to be the essence of who they were. They have to convince the audience that this is the way their lives and their circumstances have changed and aged. I think Ruth Jones and James Corden nailed it. Plus, there were lots of lovely nods to the previous series, that made me remember how much I'd enjoyed it back then. Tidy.

Photo from the BBC iPlayer

Neil Brand's Sound of Movie Musicals (BBC iPlayer)
About three years ago, in the post-Christmas relax, I got flu. Proper can't-lift-my-head-off-the-pillow flu. I managed to stir myself every few hours to take a bunch of painkillers and fever-busters, and then lie back down again. It wasn't fun. In that very hazy week before New Year, I discovered Neil Brand's music programmes. Back then it was about musicals in general. I could concentrate on nothing for long, but watching him very technically and brilliantly explain in a very accessible and enjoyable way how particular notes in particular broadway numbers take the audience to different places, was fascinating. I was incapable of anything that required real concentration but his three part series was spot on. Fast forward to this year, and he's at it again. This three-parter is about Movie Musicals. Watch him discuss the choreography of Busby Berkeley, the opening shot of The Sound of Music, or the rise of Russian musical movies, whilst pinning them to social and political events of the time. It's another historical commentary, packaged up as a bit of musical fun. I can't recommend it highly enough. And it was so nice to watch this year, without being stricken with lurgy.

Photo from BBC iPlayer

Evil Under the Sun (BBC iPlayer)
This is exactly what Christmas telly's about, for me. The 27th came around. I waved off my house guests and sprinted (lol. As if. Shuffled, lumbered or crawled is more accurate) to the kettle and then to the sofa. Peter Ustinov was on my telly and I was ready to devour him. Ustinov is my favourite Poirot. I have a real soft spot for johnny-come-lately Branagh, and some of the others are perfectly fine, but Ustinov was my first. You never forget your first. And, I am pretty sure, I encountered my first Poirot on a New Year's Eve in the eighties, whilst being baby-sat by my Grandma. It wasn't Ustinov's Evil Under the Sun that I watched that first time, but it doesn't matter. He didn't do that many of them and they are all brilliant. So when I saw that this was on TV just as my viewing schedule had opened up, I was absolutely going to watch it. There's something beautiful about saying goodbye to house guests. I love the frenzied banter and multi-conversational hubbub of a roomful of siblings, partners and kids. It's hilarious chaos. But when they've all gone, and the house is more or less back to normal, and there's a big mug of tea next to you, and you're lying under a fluffy blanket on the sofa, and Peter Ustinov is Poiroting all over your telly? Well. I can't even put into words how sweet that moment is. So I'll stop.

Photo from Netflix

Two Popes (Netflix)
Right then, back on track. This was dropped by Netflix on Christmas Eve. It's hard to have fourteen years of Catholic education under your belt without being the slightest bit intrigued by the comings and goings in the Vatican, even if you don't share a world view with the key players these days. Besides that, a couple of years ago I read Robert Harris' Conclave which was a fabulously gossipy thriller of a book set behind the closed doors as the cardinals came together to choose a new fictional pope. All intriguing and dramatic stuff. So, Two Popes. Any good? Hell yeah. Anthony Hopkins plays Benedict  XVI, and Jonathan Pryce is Joseph, the current pope. This film lays out the kind of thing that might have happened during the election and subsequent resignation of Benedict. It feels authentic even though I assume it's based on what could have happened rather than what did. The head to head scenes between the two men are dramatic, powerful, full of pathos as well as humour. Regardless of your stance on the Catholic church, it drags you in and shows you the men behind the titles. Truly riveting stuff.

Little Women (general release from 26th December)
My plan had been to do a cinema trip between Christmas and New Year to see Knives Out for a third time. It was quite the kick in the teeth when I found all my local cinemas had stopped showing it. Slightly disappointedly, I went with my backup plan, Little Women. Here's some context. I first read the novel in my thirties which I've realised is far too old for a newby reader. I just never got it. I didn't care enough about the lives of the characters like I would have done had I been at a similar age. I've watched a few screen versions since, but I was still a bit meh. This new attempt didn't give me any reason to think it would be better, except one of my favourite directors was at the helm. Greta Gerwig is brilliant and I was willing to see what she did with it to make me care. And here's the thing. I massively cared! Greta Gerwig worked some magic, I can tell you. Properly absorbing, emotional, funny, and the exact thing I would have liked to have circled in my Radio Times and watched on the sofa instead. It was everything a big budget Christmas adaptation should be, except in the cinema. For anyone else unconvinced, let me explain that the film comprises of both parts of Little Women (I did not know there was a second part) and is shown in a split-timeline narrative. This immediately raises its game considerably. Then there are the brilliant directorial choices and flourishes that litter the film.  From the family walking straight past the pious churchgoers on Christmas day, as they donate their breakfast to a family in need, to the way we see Jo March represent Loiusa May Alcott in scenes with her editor. It was a great. Finally, the lingering camera work that takes place during the printing, binding, and creating of Jo's book, contrasts massively with her blink-and-you-miss-it romantic denouement. It's simply delicious. I loved this film a lot and I really thought it would bore me. So there we have it.

Official Christmas festivities may be over, but it's all going to be OK. I've still got half a planner of stuff to catch up on, and my fridge of bits is hanging in there. Resolutions and worthy thoughts will start to dominate soon enough, but for now, if you are able, enjoy the down time. Happy New Year everybody, and remember...

...have a lovely week, folks.

Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animals...

Smash Hits posters informed this shot.

Just a quick one this week. I imagine there are sighs of relief all round. I know, I get it. We've all got places to be and selection packs to eat. The festive party food needs heating up because, even if it's still whole days before the shops shut for half a minute, it's much more fun to have six brie and cranberry parcels for tea instead of something more balanced and vegetable-inclusive.

But enough of my Monday night food plans. I'm here to spread cheer and goodwill. Sadly the traditional seasonal Bond photo I've unearthed seems a little... what's the word I'm looking for?...brooding. Here I am, giving my best moody leotard Christmas pose, watched on by my grandmothers who are clearly humouring my attempts at serious modelling.

We can tell it's Christmas because both Grandmothers are in the same room of the same house. There's also the corner of a Christmas tree visible, top right. Beyond that, there's not much going on. Just feelings and angst. It's all a bit Brother Beyond.

I hope whatever shape your Christmas Day takes, that it's marvellous. Whether it's filled with people, stress, solitude, or the same as any other day because Christmas isn't your thing. 

For anyone not feeling quite so tiptop, and might want to connect with others, the #joinin hashtag on Twitter gets people chatting. It's great, especially when Christmas Day isn't feeling as good as it might, or is less social that you'd prefer. 

And once again, look out for the #duvetknowitschristmas* hashtag. People upload a photo of their makeshift sleeping arrangements as they return to the homes of their childhood and find their old bedroom has been turned into a craft room. No one will be screaming into their Twitter echo chamber about politics when people are busy sharing photos of their parents' study, with a double airbed and tablecloth bedcover wedged in at an awkward angle under a writing desk. It's as cockle-warming as all get out. Trust me. (And raises money for Shelter too. Win.)

All that's left to say is have a great Wednesday. May all your leotard poses be as intense and committed as mine.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*This article explains more, if you can't be faffed going on Twitter.

What's the Opposite of an Early Adopter?...

Me and Shiv have so much in common.

Oooh it's hard to admit you're wrong, innit. I usually find I am right about everything so it's rarely an issue for me. (LOLZ). But here we are. I've come to realise I've had a big change of heart about something, and it's odd. I'm having to rethink everything from scratch. Both disconcerting and liberating all at once. A brave new world is there for the taking. I'm going in.

Reader, I'm talking about e-readers. Yes, that's the life and death issue that I've been grappling with. To Kindle or not to Kindle? That is the question. You see I've been against them for as long as they've been around, and now... well not so much.

Someone is staring at
you in Personal Growth.

We can't lose bookshops because
then one of the best lines from
this film won't work anymore.

We all know the arguments from back in the day; paper books feel better, curling up with a good book doesn't work when holding a screen, high street bookshops will suffer. I still feel all those sentiments, especially the last one. The loss of Borders is right up there with all my bereavements (sorry Grandma*) and so I never buy books from supermarkets or online bookshops. When a book is published that I want to read, I drive into town, and go to Waterstones, or an indie bookshop if they're stocking it. That's been my rule for ages. I also want the author to be paid their royalties so I don't buy new releases second hand. 

Except now I see things differently. Due to my exceptional hypocrisy - I don't buy books on the biggest online book store, but I sell my own books on there - I know a bit about royalties. Authors tend to get paid more for ebook sales than paper ones. They are much cheaper to buy but there are way less costs. So an ebook sale works out well for the writer. Then there's the bit about reading pleasure. Not sure when, but over the last decade or so, I've found myself reading significantly less than I used to. It might be because I decided I'll only buy books after a half hour drive into the nearest city. Or it might be because the time I used to spend reading fiction, is now taken up with Twitter. Probably that to be honest. I've never been so politically informed than I am right now, but I've never read so little fiction at any point in my life.

Fans of my monthly newsletter (subscribe in the subscribe box above!) will see I list three things I've read every month. These are rarely three books. Usually there's a long read article, or a tweet thread. Something bite-sized like that. Yet ten years ago, when I was teaching full time, I would see off a novel a week. Again, that was BT. (Before Twitter.) 

I know what books I mean,
even if the title and author
details are sketchy in my notes.

So here we are. It's Christmas time. My sister got my name in the family Not-Secret-Santa-Draw and asked me what I wanted. I decided to take the leap, and in the binary opposite of an early adopter, finally asked to be Kindled up.

I'm actually excited. I've made a list of books I would not have got around to buying if I didn't have a Kindle. That way no bricks and mortar bookshop will lose the sale. And I'm determined that I will keep up the effort. I have to read more than I currently do. If I don't read I can't write. That's just science. 2020 is going to be the year I get back to losing myself in books. I still plan to buy paper versions of things I am really excited to read, but alongside that I'll have the stuff I've taken a chance on. The stuff that will fill train journeys and sleepless nights. That's the plan anyway. Subscribe to the newsletter (get the weekly blog thrown in too) and you'll be able to check whether I stick to my word. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*OBVS I am joking. 

What Would - insert name here - Do?...

What would Jesus do? No really, what would he do? Heal the sick, feed the starving, do sleight of hand card tricks for his pals? It's the question that believing sorts ask themselves, in order to keep close the reminder that Jesus is emulatable and inspirational. Fair play to them, and to him. Crack on, if that's your way of navigating the world.

Leo McGarry played by John Spencer. 

In the West Wing, after the almighty Leo McGarry leaves the role of Chief of Staff, and then dies soon after, his successor is given a Post-It note with WWLD? written on it. What Would Leo Do? Not die presumably. And then he'd make excellent judgement calls in all the tricky political situations that followed. It's a reminder to keep a hero or mentor's presence close by, when they're not there in person and life has to be lived by your own wits.

I'll be honest, I'm not a fan of either version of the phrase. It plays into the idea of having heroes and leaving your behaviour choices to other people. Of seeing exceptional behaviour in others and copying that, instead of forging your own way. I don't like that. It's not my preferred way to be. I'm too busy making my own mistakes and glorying in my own triumphs to consider what other people might instruct me to do via their example, no matter how wise or son of God-ish they are. Being inspired by others is marvellous. Copying their actions, or deliberately channeling them into my own behaviour feels a bit awkward to me.

And yet here we are. Late in the day, I've got a hero I want to channel. Senator Kamala Harris, of the US Democratic Party fame has been downright inspirational to me for the past year or so now. The news of her pulling out of the nominee race last week was a kick in the guts. I'm guessing it was worse for her though. An accomplished, vastly qualified, and charismatic woman, it's balks more than a tad that the people left in the race have more money and (imho) less admirable qualities and experience than she has.

Not being US-based in the slightest, I've no idea whether reports of her lack of media coverage are true or not. She came to my attention during the Brett Kavanagh confirmation hearings. Back then, the evident empathy and respect for Dr. Christine Blasey Ford when she shared her testimony was in stark contrast to the razor sharp precision with which she highlighted the soon-to-be Supreme Court Judge's weak story and denials hours later. When she announced she was running for Democratic nominee, I was thrilled. Since then, her relatability and ease with people has shone through. There are videos of her dancing, clips of her chatting happily to children, and then there are films where she explains in clear, practical terms how she will tackle big issues. Gun control is the one linked here. I don't get that invested in US politics beyond the headlines, but she was one to watch. The fact she is no longer running for President (this time) does not change that. She is still one to watch. Whether she returns to her role as California Senator in the long term, whether she ends up - as some would like in time - as the Attorney General, whether she's instrumental in the impeachment hearings, or whether she runs for again President in another four years, I think she's marvellous. What Would Kamala Do? I'm not sure and I still don't want to directly copy anyone else's life. But whatever she does, she shows wit, intelligence, and courage. I can definitely channel that when I want to pretend I am impressive.

In hindsight, there
are plenty of times I could
do with some guidance.
#avocadonotsnot

It's easy to be impressed by someone from a distance, though. I've been able to follow Kamala Harris' campaign through reports of her public meetings and the stan accounts of her fans. My Twitter timeline is filled with her best bits, and so it's been no big leap to award her the role of Nicky's Top Inspirer whilst being far away. I can't vote for her and I couldn't donate to her campaign. Maybe I need that distance, in order to get over my hangups about collecting external heroes. Maybe it would be impossible for me to have a UK-based local hero that shows me how to behave in any situation in which I feel less than confident. 

Or so I thought. Look, I've always got the Jess Phillips' and the Stella Creasys (the latter managing to fit giving birth into the middle of her election campaign in Walthamstow!) for an everyday reminder to stand up for my beliefs and do my bit. But sometimes I need more than that. And so cue Bessie, my six year old niece. In the past weeks, I've been sent videos of her street dancing in a variety of local concerts. The phrase 'tackles with gusto' feels more than apt. The second the music starts, she is 100% committed. Every move is delivered large. I particularly like how she is unbothered by the location of the children next to her. She is firmly in the zone, more than filling her space, and smiling her head off. 

That is the hero we all need. Fill your space, commit to what you do, and smile as you crack on with all the enthusiasm in the world. What would my six year-old niece do? That's the Post-It note that works for me.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Perspective Amidst the Festivities...

Sometimes I can't believe my luck.

Rewind to last month and an exchange, similar to the one below, took place between my London-based mate and I.

'Are you free on 26th November?'

'Yes' 

'There's an evening with Emma Thompson talking about her new film. I've got you a ticket.' 

'HELL YES.' 

'There'll also be Greg Wise, Caitlin Moran, and Emilia Clarke talking about what Christmas means to them.' 

'COUNT ME IN. HOLD MY CALLS, CANCEL MY ONE O'CLOCK. TELL THE AMBASSADOR HE'LL HAVE TO WAIT. THAT IS A PARTY I WANT TO BE AT.'

Read on to see what
little beauty's all about.

I may have over-exaggerated the texts just a smidge, but still, the gist was just that. The newly-crowned Luckiest Woman in the World, (that's ME! I was going to be seeing EMMA THOMPSON in the flesh, FFS) booked a train, sorted a hotel, and rescheduled my sparkly black-varnished pedicure so that come the 26th, I'd be off and away for the night of all nights. And reader, it really was the night of all nights, just in ways I hadn't expected.

First off, this wasn't just a promotional night for Emma Thompson's new film. I mean, it was and it wasn't. Last Christmas came out on 15th November, so was obviously mentioned. We were all urged to go and watch it (check!) and tell others to do the same. (Go and see it. Check!) But really this was about fundraising and awareness-raising. It's no spoiler to say that the film Last Christmas features characters that are homeless and/or refugees. It does so naturally, rather than heavy-handedly showcasing 'issues' IMHO. It's all part of the story, and part of the setting. Let's face it, it's a Christmas film, set in present day London. The sanitised days of Love Actually are cultural light years away now. Emma Thompson talked about her work with the charity, Crisis. Apparently one in fifty people in London are homeless. That felt staggering. It's been a rising number, over the past fifteen years or so. There was no way anyone could make a London-based film without including the issue of homelessness, even on the most superficial background-extra level.

This photo is from Twitter.
It is a good photo.

Then there was the work both Em and Greg (I call them that now because we're mates) do with The Refugee Council. The idea that displaced people struggle more at this time of year can't be news to anyone. The specific nature of those struggles was news though. Deborah Francis-White, who hosted the evening, talked of her recent interview with the author, Lemn Sissay. (Stand by for my paraphrasing of her paraphrasing of something he said. Apologies to all concerned. If I've misrepresented you, let me know.) He told her that for him, the meaning of the word family is when people dispute your memories. They've shared something with you and have their own take. They're your family with a shared history and perspectives on what you can remember. To have no one to dispute or confirm your past is incredibly isolating. That isolation is then exacerbated at this time of year, when everyone else is filled with festive cheer. (Although, let face it, they could well be struggling too.)

Upon entering the theatre, we were given a copy of a book. It's actually the most perfect idea for a book, ever. A collection of short essays from all sorts of people about what Christmas means to them. It features chapters from Meryl Streep, Caitlin Moran, Greg and Em, as well as Tindy Agaba, a former child soldier abducted from his family before escaping to the UK. He is now a Human Rights activist. He read his chapter aloud, as did Steve Ali, a Syrian refugee, who once lived in the Calais camps, and is now a silver smith and interpreter living in London. Shared stories of alternative experiences, compared to the tree and stocking palaver most of us recognise as standard. Both moving and humorous. This wasn't a night of bleak reflection. It was a celebration of humanity, in all its glory. Triumph over adversity and all that malarkey. It also put into perspective my so-called stresses right now. I haven't ordered the turkey yet, I still have presents to buy, and the Christmas dinner seating plan is proving challenging once again. But big deal. There are worse situations to be in. Literally millions of worse situations. STFU Bond.

This photo is by me. It is a terrible photo. 

The evening ended up in a mass singalong of Wham's Last Christmas. Bill Bailey on the piano, Em'n'Greg looking on, Caitlin Moran dressed as a giant Christmas tree, and Emilia Clarke clapping happily along. It was utterly bonkers, soaringly good-willed, and we left the theatre feeling all the love for humankind. I know. In this political climate. Can you believe?

Pret doing good works as
well as making nice soup.

The next day, I left my hotel and headed for the station via Pret. Everywhere I looked, there were signs from the universe. As I chose my soup, workers were carrying crates of Pret sandwiches out to vans waiting to take them to shelters. Half an hour later when I left, a team of charity workers were standing in the rain attempting to get donations to Shelter. When I got to Euston, a busker was singing Ralph McTell's Streets of London. There might as well have been a big arrow coming down from the sky. I knew I had to up my game.

I checked my privilege then checked my bank account. I can spare more than I already give, so I should give more. Simple as that. I am warm, safe, and fed. Like I said, sometimes I can't believe my luck.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Some links in you want more info or to make a donation.

The Refugee Council

Crisis

Shelter

Cosy Up with One-Note Chocolates...

Picture the scene: A stranger arrives in a new town. In their initial bewilderment, their suitcase falls into the path of a passerby. Contents spill out. The passerby and stranger bundle things back into the bag whilst having an awkward, possibly grumpy exchange. Our romantic protagonists have now met. 

Cosy Up.
No really, please do.

Now, I don't know if this sounds familiar, but it seems this is very much A THING. Not in my own novel, I might add, but in several films I watched this week. Different films, actors and bags, but the same scenario. What's going on? What happened to originality and creative vision? What films have I been watching where I'm getting the same meet-cute time and time again? 

Let's dial it back. I have some thoughts but first a bit of context.

Flattering, God no.
 Cosy and warm? TICK
My festive, spherical top.

 In a bid to distance myself from pointless manifesto launches, unchecked political lies, and royal family car-crash interviews, I've been getting my cosy on. I bought a candle from Tesco whose fragrance is literally Cosy Up. (Because that's a smell.) I won an eBay bid for a bright red, Christmas themed tunic that contains more than a hint of the Violet Beauregardes about it. (Not for public consumption but oh so comfy.) And then I moved on to Christmas Films. 

I'M JUST NOT READY
FOR YOU YET, KEVIN.

Christmas Films means out-and-out classics. Your Home Alones and your Miracles on 34th Street. But I'm still not ready for those. There's weeks to go, and peaking too soon would be ill-advised. Instead I've turned to Netflix. Their Christmas movie list grows every year. It's like a chocolate box of festive gorging. Rich, luxurious treats to savour over the winter evenings. The reality, however, is a little different. It's still a chocolate box. It's a beautifully wrapped, opulently-presented chocolate box. Proper posh and classy. But when you open the intricate layers and dive inside, it's row after row of coffee creams. All the same. No difference or choice. Beautifully presented coffee creams, but still. Only coffee creams. Boooooo. 

The poster art copyright is
 believed to belong to the
distributor of the film, the publisher
 of the film or the graphic artist.

This week I've watched A Christmas Prince, Let it Snow, A Christmas Inheritance and Christmas With a View.* Apart from high production values, they share other characteristics too. Let's break it down for the group.

1. They're always set in a snowy, small town. In Let it Snow it's Laurel, Illinois. In Christmas With a View it's a Canadian ski resort. In A Christmas Inheritance it's Snow Falls. In A Christmas Prince, the idea is subverted slightly. It's the fictional yet tiny kingdom of Aldovia but it's still covered in snow. Snow and small towns go hand in hand in the Netflix Christmas film planning department, it seems.

The poster art copyright is
believed to belong to the
distributor of the film, the publisher of
 the film or the graphic artist.

2. Once our protagonists meet over an open bag in a snowy town, we move on to another shared plot point. The Character that Stands Out. In all cases, there's a character that is already famous to the other characters. That person is in the aforementioned small town to lie low. To get back in touch with reality. To find meaning. So, we have a celebrity chef (Christmas With a View), a chart topping pop star, (Let it Snow) and a party heiress (A Christmas Inheritance.) Once again, A Christmas Prince keeps us all on our toes by having the famous person (i.e the Prince) NOT lie low. Instead it's the journalist who has gained access to the palace by pretending to be a tutor. She's the one keeping a low profile in that one. But still. Snow. Low profile. Coffee creams.

The poster art copyright is believed
 to belong to the distributor
of the film, the publisher of
the film or the graphic artist.

3. Once the story is underway, there's usually some sort of romance faff that takes place. The grumpy protagonists find they have more in common than an open suitcase, and eventually snog. BUT there is a deception/secret/lying low thing going on too. Why is the celebrity chef in a small resort's kitchen? Why is the pop star ignoring calls from his tour manager? Who is the spoilt hotel guest that has run out of money and is having to clean the Inn to earn her keep? Happiness is thwarted by questions and lies. But then, almost comically on cue, they share their mysterious secret, honesty prevails, and they live happily ever after. No one mentions going back to the big city, not for a second. Happiness, we are told, is settling in small town North America, in the winter time. That is, except for the renegade A Christmas Prince. Here, the lie-living journalist leaves New York behind her for her royal boyf in Aldovia. She actually emigrates. But snow, so it's fine.

The poster art copyright is
believed to belong to the distributor
of the film, the publisher of
the film or the graphic artist.

4. One final point. Despite the main characters being played by largely unknown faces (in terms of mainstream Hollywood stuff) there is always one random actor whose face you'll know. Someone famous from years ago. A reliable, reassuring presence. Someone that, when you see them pop up on screen, will prompt the instinctive thought of, 'Well if they agreed to this, it must be good.' So Joan Cusack, Patrick Duffy, Andie McDowell, and Alice Krige are all there to steady the ship. And fair play to them. I don't begrudge them a thing. Especially Joan Cusack who can do no wrong in my eyes after her brilliance in Working Girl and Broadcast News** a hundred years ago.

So there were are. Small town realness, Christmas romance, and snowy good cheer. My in-depth analysis is complete. 

I realise that reading this back, it might seem like I'm being critical. I bemoaned the lack of originality in an earlier paragraph and I admit there's a heathy dose of sarcasm running throughout this week's ramble. But in all seriousness, I am a recent convert to a diet of Coffee Creams. Just for now, anyway. Homogenous and trope-filled these films may be, but they are utter escapism. Far more relaxing than the news. For the past week, they've been the ultimate cool-down to the end of the day. I fall asleep more easily with one of these films playing, than if I were left to worry about the tactical vote in my constituency, or the Christmas shopping I haven’t done. I suppose these are the Mills and Boon of modern times. Something slightly naff that you know aren't great examples of their genre, and yet comforting in their predictability and similarities. Alternatively, of course, I might just be old. The yooths of today might love these films for realsies. I'm just falling into the age-old trap of thinking stuff from my past is better than now. Another theory for you.

A final wider point about streaming services. Because you know, I'm like an expert or something. (LOLZ). We're reaching the end of a decade. Ten years ago, Netflix may have technically existed but it wasn't the force it is today. The way we view film has changed immeasurably. Maybe the payoff for TV and film on demand means we have less individual, less memorable, less creatively impressive TV and film. Maybe there is something to be said for less is more - when there was a new festive film released every year, not every day. When cinemas were where we viewed movies, not laptops, tablets, and phones. Who knows? Not me. I'm just rambling. For now, I’m sticking with the coffee creams throughout November. I’ll wear my unflattering yet comfy red tunic and doze off to snowy scenes with my Cosy Up candle, any night I can. But perhaps when December comes, it’ll be time to dust off the DVDs and bring out the big guns. The coffee creams will be put to one side and replaced with meat, veg, and roasties. I'm looking at you It's a Wonderful Life,*** you balanced, nutritious and satisfying meal of a film, you. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Stop press! Mere hours before pressing the publish button on this very post, I watched The Knight Before Christmas. It's new this year and more or less fits the mould I outline above. Review here for those that want it.

**Trust me. Click the link. This 1m 45s clip from Broadcast News is a mini-film in it's own right. Enjoy.

***The irony isn't lost on me. There's no open suitcase in IAWL, but there is a snowy small town - Bedford Falls - a grumpy protagonist in George Bailey that falls in love, and who has a sort of secret (sort of?) that must be resolved before he can find meaning and live happily ever after. Maybe all Netflix has done is make several versions of one of the all time classics. Yeah, that'll be it. Ignore me and everything I said above. I was just rambling.

Cooper, Nabokov, Welch...

I once read that Jilly Cooper writes her novels in longhand*. It was years ago, albeit years after you'd have expected her to move onto something more techy. I remember thinking how long it must take, how many crossings out there must be, how many mad arrows sweeping over several pages or large asterisks denoting an extra section must be littered throughout her notebooks. Reading that she wrote in longhand provided quite the image. Indeed, after a quick search for authors who opt for this method, I found a couple more. Vladimir Nabokov and Denise Welch. All the greats.

Perhaps having a cover that
could be described as 'a bit dodge'
is a prerequisite for the longhand
writer. I'm casting no aspersions on
Denise Welch, however, having none
of her books to hand.

I get the appeal though. I got my first word processor when I was twenty-one, just in time for my dissertation. Before that, I would submit my essays in real life handwriting. Only occasionally would I type them up in the uni computer suite. A room I rarely bothered with, unless I had time to kill before a bus, and a complete essay fully written out in my bag. Yep, I had to handwrite the entire thing first before I committed it to the digital world. The idea of backspacing anything other than a spelling mistake stressed me out. I couldn't shape an argument or complete a coherent train of thought if I hadn't mapped it all out with a paper and pen first. 

Fast forward twenty years and I'm over all that. The thought of writing - with my actual hand - all of Carry the Beautiful (78000 words) or all of Leeza McAuliffe (69000 words) makes my underdeveloped arm muscles shudder. Writing is typing, is thinking, is shaping, is editing, is all of it. Not my best quotable line but you get the gist. Technology combines together all the skills I used to bring separately. And for me and my process, I'm all the better for it.

But this week, DISASTER struck.

Now look. I know I'm prone to hyperbole. And some people have real problems, right? But this really does feel disastrous. A little bit anyway. Because - and I'm mentally gripping the chair arms and gritting my teeth as I type this - after a long-overdue update on my laptop, Word 2011 no longer opens. SHHHHIIIITTTTT.

This is a screen shot of my desktop. I don't
care about the other ones, just my lovely Word.

I know other writers do things differently. (Schrivener is a tool I've tried but just can't make work. Others prefer Apple Pages.) But for me and many others, all the magic takes place on Word. Then, when the time comes, the Word Doc is formatted into an interior document and sent to the publishing company. Word is compatible with all the things I need later. And now Word has stopped working. Booooooooo.

I know what the problem is. It's dead simple. My software is out of date. It has been deemed (presumably by Bill and Melinda Gates after an impromptu family meeting around the kitchen table) that 2011 is old news, even though it is only five minutes ago in real life. I need to buy new discs or, more probably - in a crazy Sci-fi plot twist - I'll have to download something or other from somewhere. See, I know all the lingo.

I know that in a few days, I'll have worked it all out and this crisis will be consigned to the past. It's just a perfect example of why I hate technology. Technology goes out of date. I hate the need for constant updates. I hate getting a new phone. I hate that I'll turn my TV planner on and someone somewhere has decided to change the look of the whole thing and it takes me half an hour to find my saved Murder She Wrotes. I hate it all.

Still there? Oh good. I was worried my rant might have seen you off. Look, I know that I have to tackle this fear. Because as we know, hate in all its forms is really fear of something we don't understand. In my constant endeavour to be as self-sufficient as possible, it really sucks to be so reliant on something I don't understand beyond the superficial. It doesn't suit me to have to trust and believe in something of which I don't have an inside out knowledge. I don't like it.

I understand these notebooks. I don't
 fear these notebooks. These notebooks
will not need updating. These
notebooks will last forever.

*kisses fingers, argument won.*

But here we are. I have to crack on. I have to buy/download/install new Word. I need to embrace the changes. I need to be able to open my current manuscript again, and be able to carry on with Chapter 34. I also need to stay as open minded as possible. Like I am with celeriac. It looks wrong, it smells wrong, but if I add enough butter, garlic and salt, it can be very tasty. I need to add metaphoric butter, garlic and salt to new Word and it will all be OK.

It's time to be a grown up and face my fear. When it all gets too much, I can always spend an hour in Paperchase, browsing the notebooks and pretending I'm Jilly Cooper and Denise Welch. Or something. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*I definitely did read this. For sure. But in the writing of this week's post, I tried to find a reference to link to, so that you could all see I wasn't lying. All I could find was this article where she explains she has written on a typewriter for several years. I still stand by the fact I read what I read back in the day. I can only assume it was the journalist that mislead me. 

I'll Always Have Chapter Six...

It's writing update time, folks. Get excited. Whoop whoop. 

Despite the constant lure of Twitter and the urge to read every fact-checking thread that debunks the day's news cycle, I am nearing the end of Book Three.

Now, hold your horses one tiny moment. I'm still a couple of calendar years away from having anything publishable. The end of Book Three, at this stage, is simply the end of the first draft. I'm approaching the literal end of a story that exists a little bit more each day. Back in June, I gave myself the end of November to get to the last full stop. I've amended that deadline slightly over the months, and now it's the week before Christmas. (You know, because I love the sweaty panic of getting the house ready for a three-day food-fest of multi-generational guests at the same time that I have to tie up loose ends and hope the characters haven't been wasting theirs or the readers' time for 80,000 words. Fun!)

There is a notebook filled with
THOUGHTS just waiting for January.

Pretty much since I started, the urge to tinker with what I've already written, is strong. I know from writing Book One, how much time I would waste if I did that. Rereading from chapter one is banned. My editing time will start in January when I have a complete draft in which to dive. The problem with that, though, is that as I near the end of my first draft, I'm well aware of its utter mediocrity.

Jessica and Gilderoy are here
to remind me I've done it
 before so I'll do it again.

Now wait one moment. I'm not being insecure, nor self-deprecating. Mediocre at this stage is pretty good. And as well as mediocre, there are plenty of chapters that are downright shite. That's OK too. No book in its first format is anything better than that. I know, from past experience as well as reading accounts from other writers, this is perfectly normal. The feeling of not being able to see the wood for the trees, and of being overwhelmed by the enormity of the task ahead, is all standard stuff. I'm not worried. It's just the process of which I am slap bang in the middle. Come January, the next part of the process will kick in. It'll be time to turn the mediocre/shite formulaic stuff into coherent, engaging, and suspenseful prose. (LOLZ. We can but dream.) That's the plan, anyway. And that will take just as long (if not longer) than the six months of writing draft one has taken.

The accompanying folder of waffle
and ramble is filling up nicely. 

So, believing it will be better one day is what I need to do. Some days that's easy. Others not so much. But for now, there are little snippets of hope that help me through. Like last week's writing group. So far, since June, I've read the first five chapters out loud. The group have listened to me, and given their feedback. It's been very kind. Maybe better than kind. They've been supportive and constructive. I've made notes that I'll definitely consider when January comes around, and hearing their chat around what I've written has made me rethink some things. All really useful. 

Last week, I read Chapter Six. This one was more comedic than the previous ones. It focused on a phone conversation between two friends who were having a long overdue catch up. It involved office gossip, love life updates, and had a general air of piss-takey repartee between the characters. It's supposed to be light relief amidst some heavier issues of which I've only hinted. 

Here's the thing. People laughed. Not just at the end, but regularly. All the way through. I read it at a ridiculously fast speed because time was tight, but my joke about a gimp mask landed. Then my character's description of her new lover's body caused mirth. 'Not man-booby at all!' I kept racing through, aware that people were amused, and then got to the end and felt the love. It was so gratifying. 

Look, people might still have felt the need to be kind. But it felt good. It gave me a boost that will keep me ploughing on until I feel happy with all of it, not just the little bits. One day, I'll look at every chapter, at the overall structure, at the character development, at the emotional punches, the imagery and word choices, and feel happy with every single bit of it. For now I've got Chapter 6. That's enough to keep the faith.

Have a lovely week, folks.