Houston, We Have Lift Off...

How do you write a book? No, really. I'm asking. I've done it twice now (three times if you count my first discarded attempt) and I still don't get the process. It just...happens. It feels confusing and messy and occasionally exhilarating, then at some point it's done. It's always a shock when a tangible product emerges. Somewhere within a fog of writer's block, demented typing, and swigs of cold tea, a story drags itself into existence.

For the past few months - whilst I've been planning for, and then experiencing, the longest skive known to woman - I've had a date firmly marked in my diary. Monday 17th June. That's the day I am due to start my next book. For the sharper-minded amongst you, it will be apparent that Monday 17th June has been and gone. And with it, I think I've got the next book-ball rolling. Or maybe I haven't. The fog has partially descended once again. I know I've done some typing, and I know I've got a planning folder of ideas, but what's the past week's output actually looked like? Am I in full flow again? Is this it? Answers on a postcard, it's too early to tell for me.

Enough of all these vague wonderings, though. Let's be analytical and systematic. Let's take a look at the evidence. 

Monday 17th June
It's finally here. The day to which I've been looking forward since mid-April. Over the weekend just gone, I've mentally prepared myself to be up with the Monday morning lark. It's a serious business being An Author. Note the capitalisation. This. Is. Important. Literary. Work. 

Evidence of Monday's achievements. 

Unfortunately, when the alarm went off this morning, a mixture of pre-menstrual aches and general apathy meant I spent much of the day distracting myself away from literary genius. I made a big pan of black bean daal. I listened to a two hour podcast involving a mate. Then I listened to another mate stand in for someone's radio show. This wasn't the most productive writing day. (The Supporting Friends and Creating Sustenance boxes got firmly ticked though.) Once I'd exhausted all other avenues of distraction - my Women's World Cup Wall Chart is now up to date - I got a grip. I opened the folder of planning files I'd collated over the past year. I read some of them. I made a timetable. I changed today's diary entry from Start Writing Book Three to Plan the Organisation of Writing Book Three. A subtle distinction, but it means I achieved something after all. Then I switched off for the evening with the intention of doing better tomorrow.

Tuesday 18th June
Now this is more like it. I was in front of my laptop by 10am. Unwashed, PJ-ed up to frig, and intent on avoiding all distracting temptations, I opened a new Word Doc. 

Typing Chapter One is an odd feeling. At this point, it's all so exciting. There's huge potential for greatness, with no pesky reality to burst the optimistic bubble. I've got all these ideas and plans, and I know in my head where this is going to lead. But also, my God, there's so much to write down before it's done. Whilst it's still a planning notebook, its potential isn't realised. It could be amazing. It could be the greatest novel ever written. It could be EPIC. I don't linger long on these thoughts. If I did, I'd have to consider the opposing position. It could be a pile of shite. Instead, I open my planning file on the Chapter One page, and remind myself of all the plot points, teasers, and bits of unexplained info, I want to drop in. And then I start.

The first line has to be brilliant. It has to grab the reader from the start. It should be enigmatic and cheeky and full of hints, without giving away anything beyond a whimsical clue of what's to come. Today, that's a bit too much to handle. I skip over the first line's significance, and put a place holder in. I'd be here all day if I didn't. The spectacular, attention-grabbing first line can be sorted later. The place holder I chose was, 'It had been a lovely day.' I know. LOLZ. (I'd have told a Year Four kid to have another go. How about using your ambitious vocabulary, Nicky? Is that really going to make people want to read on?) But by jumping into the flow two feet first, it meant I could hit the ground running. So I did.

The temptation to edit every single line as I write, is strong. But I've learnt that this hinders everything. I just have to write. I have to write everything down that I want to include. I have to get from the first to the last line of the chapter without stopping every five seconds to ponder a word-choice, or question whether a semi colon looks pretentious in that sentence. I just have to get it done.

Cheers Sefton Park. You are now
my post-writing walking place.

I wrote from 10-1. Then I ate crackers and tapenade. (Yeah. Tapendade. Handle it.) I carried on for a couple more hours and got to the end of the chapter. Not that it really matters at this stage, but I checked the word count. (The word count will differ greatly by the time it's whipped into shape later on.) For now, even if it's irrelevant, I still like checking. It's the tangible evidence that I've done some stuff. Today I wrote 1333 words. If I typed out the phone book for five hours, I would have a much bigger number. But today's five hours of writing included pondering, googling, deleting, rereading, and doubting. A thousand plus words will do me fine, ta.

I had a shower, drove to a park, and walked around for a bit. It was time for a stretch. 

Wednesday 19th June
Technically, Wednesdays are my day off. Except they aren't really. It's just the day I use when I have to do things mid-week. So after a cracking weight gain at WW, (damn you, you lovely French holiday!) a Costa tea, and a trip round Marksies, I was back at Chapter One. I read through it again. I won't be doing that much more until the whole thing is finished, but it was good to read yesterday's mad typing, and catch some typos and punctuation fails. I also did some researchy bits.

The book is mostly set in Aberystwyth. In Chapter One (I've now decided it's a prologue and not Chapter One) there's an eye-witness account of a potential dramatic incident, from a jobbing musician. I researched orchestras, events at the Aberystwyth bandstand, and musical references I could drop in that could provide a bit of backstory and setting. I looked at photos of the Aberystwyth sunset so I could fathom the best words to convey the mid-evening summer setting. I also booked a ticket for an open air cinema night showing Dirty Dancing at Aberystwyth castle in July. (It isn't at all necessary for the book but it looks like it'll be brilliant.)

Then I watched the England v Japan match with a beer and forgot about the Prologue. For the time being.

Thursday 20th June
Today was all about The Artist Formerly Known As Chapter Two, but is now called Chapter One. Yes, we've moved on! Are you keeping up? I like the ordered feeling of starting a new chapter every Monday morning, but I can get myself in the zone before then. I read over my notes for TAFKA Chapter Two, and worked out what my opening line was going to be. I visualised how I was going to get from the plot points I'd planned, and I wrote down a few more notes along the way. I'm now primed for Monday morning.

Friday 21st June
I wrote this blog, didn't I. YOU'RE WELCOME.

So there we are. A slightly delayed start to the week, but Book Three has begun. I'm a whole prologue down, with only thirty-six chapters more to write. (That number will defo increase as I get further into it. No worries about that.) But now it's the weekend. I've got a busy schedule of eating, slobbing, and mentally preparing myself for the task that follows. Before we all know it, it'll be March, and the first draft will be done. Bring it on! I AM UP FOR THE CHALLENGE. Probably. And even if I'm not, I've got an open-air cinema evening to look forward to. Hurrah.

Have a lovely week, folks.

The Importance of Telling Tales...

Netflix has a new show. 
ASK ME WHY I'M COVERED IN GOOSEBUMPS. 
As soon as I can set aside ten hours of uninterrupted viewing time, I'm diving right in. 
ASK ME WHY IT'S MAKING ME SO TINGLY. 
It's not one to squish into a spare hour a night, or one to start with good intentions, only to leave hanging because life's got in the way. 
ASK ME WHY IT MEANS SO MUCH
Before I'm blown away by a slew of questions, I'll cut right to the chase...

HERE'S THE TIMELINE OF HOW I DISCOVERED MY FAVOURITE EVER AUTHOR; AN AUTHOR WHOSE MAJOR WORKS HAVE JUST BEEN MADE INTO A NETFLIX SERIES.

Mid 90s - Late night Channel 4, after the programme I'd been watching had finished, I stumbled across a US mini series called Tales of the City. It was thrilling. A 1970s world set in gay, bi, trans, and straight San Francisco. I wanted to be there. I wanted to see more. I videoed the subsequent episodes and devoured them. 

From clockwise left: Mouse,
Mona, Mary-Ann, and
Anna Madrigal.

Some time after that, I realised - pre-Internet, so no immediate Googling - the mini series covered two books by someone called Armistead Maupin. Tales of the City, and More Tales of the City. I read them both. A few times.

2001 - I was in Australia. On my cousin's wife's book shelf was the third book in the Tales series - Further Tales of the City. I read it on the plane home, posted it back, and buzzed off the literary reunion I'd had. Michael Tolliver (Mouse) was my favourite character. Anna Madrigal was the maternal glue of the piece. Mary Ann Singleton was the straight eyes guiding me through the story. It was like being on the other side of the world but bumping into old friends.

Mid 2000s - I read the next three books in the series. Babycakes, Significant Others, and Sure of You. I was still reading retrospectively at this point and so topics such as AIDS were having a huge impact on the lives of characters, having been written in the mid-80s. At the end of Sure of You, where Mouse accepts his HIV+ status as the death sentence it was, I felt huge grief. The power of Maupin's characters, and the intimacy I'd been afforded as a reader, was intense.

2007 - In the decade since the last book, so many real world changes happened. Treatment and management of HIV meant my favourite character could survive. Michael Tolliver Lives was here! The realism of the writing and the inclusion of sociopolitical events of the time allowed this to happen. The Tales books were becoming a historical resource; a reflection of society as it changed over decades.

It was early days in my Smartphone
 ownership. This photo is pretty much
 the only evidence I have that I was there.

2008 - I celebrated my 30th birthday in San Francisco. It was somewhere I knew well, despite having never been. Maupin's writing had transported me repeatedly over the years. There was no where else I wanted to go. 

2010 - The fact I was now hanging on for release dates, and being able to see interviews with Armistead Maupin in real time, was great. I couldn't be around in the 1970s at the start of it all, but I was fully onboard now. Mary Ann in Autumn was another triumph. Still, at the heart of the story were Mary Ann, Mouse, and Anna Madrigal. They were ageing, dealing with different issues than before, but still authentic and real. They felt like family. 

2014 - The day had to arrive at some point. Armistead Maupin explained that his new book - The Days of Anna Madrigal - would be the last in the Tales series. (Noooooooo!) With that in mind, I made sure I got a ticket for his reading at the Liverpool Museum. He read the opening pages in the most unassuming, gentle manner. I had worried that when I met him - my favourite author, a huge influence in my own writing, the creator of the best characters ever - I'd be disappointed. I wasn't. What was lovely was that he wasn't a loud, superstar egotist. He hid his (deserved) superstar status under a kindly, 'guy next-door ' exterior. His anecdotes were filthy (they really were!) but shared with a twinkly avuncular charm. Despite that, his politics and passion for equality were stamped through everything he discussed. He didn't hide his anger at injustice, but rather communicated it eloquently to give it the weight it deserved. He was the real deal. Saying hello at the signing was a life-highlight. (I wrote about it - and other stuff too - here.)

2017 - As part of Liverpool's Homotopia festival, a screening of a new documentary, The Untold Tales of Armistead Maupin was shown. I got a ticket, was the only straight in the village, and watched one of the best profile docs around. (I think it's on Netflix now. Check it out.)

2018 - Armistead's memoir, Logical Family, was released. Despite dealing with non-fictional topics such as his white-supremacist father, the internalised homophobia he felt as a young man, or the breakthrough to becoming one of the most beloved gay authors around, the lyricism of his writing still leapt from the page. I reviewed it here (scroll down) and meant every word.

2019 - And now here we are. Right up to date in the present day. I've heard about it for a while now, but Netflix have come up with the goods. The Tales of the City series has been given a new lease of life. Picking up long after the initial mini series/first books are over, the new series starts with Mary Ann's return to 28 Barbary Lane. (Somewhere around the Mary Ann in Autumn time I think.) I've seen the trailer and I'm beyond giddy. It's San Francisco in all its beautiful glory, along with Mouse, Mary Ann, and Anna once more. What's particularly lovely is that some of original actors from the 1990s mini-series have reprised their roles. Laura Linney will always be Mary Ann to me, and despite the fact she wouldn't (and arguably shouldn't) be cast today, Olympia Dukakis' Anna is still my go to image whenever I revisit the books. 

We've all aged. Whether we exist on a fictional page, or in real life, the years have rolled on and we're older/wiser/more cynical than we were twenty years ago. But the telling of stories, the sharing of experiences, and the highlighting of lives other than our own, will never date. It's the lifeblood of creativity. Or, to put it less pretentiously, it's what makes a reader return to the same book time and time again. It's what makes characters created for the San Francisco Chronicle forty-odd years ago, enthral and enliven decades later. 

The Tales series has peppered my adult life, giving me reassurance about the human condition, an insight into a world different from the one I live, and gloriously joy-filled escapism with characters I wish were real friends of mine. What powerful storytelling that is. And so now, if it's all right with you, I've waited long enough. I'm going to close the curtains, make a massive cup of tea, and sink into ten hours of the best stories around. Take me to San Francisco, Netflix. I've got a reunion to attend.

Have a lovely week, folks.

England Expects...

Hello from my hotel room! I am communicating from a completely different part of the world this week. And as much as I'd like to play Guess the Country for the next ten minutes, I'll cut to the chase and tell you it's France. I know, the glamour! I've jetted in for five days of footballing shenanighans, which I'm partway through. You'll be pleased to know, I'm having a marvellous time.

For those not up to speed, we're ankle-deep into the FIFA Women's World Cup. Woohooo! England's group stage matches are being played in Nice, and so I am in Nice. And it is nice! (Hahahahahahahahahahaha for ever.) Last night I had the thrill of watching England play Scotland in both their opening games. (Cracking match. Properly edge of my seat, at times.) It's a whole different ball game from the men's tournament. England Women, AKA the Lionesses, are currently ranked 4th in the world. There's a more than realistic expectation that they'll go far in this competition. It's not even ridiculous to suggest they could win the thing. Within that context, being here brings a lovely, hopeful feeling.

I'll be the Clint to your Meryl.
Just without the republicanism.

I'm sure you've all printed off your wall charts. If not, here you go. I also imagine you've been glued to the TV coverage. Coverage that exists in an elevated state since the last World Cup. (It didn't help that 2015's matches were in the early hours of the morning. France as hosts mean the viewing times are much more sleep-friendly. As well as the TV channels recognising there's a growing audience that wants to watch.) So as the excitement simmers away at home, let me provide you with a personal eye on the ground. Let me try to exude the sporting atmosphere as it unfolds all around me. In the spirit of Clint Eastwood in Bridges of Madison County - who transports Meryl Streep to Bari just by verbally describing it in the heat of a sexy moment - let me transport you to Nice. Let me take you to the 2019 World Cup. Let me ooze all the thrills of this fabulous sporting event. Come on England! Come on Lionesses! Come on ALL OF US.

This truly was the flight of the stars. According to the woman next to me (who was IN THE KNOW) I was flying alongside Nikita Parris' dad, Steph Houghton's in-laws, Toni Duggan's boyfriend, and a woman from FIFA. There was also a Scottish girls' team onboard, that led an impromptu rendition of Flower of Scotland as we landed. The woman next to me started a God Save the Queen retort, but then I remembered Theresa May in that hotel bar and so stayed quiet. But still, it was QUITE the flight.

It was completely unnecessary of Nice to put on fireworks for my arrival, but very lovely, nonetheless. After getting rid of the bags, I was out of the hotel and wandering along the prom looking for food. Lots of football fans walked past. Families strolled along wearing different football shirts as I ate my pizza. The woman in the hotel told me lots of English people had checked in that day. 

Just chillaxin' on the eve of the ENGSCO match. Do you feel like you are here? Have I done a Clint yet? Let me know if you need more a bit more oomph' to get you here.

Here's a bit more oomph for you! Palm trees, a sweeping coastline, people walking along the road! It's all kicking off here. And it did later that day when England and Scotland faced each other.

I was in a sports' bar! This is not my usual kind of holiday, but here I am. I caught the second half of Australia v Italy, alongside lots of Brits, a few Scots, and a bunch of Aussies. Everyone seemed to be rooting for the Matildas so it was a bit gutting when Italy broke the 1-1 deadlock with a second goal, twenty seconds before the end of extra time.

Here's where the action happened last night! The Allianz Riviera stadium in Nice. it was proper massive and ev. Loads of Scottish and English fans, mingling away in the sun. Good natured and chilled were the vibes here.

COME ON LIONESSES

Loving it, loving it, loving it. Loving it like that.

I was critical of Phil Neville's appointment to England manager when it happened. It was nothing personal against him, but rather an irritation that a less qualified professional from the men's game had been promoted over more qualified names in the female game. But that's what happened. However, here's something lovely I witnessed as I took this photo. Phil had been in the middle of the huddle, giving his post-match chat to his team that have just secured a not-easily won three points. Then, as the huddle continued, he walked away, towards the Scottish players. (Off to the left of this photo.) He shook every player's hand, and said a few words to each. Then he walked back to his team, and to the interviewer waiting for him. He didn't need to do that, but he did. Fair play to him.

And so there we are. I'm here for another three days, and have one more match to watch on Wednesday (France v Norway.) It is very hot, I have had lots of beer, and the Nice coastline is very beautiful. I have also eaten a lot of cheese. If I've transported you here for a tiny second, then that's marvellous. If I haven't, then I can only apologise and plan to do better in future. So, keep filling in the wall charts, enjoy the daily matches, and let's all get behind the Lionesses as they move on to certain victory. Well certain-ish.

Have a lovely week, folks.

The Accidental Tourist...

Ooh it's been a busy few weeks. What with a houseful of Aussie cousins alongside the top notch family wedding, there's been a lot going on. It's a funny old thing, hosting people from another country. There're only so many episodes of Drag Race released a month to entertain us all, so beyond the initial catch-up, I can only assume I've been boring AF. And because I feel like I live in the middle of nowhere (albeit on the motorway network) it takes a bit of thought to consider the alternative options. But Reader, there ARE alternative options. Right on the door step and beyond. So, let me guide you through my northerner's guide to impressing overseas guests.

Liverpool combines a bustling city with
a serene waterfront. With added Beatles buzz.

Liverpool
Kind of obvious this one, but it's easy to overlook. Because I used to live in the city, as well as the fact I'm there regularly for shopping, dental work, writing group meetings and walking be-headphoned along the river, I take the tourism aspect for granted. For the overseas Beatles fan, however, Liverpool is an absolute must. Mathew Street, The Beatles Story, the statue of the fab four by the Pier Head, or - as we speak - the John and Yoko exhibition in the Liverpool Museum; it's all happening in Liverpool. Still on my To Do list is a cinematic walking tour from Reel Tours. Genius in its simplicity, it's a wander round the city with big screen locations pointed out as you pass them. What a cracking way to showcase Liverpool. It's all kicking off in town. (I believe there's been a bit of footy going on, too.) It's massively easy to take my home city for granted, but lovely to view with objective eyes once in a while.

The Trafford Centre
Before Liverpool One, there was the Trafford Centre. A shopping haven, not far away, and easily accessible by public transport. When I've been struggling to find a specific outfit for a tricky event, the Trafford Centre has never let me down. It's just a bunch of shops in a posh arcade, but we forget its impact. When I was at sixth form college, there were coach trips organised for Leeds, Sheffield, and Newcastle, all places that had shopping centres; the like of which the North West was missing. And then the Trafford Centre was built - about twenty years ago. And it's still great. For customers, eaters and drinkers, or cinema goers, as well as those that like a 'mooch round the shops. I've been to my relatives' version of this in Australia (Hello Marion shops! Hello Tea Tree Plaza!) and I like to think we can hold own in comparison.

Local shizzle, right in your face. This
was the Rocket190 celebration last week.

Newton-le-Willows
No, you haven't missed the latest capital of culture announcement. This one is a bit out of left field, but hear me out. My brother - a whizz with wood - can often be found at craft fairs of a weekend, selling his stuff. On the Bank Holiday last week, he was at Newton Craft Fair. The high street of this small town was lined with stalls, selling crafts, food, and drink, with lots of local businesses represented. I'll be honest, if it wasn't for my brother, I wouldn't have known about it. But it was brill. A cute, local, fun few hours to show off a bit more of the North West. That same weekend, there was a big shebang in the village down the road from me. A celebration of 190 years since the first steam locomotive trundled along the local railway line, meant a buzz of celebration. Another big deal, local event. Stuff like this feels like a great snapshot for visitors. Sort of Midsomer Murders village life, with all the quirkiness and local eccentricities that suggests. Besides that, my cousin was made up with the taste of a Mr. Whippy. Worth a visit for that alone.

Rolling hills and scenery for days.

Clitheroe
Who knew Clitheroe was so beautiful? Not me, that's for sure. When my brother and sister-in-law announced they were getting married there, I looked on the map and thought, 'Fair play. It's the other side of Manchester and up a bit. Nice one.' And then I didn't think about it until the day before the wedding when I was suddenly in the middle of absolute beauty. Clitheroe is STUNNING. It's how I imagine the Cotswolds to be. Somewhere exceptionally English, just not miles and miles away. It was the ideal showcasing of the English countryside for Aussies and Scousers alike. On the morning of the wedding, my brother-in-law took himself off for a walk. I was busy working out which makeup brush to use with which makeup product so I had enough on my plate, but the photos he WhatsApped through, contained a up-close sheep. That says it all.

Tesco made a liar out of me when I
said we didn't have caramel M&Ms
here. These limited additions ones are
the best version ever. I'm tempted to add a
plentiful supply to my no-deal Brexit drawer.

Tesco
No, I'm not grasping at straws. We all know the buzz of a foreign supermarket, don't we? Whether it's Carrefour on French family holidays, or a Walgreens in the US, the lure of someone else's everyday products is a thrill. Tesco has provided as much of a diversion as the the priciest attraction could ever manage. Whether it's the gin aisle, with myriad flavours and strengths, or the crisp section with prawn cocktail Walkers and cheesy Quavers, food shopping has taken on more significance than before. It's been fun to re-experience things I've not eaten for years, but that stand out to visitors. The box of Tunnock's tea cakes didn't last long. And I'm going to have to systematically desensitise myself from cave-aged mature cheddar once the relatives return to Australia. Either way, it's been fun to see what products create a stir, and which are same old same old.

And now, it's done. The house is empty and my cousins have gone home. I have a few days away (more on that next week) before I return to normality, but it's nearly here. My task, as the monotony returns, and real life kicks back into play, is to remember the eye opener I've had. The Tesco run is as interesting as I want to make it. Local events like beer festivals and galas can be loads of fun. Liverpool is on my doorstep and yet my eyes are closed as I walk around it. Seeing my home turf though the eyes of others has made it much more clear. I've certainly entertained myself, if no one else.

Have a lovely week, folks.