Forgive My Meta Indulgence...

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

'Thanks for the tea. Wow, it's hot.'

'The woman asked me if I wanted extra milk. I should have said yes. Well spotted on getting this couch, by the way. We timed it perfectly.'

'Yeah. Busy isn't it. I hovered for a while, before that couple left. We can catch up in comfort.'

'Excellent. So, how's the book going, Nicky?'

'Thanks for asking. It's getting to be a bit of a slog at the moment. I'm trying to plough through but I've hit a wall.'

'What's the problem? Something that can be fixed?'

'I'm sure it'll be fine. It occurred to me during a reread, that I need more dialogue in the earlier chapters.'

'Why?'

'Because without it, there's a tendency to fall back on too much exposition.'

'What's exposition?'

'Good question. It's that thing where writers add backstory and information about a character, instead of showing the same facts through dialogue and action.'

'And it's a problem?'

'Too much of it can be. It can take the reader away from the immediacy of the plot, and bore them with too much waffle.'

'Can you give me an example?'

'Course I can. Imagine I was writing a story where I said that two friends had met for a cuppa in a busy cafe, and the tea was too hot to drink at first, but they nabbed an empty couch to sit on, and then started chatting about a writing project. I could do that in a waffly paragraph where I tell the reader what is happening, or I could show those facts through their conversation. It's a much quicker way of getting into it.'

'Clever.'

'I know.'

'Give me another one.'

'Ok, well if it's raining outside, I could describe the character holding an umbrella, or avoiding puddles. That way the fact it's raining is explained through the action of the character, not by the author having to say it was raining.'

'I get it. Show don't tell. So, you think you've put too much exposition in your early chapters?'

'Yeah.'

'What can you do about it?'

'I'm working on it. One way is to add more dialogue. That's probably the easiest way to improve it. The problem is, my early chapters are supposed to highlight the social isolation of the characters involved. The small amounts of dialogue that exist already are with people that have no emotional links to the main characters.'

'Like who?'

'Well, I have a whole section where one of the key characters has five seconds of chat with the guy who serves her in the supermarket. That's after about three pages of prose.'

'Prose?'

'Waffle.' 

'Ah.'

'The point is that he's the only person she verbally communicates with that day. For me to add in a whole bunch of other dialogue would take away the effects of loneliness that I'm trying to highlight.' 

'Is there nothing else you can do?'

'I have some other options. I'm using emails and Facebook messages to break up longer paragraphs. The character might have had no one to chat to that day, but I can show her typing an email, or reading a text. That way I can stick to show don't tell . She can show her feelings by typing them to a friend. And if she feels really isolated, she might end up deleting the message before she sends it. That way the character remains socially isolated, but we see this without being told it by the author in unwieldy paragraphs, over and over again.' 

'Wow. That's brilliant. You're so clever.'

'Ah, Thanks.'

'So, the wall you've hit...?'

'Yeah. I've paused the rough draft at a critical point. I want to make sure I've locked in the first half of the book, and developed the characters as deeply as I can, before I get to the emotional crux of the thing.'

'Were you worried it wasn't working?'

'I suppose I just wanted to make sure that the motivations and behaviour of the characters were inevitable by the way I'd set them up. Their choices have to make sense. And reading back, I felt I could have set them up better than I have so far.'

'You panicked?'

'Yeah. I think I did.'

'Well I don't care what you say, I think you are marvellous, Nicky. A genius. I don't know how you do it, week in, week out. Simply inspirational. You must keep up the good work. Society needs your books. Society needs you.'

'Ah thanks, Malala. That's a lovely thing to say. And how are things going for you, post Nobel prize?' 

End Scene.

(Psst. Have a lovely week, folks.)

Social Interaction? Not as Bad as it Sounds...

It's funny how life imitates art, innit? No really, trust me. It's hilarious. 

The art in question is my own work in progress. I know. Listen to me. Deluded much? That would be a hell yeah, but let's go with it. I am halfway through the first draft of Carry the Beautiful 2. That's not its real name. I have a overly long shortlist containing a secretly preferred title, but decisions like that are months away. For now, let's call it CTB2, or Tilda Returns, or CTB: This Time it's Personal. 

Struggling to find the words.

I saw a friend at the weekend and tried to condense the themes and ideas behind the book into a pithy soundbite. That went as well as you can imagine. Especially as I was several pints of Camden Hells down, and making no sense, regardless of how impassioned I was. (Also, I'd seen Fleabag Live a few hours earlier so it was pointless to even try and talk about writing anything of worth ever again. It's all been done. We're wasting our time.) Anyway, I tried to extract the main themes of the book and convey them via the medium of human words. I can't remember how much my attempts sounded like the next paragraph, but it's more or less what I was aiming for. Also, fans of Carry the Beautiful - all fourteen of you - might want to pay close attention. I'm dropping teasers and hints all over the show. Ready? Good. Here we go.

If you want a refresher, or to
find out what happens before all
this, find out here.

CTB2 is about the search for meaning and connection in lives that society considers have none. Three middle-aged people (all characters from CTB) are dealing with new situations. Tilda is now single and living alone in a new town. Bea (her friend from the office) has embarked on a whirlwind romantic relationship that is not as wonderful as it first appears. Stewart (the solicitor) is dealing with the unbottling of years of grief and suppressed emotion. All three are isolated and lonely. All three are searching, whether they realise it or not, for meaning and worth. Without the societal brownie points of marriage and children, how do they navigate their way towards fulfilment and happiness, whilst dealing with their isolation and increasing loneliness?

I'll be honest, it sounds quite depressing when I write it out like that. Note to self: Make the blurb more upbeat! In reality, there's loads of humour that has seeped in. I like writing darker themes through the perky delusion of character dialogue. It means the reader has to do a bit of work, and make sense of hints that creep up on them, not have it explained every step of the way. And it's no great plot spoiler to say that one of the ways of combating their isolation is for the characters to connect with each other. They do this in a variety of ways, but by the end, their search for fulfilment involves moving away from being lonely, to making connections with each other and the world beyond. It's not rocket science to suggest that's how they solve their predicaments. 

Loving a bit of me time

So, how is life imitating art? Well, over the course of the summer I turned into Tilda. No, I didn't buy a campervan and drive off into the sunset, but I did spend every week since June churning out the chapters, and keeping a low profile. My parents, who tend to be quite hands off in their role, even made contact last week to say they hadn't seen me for months and were coming around. Clearly I've been out of action for some time. Even when I did venture outdoors, it was usually alone. A brisk walk around the park with a podcast fed into my ears, a cinema trip, or a couple of days by the seaside - all things I did by myself. It was always through choice, I should add. I like my own company. Arranging any social event is far easier when there is just one schedule to coordinate. But still. I kept a low profile over the summer months.   

But over the last three weekends, things have suddenly got a lot busier. A boozy night with friendly strangers on my writing course, a house party for a friend's 50th the week later, and then last weekend there was a dinner party and Fleabag.

The tastiest pie ever,
and all for me. 

The dinner party was brilliant. My friend's friend invited me along because I was in the area, with the stipulation that I made a pie for someone called Zoe. When I got there, there was a pie waiting for me from someone called Sam. It was a pie party. What's not to love! Despite the very real fear of giving Zoe food poisoning, it was the loveliest evening with the loveliest people. The pie I received was delicious, although highly amusing to Sam when I confidently announced it to be Thai chicken, when it was curried carrot and butternut squash. A fab evening, with several people I'd never met before. Then the next day, Fleabag! The play was perfect. That is all. Read reviews if you need, or simply take my word for it. The hours after the play were just as good though. My friend's friend (another one - she has so many!) had organised the tickets for us, as well as for other friends of hers. As a result, a group of mostly strangers went for a drink after the theatre and proceeded to have a marvellous time chatting away until it was time for trains. The experience reminded me why the Bechdel Test still stands as a watermark of realistic female representation. Five women chatting, for roughly three hours, with about 99.9% of the conversation covering topics other than men. (I did bring up Taron Egerton at one point, but only to see if it was just me having feelings. It was a brief diversion before returning to more engrossing topics such as writing projects, US politics, Brexit, careers, theatre, and everything else in between.) All of life got sorted out, right there in the pub.

I came home, knackered but replenished. Talking to like-minded people is good for the soul. I should do it more. I need to do it more. But for now, I've partied hard all weekend and it's time for to get my writing head down again. I am desperate to get to the end of this rough draft, so I can go back to the beginning and start making it better. That means, hard work for another couple of months, and then Christmas off. If you see me over the December period, I will talk with you for hours, put the world to rights, and bleed you dry as I fill up on enough social interaction to see me through till Easter. Thank you in advance for your energy.

Have a lovely week, folks.

The Inner Turmoil of a Screaming Fan...

During those quiet moments when the clocks ticks, the birds chirp, and the hum of distant traffic provides a contemplative hint of bass, I find myself asking the big question: Why am I so ridiculous around celebrities? 

No really, what is my problem? They're only human. Before they were famous, they weren't famous. I shouldn't be so inwardly giddy just because I've seen their face on a screen.

Seconds earlier, I talked gibberish.

I've talked about this before. When I queued at a book signing to see Marian Keyes, I got stupidly tongue-tied, and ended up wasting my minute with her by blurting out something about Strictly. I have similarly morto anecdotes from my experiences with Caitlin Moran and Armistead Maupin. And those are the times I should be composed. I bought a ticket for a signing. I knew I was going to see my writer hero. I had loads of time to gather my thoughts and provide the witty intro to what could have been the start of a marvellous friendship. Instead I bottled it. Torn between a desire to play it cool, giving them their space, and the urge to chivvy them into posing for multiple selfies as I tell them exactly which of their books changed my life the most. It's a constant struggle. 

When I randomly bump into famous faces in the wild, as it were, I have even less time to prepare. Over the years - and in Euston Station alone - I've walked past Gary Lineker (tiny), Ann Widdecombe (tinier) and Peter Crouch (not tiny at all.) By the time I realise it's them, it's too late. I would have to turn around and run back, catching them up. And then what? Cooo-eee, Gary! I really liked you in Italia '90. I don't think so. I'd struggle to say anything to Peter Crouch as I don't know much about him beyond footballer, and as for Ann Widdecombe? Well. I'm not so giddy about that one. Even with all my courage summoned, I'd probably be happy to leave her be, and give the selfies a swerve.

Full of properly good food. Honest.

But why am I bringing this up now, I hear literally no one ask. Well, I'll explain. Last week I saw another celebrity in the wild. Sort of wild, anyway. I went to see the play Toast at the Playhouse in Liverpool. You know the one? Based on Nigel Slater's memoir of the same name. It was a last minute ticket, bought on a whim a couple of weeks ago, and a lovely way to spend an otherwise dull Tuesday. Nigel Slater is one of my favourite food writers. His book, Real Food, was what provided the transition between my baked beans and cheese toastie meals of university*, and my gradual understanding of ingredients, flavours and intuitive cooking. He was the person to introduce me to the mouth-watering combination of chilli, garlic, lemon, and ginger. Not a week goes by when I don't have those flavours as the base of one of my meals. That was twenty years ago. More recently he bought out his book, The Christmas Chronicles, which is the most perfectly atmospheric, cosy as all get out, winter-lovers guide to the best season of the year. (Don't @me. It is the best.) Anyway, let's cut to the chase. Tuesday night, in the theatre, people are taking their seats. Just before the action starts, Nigel Slater walks in. Yeah! For realsies. I gasped. He smiled at people as he made his way to his row. There was a frisson of excitement. It was immense. In a rare moment of spontaneous small talk, I turned to the woman next to me and said, 'Oh.' Yeah, I know. When did I get so chatty? It seems she was more used to interaction with a stranger than I was. She told me she had seen him in the bar beforehand and got a selfie. She told me he said he always makes it to the opening nights of his play. She told me he was lovely. Then the woman to my right got involved. She said she had been too shy to approach him when she had seen him earlier. The woman to my left explained she had no qualms at all. She was sixty and she had stopped caring what people think. I smiled and said, 'Good for you,' in what I hoped came across as supportive, not sarky. Obvs the real emotion was jealousy. 

Lovely Nigel and his lovely writing.
This book demands fairy lights.

I care far too much about what people think. When I see someone I think is brilliant - usually a writer tbh - I assume they won't want to be troubled by little old me. I assume they'll want to be left alone to get on with their day, even when they're attending the opening night of their play, or are sitting at a book signing waiting to talk to their readers. This week, four people who have read my book talked to me about it. It was a joy. I could chat about it all day. And whilst they didn't stop me in the street, or interrupt my food shopping, it wouldn't bother me if they had. I need to remember that, especially when I'm walking away from a theatre, annoyed I didn't tell Nigel Slater I love his work.

Top tip: Have a mini moment of objectification
 but then celebrate male achievements
to counteract the reductive thought. 

So what next? Well, brace yourselves. It's a cracker. In a couple of days I'll be watching another play. But literally, this one is beyond exciting. I've only managed to get myself a ticket for Fleabag. (Thanks to a very lovely friend of a friend, who was ahead of me in the online queue.) Now, here's the thing. There have been videos online of Phoebe Waller-Bridge and Andrew Scott giving out M&S gin and tonics to the people queueing to get in. I know it probably won't happen when I'm there but Lordy, it also might. I need to be prepared. I need to work out what to say to both of them, should they happen to walk past and offer me a drink. To be honest, it's still a work in progress. All I've planned so far is to shout at Andrew Scott (AKA Sexy Priest) to go away and not come back until he's in a black shirt and dog collar. Then I'll apologise for objectifying him, and almost as an afterthought, I might remember to say I thought his Hamlet was very good. When it comes to Phoebe Waller-Bridge, I'm worried I won't be able stop myself from leaping into her arms, burying my head in her neck and sobbing on her for being the cleverest, most perceptive, dynamite writer of her generation, that has rewritten everything I understand about character and taking an audience on an emotional journey. Like I said, it's a work in progress. 

What is more likely is that a) they won't be there, or if they are then b) I will feel giddy inside, smile politely, and silently objectify Andrew Scott a teensy bit, before resigning myself to the fact that PWB will probably never be my best mate or writing mentor. I am not quite in the same place as the woman next to me in the theatre. Just twentyish years to go until I can say that I am sixty and I have stopped caring what people think. And then, brace yourselves, celebs. I'll be all over you.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*It wasn't a varied diet. Beans, cheese, bread, and crisps seemed to cover most of first year.

Politicians! Be Nice and I'll Wee All Over You...

Blimey, I'm knackered. In the past week I've mainlined the BBC Parliament channel like it's heroin. At the time of writing, all sorts of mad political shizzle has gone on. Sibling bust ups, outright lies, sackings and defections. By the time this gets uploaded, a shedload more shenanigans will have occurred. Even the issue of a potential prison sentence has been raised. The urge to rub my hands gleefully and buzz off the drama of it all, is intense. But then real anger kicks in. People's jobs, health, and ability to live in peace are all at stake. Whether you fall on the Leave, Remain, or What's Brexit? side, the current events in Westminster are of huge significance to us all.

I tweeted last week that I had a list of MPs that I wouldn't piss on if they were on fire. That might seem a bit harsh in hindsight. I certainly wasn't advocating withholding of emergency aid in an arson/fire scenario. But to watch entitled, lazy, and unmoved (mostly) men, stand up and bumble their way through a load of nonsense, seemingly in response to an opposing comment but never actually straying from debunked myths and disputed statements, was too much at times. The 'posh white bloke' demographic of a stereotypical MP, was well represented. It was easy to see why many people are turned off from politics when it comes across as an extension of the golf club, or the gentleman's club, or whatever other 'exclusive, elitist, closed to people that are different' club you want to name. I get that, completely. But then there were absolute heroes. Jess Phillips stood up and spoke from the heart. Her anger was fuelled by the fact her Domestic Violence Bill will be snookered by the shutting down of Parliament. Two years of work down the drain so that this out-of-hand chess game can be played. She was fuming and told the new PM so. As well as her, there were excellent contributions from Caroline Lucas, Anna Soubry, Lady Hermon - because FTLOG the people of Northern Ireland must be at their wits end - and Jo Swinson. Then there was Tan Dhesi. He asked Boris Johnson to apologise for the many times his words have been racist. He pointed out the link between his offensive language and the spike in hate crimes. His remarks got a lot of audible support from his colleagues because, let's face it, if the whole House can't get behind the rejection of racism, we're in real trouble. Of course the Prime Minister blustered and blagged, ultimately defending his comments and then throwing in a deflection of Whataboutery in terms of Labour's handling of anti-semitism. (A valid point, but not the point here.) Of course he did. He doesn't care. Other MPs do care about the country. I disagree with the Tory party on much of what they stand for, yet seeing senior members choose the bigger picture rather than their own careers was gratifying. Especially as several were not of retirement age. Twenty-one MPs chose to vote against a bill they knew to be flawed, despite knowing it would be career suicide. Their sacrifice was in stark contrast to the current front bench.

Alongside the anger and frustration at how messed up politics seems to be, there was also the lighter side. I watched incredulously as Jacob Rees-Mogg reclined horizontally across seats, as MPs debated whether to take control of the House. At first I considered he might have a bad back. When I had sciatica a few years ago, I could only sit comfortably if I had my leg elevated. Perhaps that was it? It seems not. Happily, within hours, the first memes came through. We've all seen them now. The one with him in stockings and suspenders, the one where he has a graph of the declining Tory majority superimposed across his sloping body, or the one where an utter beef cake lies next to him, stroking his side, until taking his top off and cuddling him some more. Light relief, and much needed. Not so fun to see, but equally deflating, was the clip of Iain Duncan Smith picking his nose and eating it. Yep. That happened. I'd add the link to it here, but I don't want to repulse anyone beyond what they can bear. A quick Google on your search engine of choice* will see you right. 

Moving quickly on, there have been excellent pundits and commentators who have helped to ease the head-frig as political events spiral beyond belief. Firstly, anything Marina Hyde writes about anything is brilliant, but her column on Friday was particularly eviscerating. (It's worth a click. Do it now, then come back. Off you pop. I'll wait.) On Twitter, I've found @RemaniacsCast, @IanDunt, @davidallengreen, @EmmaKennedy, and @sturdyAlex to be informative and knowledgeable, but also able to lampoon where necessary. To satirise and skewer, to deflate and debunk. Back in the day it was Spitting Image. Now it's sarcastic political comment in 280 character soundbites, threaded together over the course of an evening. Or, as we saw with its return on Thursday, The Mash Report. Perfect timing for the start of the new series. I can only imagine how frenzied the satirical news show's production meetings must have been in the run up to recording on Wednesday night. 

Seems I'm not the
only one tuning in.

So now we have another week of drama. At the time of writing (which has been at several points over the past four days because stuff keeps changing) there's another vote tonight about having an election. I know what I want the outcome to be. I know what I think is best. Whether that happens or not is anyone's guess. But let's wrap things up with some positivity. Despite feeling politically engaged before 2016, I now know I never knew the meaning of the phrase. I can't remember a time in my life that everyone (OK, some people) watched live Parliament all evening rather than Netflix or whatever they were in the middle of bingeing. I now have a much better understanding of parliamentary process (CLOSE THE DOOOOOORRRRSSSSS) and even though I have no intention of being an MP myself, watching the visible pride pour from Jane Dodds as she was sworn in as the new MP for Brecon and Radnorshire, was lovely. The boorish bullies that currently dominate front bench politics, are the minority. I think. I hope. They sit in front of real people with real lives, real constituents, and real concerns. Those MPs might need to shout louder to be heard over the entitlement and bullying of others, but they are still there. There are still adults in position, alongside the overgrown children. If they were on fire, I would piss on them. It's good to remember that.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*My search engine of choice is now Ecosia. Hugely similar to Google but with all profits going towards tree planting. Win.

Calling all Year Sixes, and Those That Know Them...

Oooh Bank Holidays. They are pesky little things, aren't they. It's marvellous to have a three-day weekend but when Monday is the day you get loads of writing done, taking that day off for weekend-style fun, plays real havoc with the rest of the week's routine.

Weekend garden drinking times.
I can't argue it wasn't fun. 

Ever since last Monday - a day that included a 70th birthday lunch for my Uncle, as well as an evening of sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew banter - I've been playing catch up. I managed to write Monday's chapter on Tuesday, Tuesday's chapter on Wednesday, then editing and blog writing (hello You!) on Thursday. Then Friday I was all over the place again as I packed to go to a writing conference in Warwick. It's been quite the week.

And because it's been a bit mad, I've been remiss in making connections and marketing my book. I usually spend some time every week, signposting libraries, writerly people, and readers to my books - whether they want me to or not. But last week, that's the stuff I didn't have time for. Except, I did without even realising it.


First of all, my cousin's daughter passed a card to me, via my aunt. Keeping up? Brilliant. Well the card was from my second cousin who is about to start High School this week. She wrote to say how much she had enjoyed Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say, and referenced the ways in which she identified with Leeza. The thing is, because the character is a Year Six child, dealing with all the trials and tribulations that involves, then there's a whole year group of people out there that may or may not get something from reading the story. I read the card and felt chuffed that my cousin's daughter had got something from what I'd written. And in a way I hadn't particularly envisaged.

An almost Year Sixer!
The ideal time to read.

A day later, my hairdresser was telling me how his child was about to start Year Six. He said the only thing she was worried about were the SATs tests. Quick as a flash - an organic one, not a marketing one - I said she might enjoy my book. I explained that the main protagonist dealt with the SATs tests with a small amount of worry, but a lot of common sense. I said that it might provide some comfort, or at least some acknowledgement that they are a universal hassle for everyone in the same year. And I meant it too. I wasn't trying to sell a book. (OF COURSE I WAS TRYING TO SELL A BOOK, BUT IN KIND AND SUPPORTIVE WAY.) It just felt an appropriate time to read it.

If you find yourself in the middle
of the Indian Ocean, and you've
already read Vanki by Adler
Olsen, give Leeza McAuliffe a go

So this week, I'm making a bold claim. I reckon if you know someone about to begin Year Six, then Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say would be an ideal present for them. You could give it as a Back to School sweetener. Or, if you quite rightly recognise that kids don't need coddling with bribes to take part in basic educational conventions, then get a head's start on your Christmas shopping and put it away for them until December. If the Year Six child in your life starts reading it next January, they will be the exact same educational point in time as Leeza's story starts. You KNOW it makes sense.


I should add, just before I shut up for the week, that this also makes a great read for anyone beyond the age of...hmmm, probably eight? In fact, my thirty year old brother finally read it a few weeks ago... on his honeymoon. That's about as off-brand as the book can possibly be. But I still got a text to say it had been a good read. In fact, he's left it in a Mauritian hotel's reading area. If you're passing, look it up.

Have a lovely week, folks.