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.

You Can Always Rely on Gnocchi...

I won't lie, it's all a bit of a struggle this week. 

The gherkins are my ideas, the jar is
writer's block. I have no idea who the
old lady is, but she deserves all the
 acting awards in the world.

It's the time I share my glittering insights on life. This week, however, I've been looking at a blank screen for the past hour. I have a smidge of a hangover and a distinct lack of motivation. I'm in my pyjamas, I'm probably pre-mentrual, and I absolutely can't be arsed. And yet here we are. It's blog time. I have to crack on. 

Some weeks, I know what I'm going to write, days before I sit down to do it. A thought will have been festering. Like when I wrote about my No More Page Three T-shirt now being irrelevant. I'd had that in my head for a week before I shaped it into paragraphs. Other times, something big will happen that everyone's talking about. Last week it was the possibility of a General Election. When that happens, I find that my gut feeling to the news can be used as a topic. I know that I'll be able to work it into 800 words of eloquence. Or nonsense. But either way, sentences are formed.

This week, that hasn't happened.

This is me last night.
 Shovelling down the
Bhel Puri without a
thought in my head about
what I could write today.

My brain's main topic of thought these days is politics but I went there last week. As I'm not a political commentator - no, really, I'm not. I know it's hard to believe - then a second week on the topic is a bit much. Beyond that, the majority of my feelings right now are joy-filled contentment that the clocks have gone back, it's the time for scarves and gloves, and that Christmas tunes can be legitimately played on any car journey. I have written about my love of Winter many times before. TLDR: It's the best. So, after that, I'm struggling for something new that I can share.

My next port of call, when I'm stuck like this, is to actively look for topics. So, I read the smaller stories on the BBC news website. I scroll through Twitter for something that jumps out. I check out Instagram. Today, that is proving less than fruitful. I am writing this the day after Halloween. A festival that passes me by, because A) it's silly, B) I'm 41 and C) I am child-free and live in a child-free area. (This makes it sound like it's a town rule. It isn't. There are just no kids on my road. I am spared the cottonwool cobwebs and spiderweb window patterns as I go about my business.) So the morning after the night before, as I scroll through social media looking for something to explore on my blog, I'm just seeing a gazillion uploads of fancy dress. It's not really helping.

So we're down to the worst case scenario. The scraping of the bottom of the barrel. The thing I know I always have in my back pocket, should the need arise. Folks, it's time to pull out the recipe card.

Here is the nicest meal I can think of, off the top of my head. It's got three ingredients, and takes fifteen minutes tops. I'm sorry it's come to this, but it has. At least I'm imparting something, anything. I've done the best I can under very trying circumstances.

Nicky's Gnocchi

Serves 2

1 packet of trimmed green beans
1 packet of gnocchi
1 tub of marinated prawns (Marksies chilli and coriander works for me.)

Right then. This is as simple as it gets.

• Pan fry the green beans. Cut them in half if you want. Use oil if you want. Either way, move them around the pan for five minutes or so until they're slightly softer than they were.
• Move the green beans to one side of the frying pan and add the gnocchi. It will be firm and will roll around as you move the pan. Five minutes of that, and the outside of the gnocchi will start crisping, whilst the inside gets softer. Another five minutes of letting it cook and the gnocchi will start to look like baby roast potatoes. 
• When you're happy the gnocchi and green beans are cooked, add the prawns. Cut them in half if you want. Add all the flavoured oil and herbs from the pot. Stir everything together for a minute. You don't need long as the prawns are already cooked. 
• When everything is hot and mixed together, you're done. Eat up, it's fit. 

So there we go. Some thoughts exploring pesky writer's block, plus a handy little recipe should you ever find yourself thinking, 'Oh, I have green beans, gnocchi and prawns in the fridge but I don't have the first idea what to do with them.' Look, I am happy to help. But for now, let's take some time to regroup and we'll try again next week. It can only get better from here.

Have a lovely week, folks.