Stretching for Good News...

Happy memories

Since last week it's been a mad scramble to catch up with the news. Some of it's been fanfared via iPhone news alerts. Other headlines have been less blatant. Did you see Mrs McClusky died? The best fictional headteacher from all our Grange Hill memories. Kenneth Starr also died. Perhaps a more divisive figure than the actress, Gwyneth Powell, who played everyone's favourite headteacher. Hilary Mantel of excellent writing fame has also left us too early. And then there's the sad news about Cherry Valentine from Drag Race UK. So young, so rubbish.

 
But there are some hints of good news. Sort of. It seems the tide may be turning positively towards Ukraine, albeit with threats of nuclear war being bandied about along the way. The Attorney General of New York, Letitia James, launched a lawsuit against Donald Trump and his kids for fraud. As I listened to her outline the case, it felt like a few wrongs were being righted. And then the world's eyes have been on the brave women of Iran. In the aftermath of the death of Mahsa Amini, allegedly at the hands of the Morality Police, they've taken to the streets, bareheaded and furious. I can't begin to imagine the strength it takes to defy such authoritarianism. I'm in awe.

But it's a bit of a stretch to say an ongoing war, an alleged criminal still at large, and protests after the death of a woman in police custody, are good news. They're awful news, let's not mince words. But people's resilience and tenacity, the power of collective effort, and solidarity from all over the world have got to be the positives to take in such grim situations. Surely?

Writing News
Not bad, not bad. Ongoing and almost there. The end of the rough draft is nigh. Then I must forget every word. So I can read it like it's new and delete the crap. 

Culture

The FA Women's Super League season kicked off a couple of weeks ago. I'd not been to a match since COVID, but was determined to return to being a Liverpool season ticket holder. And what a kick off it was. For their opener, newly-promoted Liverpool were playing league-winners, Chelsea. I sucked up the inevitable defeat and turned up anyway. So did 3005 other people - a record attendance for Liverpool Women at Prenton Park. Being back in the cold, clapping brilliant athletes amongst a home crowd, was ace. Better still - and defying all expectation - Liverpool won 2-1.  Wa-hoooo! (Let's gloss over their second match yesterday. A bigger attendance for the Derby at Anfield but not a great scoreline. Onwards!)

Do I LOOK like my
two year old niece?

Food and Drink

I had a mad craving in the week. Remember Heinz Space Invaders? Or Heinz Haunted House? The pasta shapes in tomato sauce that were stacked by the spaghetti hoops and beans? It'd been about thirty-four years since I'd last eaten them, but I was overwhelmed. I HAD to have them. Fast-forward to me on Wednesday, in the Sainsburys' beans aisle, scratching my head and wondering where they've gone. Turns out, if you want a sauce-covered pasta shape from a tin these days, you've got to get onboard with Peppa Pig. I felt ridiculous, but the end result was a joy. (Served over scrambled eggs on toast.)

Liverpool by night.

Out and About

Nights out in town used to happen every weekend. Now they're every few months. So with those factors in place, it was really bad timing to meet friends slap bang in the middle of the Labour Party conference. I mean, it's broadly my politics of choice, and I don't begrudge anyone having a drink come Saturday night, but blimey, Liverpool was busy. Stuffed to the gills with earnest types wearing lanyards. It takes all sorts.

Let's hope there's some actual good news this week. Proper stuff that brings happiness to the world. And if not that, let's hope that Heinz broaden their pasta shape range, ASAP. 

 

Have a lovely week, folks

A Weird AF Week...

Me and the news.

I made the decision early doors, to switch off the TV and ignore the Internet. It was for the best. After hearing the actual news - the Queen has died - information outlets quickly filled with speculation and nonsense. Then they repeated it, ad nauseam. I realised I needed to stop shouting at the telly and do other things.

But that makes for a strange week. As a self-confessed news junkie, I've felt unmoored. Desperate to hear from reputable outlets about the war in Ukraine, I searched high and low for a still-functioning source. (I finally remembered Arthur Snell's Doomsday Watch podcast and devoured that.) After weeks of debating with friends about how Liz Truss was going to tackle the energy crisis, I've yet to read anything in depth and reliable despite the immediate plans she once had, to share her ideas. When I did venture onto Twitter, my timeline was filled with retweeted hatred from royal commentators/grifters who pounced on Meghan Markle's every move whilst ignoring the fact they're bitter, twisted racists. Or alternatively, and less rage-inducingly, there was loads of 'Queue Chat'. Like the Duchess of Sussex, The Queue™ was also the subject of intense and constant scrutiny, but without the bare-naked bigotry. Indeed 'Queue Chat', - and just so we're clear, this was the running commentary about the line of people, queuing to walk past the Queen's coffin - could be split into two distinct camps.

1. This is a spectacularly British thing to behold. Isn't our innate eccentricity over such matters of etiquette and decorum, sweetly endearing?

2. WTAF?

I probably don't need to tell you I fell into the second camp. But as someone who ultimately believes that people should do want they want, as long as they don't hurt others, who was I to judge? Queue to your heart's content if that's what makes you happy. I just didn't need to read the thoughts of random people who were watching other people do it. 

So now the official mourning is over. The government, we can only presume, has to do some governing, and I can switch on the news and read social media without feeling like I'm losing my mind. That's plan, anyway. Let's see how it goes.

Fill my veins with
high school movies.

Writing News

In a bid to refuel low reserves of inspiration, I've been recently hammering high school films. Booksmart, Love Simon, Moxie, and then Son of Rambow (less high school, more Will Poulter being brilliant.) I try not to read the genre of book that I'm writing whilst actually writing it - too many worries about inadvertently copying the voice of others - but I have no qualms about immersing myself in the same world via film. It's been a treat.

Any excuse for a 
Hot Priest gif.

Culture
Straight off the back of Rushdie's Midnight's Children, I've gone with Kiley Dunbar's Christmas at the Borrow a Bookshop. Wildly different but both engaging and magical. Cosy Christmas novel season is here. I also rewatched Fleabag in its entirety, so I've had to deal with all the feels, once again.

Food and Drink
What do you do when everything's closed, the TV has room for just the one story, and you've exhausted all your boxsets in the ten day lead-up? You spend the day baking, of course. Yesterday saw me make my first ever batch of cinnamon rolls, and my first Christmas cake. Not the first Christmas cake I've made in my life, but the first one for 2022. The actual Christmas cake for actual Christmas, will come later. 

Out and About

Not much happened in the old Out and About category. My Wednesday brunch was lovely and my Thursday Costa was fun. I can't argue with that.

So now it's a short week, I've rejigged my settings to make this go out on Tuesday, and I've still got the headache of switching it back to Mondays almost immediately. I shall have to leave you and get on. It's all go here. 

Have a lovely week, folks. 

On We Go...

It's hard not to feel sorry for Liz Truss - a sentence I never thought I'd write if I lived to be a thousand years old. Two days into the top job, the job that only a tiny fraction of the country actively want her to have, and she's front and centre outside Number Ten, solemnly orating about the Queen's death. My mind wandered to the scene inside. Bags still packed, the chaos of a house move all around. 'Where's my good black dress?' Was it in the blue case? For the love of God, will someone shift these boxes?!'

It's been a strange few days for anyone who isn't Liz Truss, too. A quick scan of social media shows there's been a range of responses to the Royal death. Heartbroken grief, surprise sadness, mild indifference, and then anger at the blanket fawning. The UK is a broad church. Royal correspondents have been particularly criticised (cough *Witchell* ) although it's a real skill to pad madly and say nothing much, whilst being on air as often as possible. 

So in the spirit of keeping calm and carrying on, the Weekly Update continues. I'd say it's what she would've wanted, but let's not be silly. None of us have a clue if that's true. Not a clue! We can only do what we think is best. So unlike the football this weekend, I'm keeping calm and carrying on.  Duty calls, and on we go. 

Good advice that I 
won't be following.

Writing News

The first draft of my new novel continues apace. But to practical matters. Like everything else right now, paper, ink, and printing prices have gone up. That means making less money on each book sold. When my previous books were published, it was just over a quid. Now it's 70p. In order to earn a £1 for each future book sale, I'd need to raise the price. I don't want to do that. When people can't pay their bills, I'm going to struggle to flog a non-essential novel, even if it is marvellous. (Spoiler alert: SO marvellous.) Instead, I can use less paper and ink. That means I'm keeping my eye on the length and aiming for fewer than 60,000 words. For an adult novel, this would be too short, but for a middle grade book, it's fine. I've got twelve chapters, so have tried to stick to 5000 words per chapter. It's tricky. I was well over target a few months ago, now I'm back on track with an average of 5286 words per chapter. There's still stuff to cut, but the editing process will do that. So, yeah, that's the Writing News this week. It's not always poetic language and creative juices. Oh no. 

Culture

I had a cinema double bill on Saturday. See How They Run was first, which I thought was 'marvellous fun', and a decent alternative to the sombre TV coverage. Then, ten minutes after the credits rolled, I wandered into another screen and watched Jaws. For the first time! Yeah, I know. Not sure how I'd avoided it all these years, but I had, and now I've not. It was... wait for it... better than I thought it'd be. I mean, you probably had to watch it before CGI and you probably had to forget that Boris Johnson's COVID response was modelled on the mayor from the film. But yeah. It was sharky fun.

 

My version - stilton, spinach,
truffle oil, and honey.

Food and Drink

After eating the nicest pizza in the Wine Club last week, I had a bash at making my own. Stilton, truffle oil, spinach, and honey. It was nowhere near as good as theirs, but it did the job. Meanwhile, I'm sorry to say, the 2022 padron season is over.

The Shakespeare North
Playhouse

Out and About

First there was a mid-week tea at theWine Club. (See pizza news above.) Then I was lucky enough to be invited to the Shakespeare North Playhouse, for the As You Write It performances. (One Show fans may have heard of this. In conjunction with the Playhouse, the BBC ran a nationwide competition for young people to write a play to be performed on stage.) A marvellous time was had by all!

Next Monday, it seems, there's to be a televised funeral. I probably won't post a blog at the same time. I'm sure it'll be best the day later. (It's what she would have wanted. Or is it? Literally no one outside her actual circle has a clue. Stop saying it about random shit!) No, I'll post later in the week. Or maybe treat myself to a week off. Who knows? But whatever happens...

...have a lovely week, folks. 

The Extreme Sport of... Writing?

Last week was AMAZING. I'm high on life and full of the joys. Intrigued? Excellent. On we go.

13,395 words, baby!

First, let's remind ourselves where we left off. If you were here last time, you'll know I was about to have a week, home alone. My plan was to blitz the novel, which I've been slogging through since February, joking that by the end of the week, I'd 'emerge from a pile of screwed up papers, shoulders aching, clutching a freshly printed tome under my arm'. Well? I didn't quite manage that. Tbh, I never thought I would. But I did surprise myself. Between Monday and Friday, I wrote 13,395 words. That's about the same number I managed between February and April. I know! I'm sky high on adrenaline!

When writing becomes a challenging slog, it's a right old pain in the arse. No matter how many times you tell yourself that all writers feel blocked, or that brain fog's standard for a 'woman my age,' or that after lockdowns and COVID, a lack of concentration is understandable, it doesn't make you feel better. Or make it easier to find your way. 

And then there's the overwhelming feeling of guilt for being self-indulgent. When things are tricky, and the story's nowhere to be found, it's easy to lose heart. 'What's the point? Another book won't save lives or change the world. Give up, Loser! Do something useful.'

But that voice is talking bollocks. Actual bollocks. My books might never be in shop windows, or top the bestseller lists, but they do get read. And some people who've read them, tell me they like them. And one or two of those people tell me they love them. When I think it's too hard to keep writing, I remember that. 

A (batshit) artist's impression
of my teenage years.

I also think about the books I've loved. Some were written by mega-famous authors who didn't need the money or validation. Many were not. I cannot imagine my teenage years - which were basically fine - if I hadn't had access to a library of books that provided escape. Hundreds of stories by unknown writers have poured into my head. Names I can't remember, plots of which I've only the vaguest of memories. But for the duration they took to read, I was transported. To other places, other eras, and other people. I experienced SO much in the bedroom at my parent's place. (That's not even a sex joke!)

So my week was brilliant because I found my way, and got back on track. I hammered the keyboard from dawn till dusk. I felt adrenaline highs, along with the aches of mental endurance. It was emotional, folks. Now, there's only three more chapters to write, (15000 ish words) and I can see exactly where it's heading. That also feels boss.

Ooh, it's like a scene
 I wrote last week.

The other lovely thing about a concentrated week of writing, was I got to spend it with my characters. Sorry, I should've sounded the 'wanker' alert before I said that, but it's true. I've created characters I really like. Sometimes the story demands I've to make them behave badly, or insensitively. But you have to fundamentally like your characters. If you don't, no one else will. So while I spent the week making Leeza and Jake get up to all sorts of shenanghans, I had an absolute ball. I was hanging out with my friends. Imaginary friends, sure, but it was a blast.

So what's next? As much as I feel a sense of achievement now, I can't keep up that level of effort. Mainly because the house is no longer empty. But even if it were, I'd be overwhelmed. My brain would be wrecked in no time. (I didn't eat many balanced meals or do much exercise. Not a great plan, long term.) But I've proved what I need to do. Set targets. Stick to them. Ignore distractions. It's hardly rocket science, is it?

I did this a few times over
the weekend. Just around
 the house, like.

I know my books will never make me rich, and that's OK. Some people have enjoyed them, and they might've provided a bit of escape or a sense of calm to make every day life easier. That's enough of a reward as it is. But since Friday night, I feel high as a kite! Like I've run ten marathons! I'm invincible! The thrills are real and they feel amazing. Who knew writing was an extreme sport? 

Have a lovely week, folks.