Stop and Smell the Sweet Spot...

The sweet spot, baby!

We're in the sweet spot right now. Or at least I am. Tbf, it's a highly personalised sweet spot that can't possibly apply to everyone. Basically, we're post-Winter, with whole days that are rain-free, but the annual joy of the hay fever season (insert sarcastic side-eye here) hasn't yet kicked in. The beauty of that means I get to enjoy a beer garden or two. My most recent one was a German Kraft place that had excellent beers, big outdoor tables, and on a day with perfectly temperate, non-sweaty sunshine. It won't be long before such outdoor pursuits will be accompanied by my sneezy, snotty, irritated head. But for now? It's lovely!

Writing 

My first book, Carry the Beautiful, owes a healthy debt of gratitude to Willy Russell's Shirley Valentine. I realised that, once I'd got to the end of the first draft. A bored woman living a humdrum life gets the courage to make an escape. Tilda Willoughby might not make it to Greece, and her emotional journey goes via a different route, but there are parallels. Until last week I'd only ever seen the 1989 film. The one where Pauline Collins talks to the wall, has a shocker of a fella in Bernard Hill, and runs off to Greece with Alison Streadman. But then I saw Sheridan Smith's Shirley Valentine at the Duke of York theatre in the West End. The one woman show where Smith, alone on stage for two hours, recounts her exploits and voices every character. It was sublime. As well as nailing the nuances of a South Liverpool accent, she had the audience in the palm of her hand. It was an excellent reminder that words on a page can be elevated - times a million - when performed brilliantly. Anyway, back to Writing News. I'm still editing. It was just lovely to be reminded of the subconscious inspo for my first novel.

Culture

I've blown my main cultural news in the previous paragraph. Soz about that, like. But as well as some actual theatre, yesterday I saw the NT Live performance of Good at the Odeon. Last year, David Tennant blew me away when I saw him play John Halder, the 'good' German professor as he descends into fascism. It was excellent to rewatch, albeit from a Warrington cinema seat. Finally, in less high-brow but perfectly compelling loveliness, I binged Colin From Accounts. Twice. The title makes it sound like a workplace sitcom but it's not. It's a sweet, funny romance (with none of the saccharine-schmaltz that that sentence implies). It's on BBC iPlayer now. 

Droooooll

Food and Drink

Stop Press! I've finally done it. I've found the best Spanish tortilla in Christendom. As usual my inferior photography skills don't do it justice, but here it is in all its glory. Thank you, Brindisa, for your efforts. I could eat that everyday for the rest of my life.

Hey babes.

Out and About

In my brief sojourn to the big smoke, I had a special pilgrimage to make. Since my last visit, London has only gone and opened its first Sephora. I know! Hurrah! Woohoo!... pardon? What's Sephora? Wow. OK. Well, let me see. Sephora is a makeup and cosmetic shop that stocks all the cool brands and makes me embody the phrase 'like a kid in a toy shop' the second I walk through the door. (That rush doesn't happen in any other beauty shop. Sorry Boots.) Stick your tourist sight seeing - when I'm abroad the first thing I do is Google the nearest Sephora. Anyway, back to the point. I made the trek to Westfield Shepherd's Bush and gorged myself silly on shiny, powdery, glittery stuff. It's the little things. (Not so little at the cash till. Sigh.)

Back to reality now. No more frivolous shopping, beer gardens, or lovely theatre for me. There's editing to be done, and the bedroom refurb's still in progress. (Tomorrow, the skip arrives!) But still. While the sweet spot is here, it's good to recognise it. To recognise it, appreciate it, and enjoy it. What's that phrase? Don't forget to stop and smell the flowers? I won't be literally doing that what with the pollen and shit, but it's a decent metaphor I guess.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Actual Maths, Tofu Virginity, and Dust...

Live scenes from my bedroom.

Spring continues to blast all cobwebs from their crevices. In the latest energetic news, a new decorating project has begun. Shit's got real. I'm doing up my bedroom. In order to realise my artistic vision, I've started clearing out fourteen years of shite. But folks, the dust. Oh, the dust. And did I mention the shite? I did? Oh good. Unfiled bank statements, twelve bin bags for the charity shop, and a condom that expired in 2013. Alert the British Museum. I know at some point it'll be worth it. To have a wardrobe whose doors close properly, a mattress that doesn't give me back ache, and an actual full length mirror. I will never leave the house in a dishevelled state again. (Lolz. Of course I will.)

Writing News
In his book, On Writing (2000) Stephen King recalls a piece of editing advice he once received.

'Formula: 2nd draft = 1st draft - 10%'

For anyone like me, who sees that sentence and simply skims over the digits until the words come back, I'll write it in English. When you've finished your first draft, you should delete ten percent of its word count for the next draft. My first draft was 65009 words. My current draft weighs in at 61346. It's not quite minus ten percent, (that'd be 6501 - Maths!) but it's getting there. 

In a recent webinar, Jericho Writers', Harry Bingham said words to the effect that whilst deleting ten percent might be fine for Stephen King, anyone who is not Stephen King should be aiming at twenty percent. Our writing will be baggier and wafflier than a mere ten percent clean up will do. Either way, it results in the same thing: I'm still editing.

Live scenes from my head.

Culture

Insta followers will already know this, but my latest TV binge is the best decision I've made in ages. Dawson's Creek. That's it. That's the tweet. Dawson's Creek in all it's entirety is on ITVX and it's giving me life. Just the theme music does it, but reliving the antics of Dawson, Joey, Jen, and (my long time love) Pacey from the late nineties, has sent me crashing back to that time. Every moment of it. Watching in the lounge of my student house, my mates, my crushes, the shenanigans, the downright ANGST of it all - I've been lost in a wave of nostalgia all week. I've just finished series two, and I've got four more to go. Sigh. It's an absolute joy. Finally, and in bang up to date news, last week's Succession was the best hour of television I've ever seen. No hyperbole, it was simply exceptional. If you watched it, you'll know. If you didn't, you missed out. Soz la.

It's a whole new world.

Food and Drink
It's all Suella Braverman's fault. When she decried 'the tofu-eating workerati', I'd never tried the stuff. But the opportunity to join the official opposition to this cruel and unusual government proved too much to bear. I lost my tofu virginity in the week, and now I'm even more committed to being a trans ally and refusing to vilify immigrants. 

For those who want to join the revolution, I coated chunks of firm tofu in a spice blend of cumin, thyme, paprika, za'atar, garlic, and salt. Then I pan fried them. If you bung 'em in a wrap with some lettuce and yoghurt, it's a shawarma of sorts. Either way, it was fit. That's not all. The other day I stumbled across a vegetarian pepperami. What a world! Vegerami is my new go-to sausage snack of choice. Not a euphemism. 

Out and About
Nothing too exiting to report. I did an airport drop off for my brother and his mate, had a mooch around the Trafford Centre with a pocket full of Next Vouchers, and visited B&Q more than usual. Some weeks, it's the way it goes. That's fine.

And now? Now it's the calm before the Eurovision storm. We're a mere month away. Can you feel the buzz? Can you? If not, jump start the electricity by giving this lot a listen. All the songs are available for your perusal. Have you spotted the winner? Nah, course you've not. It's all to play for, right up to the main event. Get involved!

Have a lovely week, folks.

Are You There Judy? It's Me, Nicky?..

I'm terrible at pitching. Not tents, not baseballs (hey US readers!) but ideas. Pitching ideas is how stories get told. Someone has an idea, they pitch it to someone else, and together they create a beautiful project. My inability to convince people of my fabulous vision is the main reason I chose the indie-publishing route. 

Tonight the roles of Nicky Bond and
 Steven Spielberg will be played by
 Jennifer Aniston and Ralph Lauren.

A few years ago I was on a course. Part of it was how to pitch and we were given a scenario. 'Imagine you get into a lift and standing there is Steven Spielberg. This is your one chance to tell him your story and interest him enough so he wants to make the movie. What do you say?'

If this happened to me, I'd smile politely, press the button I needed, and travel in silence until one of us got out. You see? I'm so terrible at pitching I don't remember to try! But back to the course. In pairs, we had to talk about our current projects (mine was Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say) and imagine we had one shot to intrigue our partner. It'd be accurate to describe everyone's attempt as garbled. Mine, however, was garbled, panicked, and incoherent. I waffled on about my diary of a ten year old girl. She's got younger brothers, she's fed up, she writes a year of her life, it's funny, she worries, she's got homework, her Mum and Dad are annoying... blah, blah, blah. You get it now? I can no more interest a stranger about my writing project than I can write it down here. Steven Spielberg can continue to move between floors, unbothered by my output.

We had another go. In our pairs, we were told to stop trying to share the entire plot, characters, and themes. They could come later. First you should explain how you came by your idea. Why are you writing it? What was the trigger that prompted you to put pen to paper? Here's what I said.

When I taught eight and nine year olds in the late noughties, my class would read something of their choosing, first thing every morning. Every day, the same thought occurred to me. I'd have never chosen the books that those children did. When I was eight or nine, I'd have walked straight past their choices in the library. They were all Harry Potter-lite. Wizards and fantasy, superpowers and spells. I'm made up for the kids that love that genre, and perhaps every child in my class did. But I felt there was a gap in the market. Where were the books about growing up? About divorcing parents, and dying grandparents? About sibling rivalry, and babies being born? Where were the books about puberty, angst, and friendship? I knew what the real question was. Where was the modern day Judy Blume? 

My partner seemed engaged. At one point her eyes widened and she nodded enthusiastically. It seems she had been a Judy Blume fan too. Back in the day, when I had no money of my own, no space at home, and no sense of control over most aspects of my life, Judy Blume had littered the shelves of Rainhill library. First I loaned Superfudge. Then Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. It was only a matter of time before I found Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great, Blubber, and Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret? Written about fifteen years before I was reading them, there was a seventies haze over the stories. And with their US setting, they took me to another world. Not a world on a different planet, or a world with magic and potions. They took me to a world where everyday humans lived. (New Jersey!) Humans with whom I had lots in common, but with a whole range of different experiences too.

I finished my spiel by saying it was then I realised I wanted to be a modern-day Judy Blume. I'd done better that time. My partner immediately responded about her memories of those books, and how she loved the stories too. My pitch had worked! (Kinda. We were not in a lift and she was not Steven Spielberg. But still. Yay me.)

So why am I telling you this now?

Fifty years after the book was published, Are You There God, It's Me Margaret has been made into a film. (Watch the trailer here. Go on, click. See what you think.) To say I'm trepidatious is an understatement. I don't remember much of the plot, I never even had my own copy. But I remember how it made me feel. Seen. I was nine. It taught me loads - literally loads - about puberty. I borrowed it more than once. I even used for a high school presentation about my favourite book. What if the film's shit? What if I've misremembered how valuable it was? Or what if it's excellent and it makes me give up the Leeza McAuliffe franchise because there's no point?

From the upcoming film, Are
You There God? It's Me, Margaret.

I'm being silly. I know that. I'm sure I'll be logging into my Odeon app as soon as it's released here. But it's interesting how publishing trends ebb and flow. Perhaps the fantasy stories are taking a back seat these days. I'm also fascinated to see how AYTGIMM's audience looks. Will it be women my age, who are watching for the nostalgia? Or will a new generation of middle-grade children, stumble across it and learn about the world like I did?  Whatever happens, I'm so pleased that the stories of every day humans continue to be told. It's how we learn empathy. It's how we learn about the experiences of others. We need them now more than ever. Just don't rely on me for the pitch.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Extra Light, Teen Pursuits, and Is Right Laaaaad...

Snow White cleaning the stench
of corruption. Perhaps.

Hey there, April! We're here! Were you ready for guests? OK if we make ourselves at home? Excellent. It's all change in the UK. We've just received an extra hour of daily sunlight, and there are a couple of  Bank Holidays in the offing. Exciting times. In wider seasonal news - and in the vaguest of terms - it's as if there's been a spring clean in some of the murkier crevices of the powers that be. You always hope that corrupt politicians are held to account at some point, but at times it's hard to believe. There's still a long way to go, but oh how satisfying to watch people being forced to confront the consequences of their actions.

Leeza McAuliffe Book One
is here! Catch up on her
antics before Book 2's out.

Writing News

This week, in the never-ending palaver of editing Leeza McAuliffe Book 2, I've been focusing on the dialogue of one particular character - Tom. Leeza's pal, Jake, has a grandad. He pops up now and then, is involved in some plots  and not others, and stays in the background most of the time. But we still hear what he says. I realised that the Tom I'd written towards the end of the book was totally different to the Tom at the start. As I read it back, some of the word choices I used sounded 'not something Tom would say.' I've also decided he needs to call Jake, lad, more often. (Not in the Scouse way - Is right laaaaaad - but in an older, Northern England man, way - Ey up lad. Kinda.) This week has been spent ironing all that out.

A Room With a View

Culture

Succession is back! Hurrah! Taskmaster is back! Huzzah! Both shows I hoovered up, binged, and repeated through the lockdown years. I've also been reliving my teens and working my way through some Merchant Ivory films. Specifically the adaptations of the E.M Forster novels, A Room With a View, Howard's End, and Maurice. What? Your teen years were different? It takes all sorts, I suppose. If I have one regret - which would be a waste of time to even contemplate - it's that in all my days of English Lit, I never studied E.M Forster. As I said, it takes all sorts. Either way, a few happy evenings have been spent wallowing in cinematic beauty.

Here's my pimped-up
hummus. The one I
make is from this recipe.
(FYI I use a fraction
of the olive oil.)

Food and Drink

What with the extra hour of daylight and a (sometimes) dry, bright, vibe outdoors, my food has gone all Mediterranean. Loads of cubed salad veggies, home made hummus, and pittas. There's even been talk of whacking on the BBQ. More 

news as we have it. 

Calderstones Park looking
stunning at 5.30pm.

Out and About

The extra hour may well signal the slow descent into sweltering hell but it's not all bad. I often feel like a walk after I've been sitting at my laptop for hours. In the winter, that's when it's dark. Without the security of straight male privilege in my back pocket, I have to gamble. Do I take a stroll or become a crime statistic? Over time, the odds aren't great so I tend to stay inside. But now? Now I get to walk in the park around the 5-6pm mark. It's glorious. My achy back is grateful.

So how are you using the extra hour of light? Frolicking in the meadows? Running amok? Cracking on as per? There are no wrong answers. You do you, and I'll see you back here next week.

Have a lovely week, folks.