Location, Location, Location...

Terrible photo, I know, but do you see? 
A pint, a chippy tea, a sunset, and a 
book. All of life is in Aberystwyth!

A few weeks ago, in my writing group, something exciting happened. It was exciting to me, anyway. It was after I read the prologue of my new book. I'd tried to set up the intrigue of future dramatic events, whilst describing the location of the novel. Without naming the specific place, I'd referenced a few discrete aspects. The early evening sunset, the bandstand on the seafront, and the paddling children, splashing away. That's when the exciting thing happened. (Insert 'Exciting to me' disclaimer once again.) Someone in the group recognised where I had set my story. She'd studied there back in the day, and could name the town I'd described. This was brilliant news. If it only came across as vague and generic, I might as well fictionalise the place, or keep it, well... vague and generic. But it was recognisable to someone that knew the town, so it justified me using a specific, real, mappable location. 

I've been thinking about this a lot. As you read this, I am currently in said location of my story. I'm in Aberystwyth - jewel of the Cambrian coast. It's one of my favourite places in the world. That's the main reason I wanted to set a story there. I know it and like it, so it's fun to mentally imagine being there for a year as I write. But there's more to it than that. At the end of Carry the Beautiful, Tilda left Manchester for a life of scenic travel. The next book picks up a couple of years later, when she has settled somewhere. It made sense to me that Tilda would choose Aberystwyth. It's got all of the coastal beauty she was seeking, as well as the infrastructure of a decent sized town in which to start a new life. Tilda Willoughby is all about the practicalities.

Beautiful Aber.

The location of a story is, I've come to realise, hugely important to me. All my favourite films have a clear sense of place. Whether they depict them realistically or not, the films I am drawn to, make me want to visit the towns in which their stories unfold. I need to be careful though. I don't want to sound pretentious. In the Rom-Com satire, They Came Together, Paul Rudd's character, when recounting how him and his girlfriend met, earnestly tells his friend, 'There was another main character that was just as important as the two of us. New York City.' And yeah, I get the joke. There are plenty of films that showcase a location as if its inclusion is integral to the plot. I don't mind that, though. I like visiting a place vicariously through the screen. Sometimes it makes me want to visit for real. Take Yesterday, for example. It's mainly set in Lowestoft. This is a place I know little about - other than sharing a house with Rob from Lowestoft, once upon a time - but the film makes me want to go. It looks beautiful. Rugged and scenic, blustery and bare. I've no idea if it's like that for real, but the film was all the better for it. Likewise the scenes set in Liverpool make me feel proud of the city. It looked amazing, and for the most part, real. (I have some qualms about the Mersey Tunnel bit! But apart from that.)

All this made me think of the films I love whose location makes them brilliant. I guess I'm trying to justify being so specific in my own writing choices. I think, if I can even pretend to hold my head up amongst these stories, I'm doing OK.

Begin Again (2013)

Keira Knightley and Mark Ruffalo take on the music industry in New York, over the course of a hot summer. The original music is enough on its own, but the shots of New York are beautiful. You feel the humidity through the screen.

Before Sunrise (1995)

Celine and Jesse meet on a train, get off in Vienna, and walk around the city for a night before parting the next day. The most simple of ideas, executed perfectly, with Vienna looking all sorts of perfect in the background. 

Crocodile Dundee (1986)

Inaccurate cultural stereotypes or racism? You decide! Either way, this hasn't aged too well, and that's a shame. Because when you ignore the problematic stuff, the outback scenes are beautiful. This film made me - twelve years after I first saw it - book a four day Red Centre tour of Alice Springs and Uluru. And I don't even do outdoors.

Fisherman's Friends (2019)*

A recent release, this story is the not-unpleasant tale of singing fishermen who land a record deal. I watched it the other day, and found myself immediately transported to Port Isaac in Cornwall. The scenery and sense of community are infectious, carrying what is an OK film into loftier territory.

Shirley Valentine (1989)**

'I'm goin' to Greeece. For two weeeeks.' I can't say that line without exaggerating my scouse accent to the nth degree. I can pretty much recite the whole film. And whilst I've never been to Greece (so far) I feel like I have because of this. I'm usually of the opinion that a film can never be as good as the stage play it came from. That still might be true. But missing out on the shot of Shirley drinking her Retsina by the water's edge as she watches the sun set, feels like a loss to the theatre. And the end scene where a besuited Joe walks past her because he doesn't recognise her? It's stunning.

Lost in Translation (2003)

Two lonely people, isolated abroad. When they find each other, their location opens up too. Instead of viewing Tokyo from behind the glass of hotel windows, they, and us, mingle with people on the streets, at parties, in restaurants, and at one point, in the hospital. It shows Japan's capital to be like nowhere else. I have no idea if it's accurate or whether all sorts of artistic license has been taken. Either way, the location keeps me watching. 

Local Hero (1983)

The opening notes of the theme song are all it takes. I am in Scotland. The rural, northern part. Local Hero is the most beautiful film. It leaves an ache when it's over. The search for the Northern Lights, the community in need of hope, the corporate suits that are humbled but remain outsiders, it's all so raw. I know that the film location itself is a mishmash of several places. It's impossible to visit Ferness as it doesn't exist as seen on screen. That doesn't matter. The film is a gem, and you visit by watching it. Again, and again, and again.

I think I've made my peace with my own writing. I think I'm happy to refer to, describe, and include local knowledge in my story. At this point it's still early days enough to change but I don't want to. It feels all right so I'll keep going. And with that motto for life in place, I'll do just that.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Image taken from - https://www.folkradio.co.uk/2018/12/watch-fishermans-friends-the-official-movie-trailer/

**Image taken from - https://alchetron.com/Shirley-Valentine-(film)#-

The Safety (and Hotness) of Nostalgia...

I don't know about anyone else, but I've had a week filled with nostalgia. All inadvertent and accidental, but there's been a lot of ruminating on the past, gone on. 'Why?' I hear absolutely no one shout. Well, let me tell you anyway. Listen up!

I apologise for the blatant marketing here.
 I spent ages looking for a gif of sporting action,
but this was all I got. This is England's Goal
Attack, Helen Housby. I watched her score a
shit-tonne (technical term) of goals against
South Africa on Thursday evening.
Hugely impressive.

On Wednesday I watched a netball match on the telly. It was electric. Mostly due to the exciting, fast paced nature of the game (shout out to South Africa and Uganda for keeping me enthralled during that first match) but also because it dawned on me that netball is the only sport that anyone has both taught and encouraged me to play. It was on the curriculum back in the day. I had to do it. Someone* bothered to show me technique and hammer home rules. That was what made the match instantly captivating as I happened to chance upon the channel. I was immediately sucked in. (It also explained why I had paid no attention and felt zero emotion to the marvellous achievements of the England cricket team the week before. I hadn't a scooby what was going on.) So, the netball was great. It took me right back to the summer of 1989, when my life's sporting achievements peaked. I won a Winners' Medal in the Rainhill interschool Netball Tournament, playing Goal Defence. A glorious time, a WINNING time. This week brought it all back. I have been working on my netball footwork ever since.

Click here for the trailer, should you wish to jump onboard.

Then on Thursday the new Top Gun trailer was released. I had read reports of this film since it went into production, and my feelings were firmly in check. I don't like the trend of bashing out a sequel to a long ago hit, at the expense of new creative endeavours. It feels like cheating; the easy option. So I hadn't felt any need to gush at the idea of an older, potentially wiser Maverick, and all the aviatory testosterone-fuelled antics that he would undoubtedly get up to. I was happy to leave it be. But then I saw the trailer. The slowed-down but instantly recognisable score was all it took. A few shady shots of a superior officer, some fighter jet whooshes through the air, and the hint of the cockiness that Tom Cruises' Maverick embodied, and I was ALL OVER IT. I was twelve again. Back then I had a more than life sized poster of TC in his leather jacket next to my bed (it was a head and shoulders shot, but sixteen times the size of the magazine it came in. His head was as big as my pillow) and I was obsessed. I imagine I'll be obsessed again, despite my early feelings on the matter. It took one view of the trailer, and I was back in the danger zone. Feeling the need for speed, and ready to take a walk in the park, Kazansky. Anyway, that was Thursday.

The initial reason I've been living in the past all week actually started on Monday. Monday is one of my full-on writing days, where I spend it glued to my laptop, trying to come up with an entire chapter before tea time. Except that also means I take Twitter breaks occasionally. Every now and then. Just to refresh, you know. At some point on Monday, Caitlin Moran tweeted...

By the time I read it, there were loads of responses. Gif after Gif, YouTube clip after YouTube clip, Caitlin retweeted the best, whilst the rest could be seen on her timeline. It seems there were more 'genuinely hot moments' in TV and film than we'd all previously assumed. Many of them were as far away from obvious porn as it got. I spent far too long that day, reliving great moments from the past. Moments like the one in Pride and Prejudice, when Mr Darcy shows the hint of a smile when Elizabeth is kind to his sister. The moment Elio steps towards Oliver in Call Me By Your Name. The look between Lucy and George in A Room With a View, right before they have a big old snog in the field. Tim Curry in the Rocky Horror Show, kickstarting my unwavering love of guyliner. Any scene in Dirty Dancing where Baby has agency away from her family, and Johnny is there for it. Stuart and Nathan in Queer as Folk. There were mentions for Christian Slater in Heathers, Rik Mayall in Blackadder, David Bowie in Labyrinth, and the Sound of Music's Captain Von Trapp when he dances with Maria and turns from a grumpy, authoritarian parent, into the sexy love interest of a soon to be ex-nun. The list was pretty exhaustive. But look. I've rambled on long enough. Check some out some of them below!

Pride and Prejudice. The hint of a smile.

Call Me By Your Name. Many memorable moments here, tbh.

You tell him, Frances!  No one should call you Baby at your age!

Maurice was my first introduction to Merchant Ivory films and EM Forster. It led teenage Me to seek out the other books and films. So many moments to choose from.

It's the moment EVERYTHING changes. The Sound of Music. Sexual tension AND nuns.

Not strictly the distant past yet, but this is one of a trillion hot Fleabag clips I could have used. Richard Chamberlain - fiction's other sexy priest - also came up a lot.

Oooooh the sexual tension! It's all too much.
Before Sunrise. Giving me life since 1995.

There were so many clips and suggestions to watch from my youth. So for large parts of Monday afternoon, that's exactly what I did. It was the ultimate Internet rabbit hole. Of course, I had to stop at some point. I had work to do. But in order to fully get it out of my system, I knew I'd have to tweet my own offering. So I cast my mind back over my favourite films and TV. I realised I have many 'hot moments from film' that I could have used, but in the end I went with this. Jesse and Celine in Before Sunrise. In the booth in the record shop, standing close, listening to music. Everything unsaid, and still to come. HOT HOT HOT. That is all.

Enough of all this backwards thinking, though. I didn't plan any of it. As I said at the start, my week in nostalgia was inadvertent and accidental. It just seemed to be the way it went down. On Saturday I joined the March for Change in London (No to Boris, Yes to Europe!) to add my voice to the crowds. Maybe, when I'm feeling utterly dissatisfied with the way politics is playing out at the moment, it makes sense to relive more carefree times. Maybe reliving some teenage or childhood stuff for a bit, is a safe and sensible way to navigate through the current global political turmoil. Or maybe I just like wasting time on the Internet. Who knows. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*That someone was Sr. Kathleen. A netball legend as well as Headteacher.

Search History Blues...

This is Kermit, giving you his
dramatic interpretation of my life.

We're three weeks into the writing of Book Three. It's flown, by, hasn't it. How's it going for you? That's excellent. I'm made up for you. Me? I'm grand thanks. I've got seven chapters completed, making a total of 14054 words. I'm well into the flow and hitting my daily target every time I type. Hurrah. Things are going nicely. 

This is a snapshot of the searches
 I made when writing last week's blog.

The only aspect that disrupts the creative juices is the pesky inconvenience of authenticity. You know, fact-checking. Research. Sometimes in the middle of writing a chapter, I realise I need to know something specific and have to choose whether to hit Google and look it up, or wait until later. It would stop my train of thought and those lovely free flowing sentences, but is essential if I want to get it right there and then. Sometimes I leave a bunch of dashes, or highlight in yellow the sentence that needs the specific info. Other times I press pause on my thoughts and follow the trail of websites that an initial search offers me. Either way, my search history is interesting.

Some of the characters from
this story  feature in the new one.

I'm going to share that search history with you now. Or at least the questions I Googled that brought up the websites within it. Not every single thing I've searched in the past week. Lordy, can you imagine? No, just the stuff that relates to the new book. Call this an early teaser if you like. I'm writing a story that involves some of the characters from Carry the Beautiful. If you've read that, this might pique your interest. Alternatively, marvel in wonder at how such a random bunch of necessary information can be woven into what aims to be, a realistic story. A story of everyday people dealing with the challenges of life. Either way, it's an interesting bunch of searches, whether you know the context or not. Can the early plot be deciphered through these clues? I'd bet money, not. Don't listen to me, though. See what you think.

NICKY'S SEARCHES RELATING TO THE FIRST SEVEN CHAPTERS.

What are some obscure sexual fetishes?
Spelling of conjure (UK)
Jobs for Office Mangers in York law firms
Do seasons have capital letters?
What herbal pills calm nerves?
How do you spell umami?
What sound does a seagull make?
What are common menopause symptoms?
Google Images - The bandstand in Aberystwyth
Google Images - sunsets
When did Led Zeppelin play at the bandstand in Aberystwyth?
What forms need to be signed when buying a house?
The stages of grief
Does York have Uber?
Does 'wing men' have a hyphen?
Double barrelled names that sound posh
Google Maps - York
Google Maps - Stockport
Google Maps - Aberystwyth

So that's where we're up to. Between fetishes, spellings, and poring over town-centre maps, it's any wonder I've got 14000 words done at all. I shall keep plodding on. I'm delighted to be completing two chapters a week. That's about 4000 words, and almost 6% of the intended length of the whole thing. If I keep it up, I'll have the first draft done by November. And then the real work begins. I have to make it not shit. The struggle is real.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Molly Ringwald and Alan Davis, Together At Last...

Even though I'm filled with the thrills of a new writing project, I'm still promoting my last one. Part of me wishes I could forget about that now. It's old news. It's done. But then my fledgling entrepreneurial side weakly raises its hand to remind me I have books to flog. My ethereal creative aura (no honestly, it's there) takes a knock when I put it like that, but that's the reality of the sitch.

I am this cool in my head.
Classic Molly.
From over 30 years ago.

With that in mind, it's time to return to a bit of Leeza chat. Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say has been out for a few months now. I forget about it most of the time. Especially now I'm concerning myself with new characters these days. But then something happens that reminds me of the McAuliffe family. Last month - as I've banged on about already - I watched Tales of the City. In the penultimate episode, an actor popped that I never see much these days. It took a second to place her but then I did. Molly Ringwald. You know? From the 80s? From Pretty in Pink and the Breakfast Club? I had a weird reaction. Initially I thought, 'Oh God, I know her. Who IS that?' Then I thought, 'But that's impossible. It can't be. That's Leeza's mum!' Then I stopped being weird and saw it was Molly Ringwald. 

When I was planning the story of Leeza McAuliffe three years ago, I decided that present day Molly Ringwald would be the ideal image to have as Leeza'a mum. Then, just to seal the deal, I called Leeza's mum, Molly. I am a creative genius! I did this with all the main characters. I found someone real that I could keep in my head as I wrote their words and worked out their voice. Seeing Molly Ringwald pop up out of the blue was a surreal moment. It was like my book had been secretly dramatised and no one had told me.

So, as part of my policy of IF IT'S IN MY HEAD I MUST SHARE IT ONLINE, here are my go to actors for some of the cast of Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say, coming to Netflix this autumn*. (Ha, can you even imagine!) 

Molly Hart-McAuliffe 

(Mum)

1. DIA Dipasupil/Getty Images
Leeza's mum is passionately committed to all causes that matter to her. A sporadic vegan and defender of the environment (in as much as can be convenient for a parent of several) she isn't shy in making her views known. These views are often at odds with Grandma, and occasionally Leeza. Molly is an staunch advocate of a Family Meeting, although is less keen on democracy when Leeza wants to share her views.

Seb McAuliffe - aka Mac

(Dad)

No idea why my brain went towards Alan Davis, but it did. Leeza's dad is calm, supportive, and fun. He is fully onboard with the lifestyle changes Molly wants, although he'd never have thought of them himself. He is happiest when he can wear shorts instead of work clothes. He also knows to step out of the line of fire when Molly and Ursula go at it. His best moment was when his coriander seeds sprouted. 

Spike

The oldest of Leeza's little brothers, Spike is a pain to live with. He calls Leeza, Loser, struggles with the concept of privacy, and tends to go hyper after too many sweets. He sings 'Let it Flow' in the style of Frozen when he wees. The image of Vern from Stand By Me was strong from the start, but as Vern has always reminded me of my own oldest little brother, there was a lot of crossover along the way.

Ursula Hart

(Grandma)

2. Photograph: Andrew Milligan/PA
Ursula is stern, convinced her views are the only way to think, and at constant odds with her daughter. But she means well. Her house is spotless, and she despairs of the more-relaxed stance Molly and Mac take to hoovering. Somewhere along the way, I must have decided that this was exactly the same as Diana Rigg. Who knows? Diana Rigg might be a slovenly pussy cat.

Willard

3. 2013 for People Magazine. Courtesy of Firenze Post.
Willard is nothing like Grandma because he is smily and fun, so it makes no sense to Leeza why they start dating. He has unlimited energy with the younger boys, but also knows how to treat Leeza like the almost-grown up she is. He introduces her to JD Salinger, and she perseveres even though she hasn't an igloo what is going on. Robin Williams would have nailed this part.

Jake Woolton

Jake is slightly older, cooler and savvier than Leeza, but a friendship is forged when she moves to his village. His shining moment is when he is honest in his feedback about the bridesmaid dress. (Read it and see.) Or when he steps up at the harvest festival? In later years, maybe Jake and Leeza have their first snog together. Or maybe Jake comes out to Leeza and she's the first person he tells. Or maybe Jake is killed in a threshing accident on the top field. Who can say? Whatever his future, Will Poulter in his younger days is the image I had throughout.

You know you're intrigued.
Come on, get involved!

What's interesting looking back, is how these images changed over time. By the end of the first draft, I'd moved away from actual Robin Williams - Willard had begun to have his own face. Likewise, the character of Jenna - not featured above because my initial mental image was of a child I used to teach - began as caucasian. By the end I knew she wasn't. No idea why, but she and the others morphed into their own identities along the way. And what about the main woman? What about Leeza? What's the mental image I have of her? Well, the answer is, I don't really have one. Yeah, I know, not cool. It's all about her and I don't know what she looks like. Nice one Bondie... NOT. But here's the thing. Because the diary is life seen through her eyes, we are also looking through her eyes at everything that happens. WE are Leeza. She is US! How's that for pretentious waffle? Beyond a brief description about her preferring jeggings and leggings to skirts and dresses, or that she once had a fringe but regretted it, there's very little to go on.

I did cover the bulk of this post
on a Twitter thread a little while
ago. It amused me, anyway.

The thing is, anyone who reads a book will visualise the characters differently. That's the joy of moving on from picture books. It's all down to the reader. The author relinquishes control the second they pass on their work. I've had these images with me for three years, but it would have been irresponsible of me to share this when the book first came out. Readers have to be left to forge their own ideas as they read. But here we are, months later, and I'm taking back a smidge of control. Or sharing my creative process. Or trying to fill a blog post when I can't think of anything else. You decide.

Have a lovely week, folks.



*It is not coming to Netflix this autumn.


Photo references
1. https://www.newsweek.com/molly-ringwald-why-small-moments-film-relatable-and-when-shell-return-1294705

2. https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/shortcuts/2013/apr/30/diana-rigg-laying-into-women

3 https://stmuhistorymedia.org/the-pain-behind-the-smile-the-robin-williams-story/

Power to the Joyful People...

The news hasn't been much fun lately, has it? I realise the term 'news' is a broad church, encompassing the 'And finally...' stories as well as the headline-grabbing stuff. Even so, it's a bit of a bin fire. From the vast majority of the country having enforced bystander status regarding the choosing of the new Prime Minister, to the clamour of some MPs to dismiss violence against women as soon as it's caught on camera or heard by neighbours, to the latest sexual assault allegations concerning the US president, to the continued US border camps where children are being held in squalor, it takes it toll. The feeling of deep rage coupled with an inability to fix the world, is no fun at all. There are charities that will take your donations, there are petitions to sign, and there's another political march this month. These are drops in the ocean. We know that, but we do them anyway. We do what we can to quench a little rage. We sign the petitions, we support the charities, and we raise issues with our elected representatives. Then we carry on. We do the food shopping, we go to work, we open the wine. When the next news alert breaks, it's awful but we carry on.

Find the joy, folks. Even on a slide.

Carrying on is fine, but we need to carry on joyfully. No matter how grim things seem, to lose a lust for life because of the terrible behaviour of others, is to let the baddies win. To be openly happy is revolutionary. Taking a lesson from all that have celebrated Pride this Summer - and I am definitely NOT saying we need a straight Pride. I am NOT that person, such a ridiculous argument, purleeese - I am going to feel pride and joy in everything I can. I am going to enjoy the small things, no matter how unimportant they seem in the face of the overwhelming bad stuff - the small things that can provide a necessary break from reality, or a chance to revel in positivity and oppose the gloom. Here's a few suggestions of how I, or indeed you, might manage that.

I spent this weekend waving my
iPhone torch and singing loudly too.

Treat Your Ears...

It may be over for another year but I LOVE Glastonbury. Whilst I can never see myself re-embracing camping at this stage in my life, the BBC coverage means I don't have to. Every year I keep the weekend free, open the patio doors, and chill the beer. A live set from a legend of music is never not amazing. It is never not tingling or electric. Yesterday I watched Kylie and The Cure and they collectively made all my cares melt away. On Saturday I drank beer and belted out every Killers hit, with wild abandon. And when The Pet Shop Boys and Johnny Marr turned up? Well let's just say I was a million mental miles away from the random shite politicians say to appeal to their current base. Now it's Monday morning and Glastonbury may be technically over but BBC iPlayer has it all there. I'm going to watch stuff I missed at the time, as well as relive my favourite sets. If you don't fancy any of that, go to the pub and watch a band. Play music loudly in the car. Blast out show tunes as you shower. Music takes us away from ourselves. For the length of a song, a live set, or both acts of a West End musical if you happen to know one off by heart. (I do. It's Rent. I can perform it in its entirety, any time you like.)

Mouse has just heard how much I loved Tales of the City.

Treat Your Eyes...

I watched Russell T Davis' Years and Years recently, and it was excellent. In an attempt to escape the populist rising of far right politics and the grooming of a country into accepting death camps, it was, however, a little on the nose. And despite everyone who has watched Chernobyl urging me to change my mind, I am giving that a miss. I just need something less... apocalyptic at the moment. So instead, I've submerged myself in escapism. Realism can return another day, but for now I want to be taken away from all this. The second series of Killing Eve is just right. Thrilling, slick, and too comedic to be taken as a serious look at murder. I've hoovered that up this week. Then there's my old friend, Tales of the City. For ten glorious hours, I was transported to San Francisco, where kindness and love won over hate and ignorance. I've also made use of the steady stream of Netflix movies that pop up regularly. Always Be My Maybe, Murder Mystery, Wine Country - all fun, light-hearted, and a bit daft. Sometimes, that's the only way to unwind. The news will still be there, but my ability to stomach it is replenished from an hour and a half away.

No filter, taken with no concentration.
Look how lovely it is.

Treat the Rest of You...

Now steady on. I'm going to talk about the outdoors. About - and I'll say it quickly - nature. I need a full week of antihistamines before I venture out into woodland, I'm not reckless. Yet, getting outside and walking about a bit does seem to perk me up. Whether it's around the park, or along the river, I've got a few scenic options within a twenty minute drive. The world's my oyster, and it contains a fluttering breeze, the salty ozone, the crunch of leaves underfoot and all sorts of other poetic sensory shit. I listen to podcasts as I walk. When I really want to escape, Adam Buxton is my preferred choice. His hour long interviews with fellow comedians are gently hysterical. I've quite literally LOLZed in public, strolling past random picnickers as something in my ear has amused me. When I'm feeling I can stomach a little more grit, I listen to the Remaniacs podcast. It might focus on the political meltdown of the country post-referendum, but at least it gives me heart that I'm not the only person to feel like I do. It doesn't matter what I listen to though. The exercise, the fresh air, and the feeling of doing instead of thinking is welcome. (Over-thinking is an occupational hazard. If I had a physically exerting job, perhaps I'd do Sudokus to unwind.)

The Neph's FaceTime
portrait of me (balls included)
made me laugh a lot. 

I have other methods for living joyfully in the face of negativity. FaceTiming the Niece and Neph is an obvious one. They're at an age where I can make a joke with a punchline of 'poo', and they will laugh. (I am sure this humour will have a shelf life.) Alternatively, I can cook something new. Following a recipe and carefully measuring ingredients focuses on the nurturing creation of scrumptiousness. All negative thoughts are pushed right out of the kitchen. And then there are books. I check Twitter way too much. If I read a page of a novel every time I scrolled, I'd get through several books a week. Like I used to, you know? Before Twitter was invented. And finally, there's the football. You might not be interested in the FIFA Women's World Cup, or sport in general. But the photo of USA's Megan Rapinoe, standing tall, head raised, proudly celebrating her goal is an image that fills me with untold strength. Not only has she excelled at her job under the normal pressures of high stakes team sports, but she's also had the president of her county slag her off via Twitter. (She responds eloquently, yet firmly, here.) She deserves her pride, and I love how unapologetic she is about it. (This doesn't change the fact I still need England to beat the USA tomorrow. Come on Lionesses!)

Megan Rapinoe. I can't kick a ball like her, but
I can definitely celebrate my achievements
with as much pride.(Image Credits:
Creator: Elsa
Copyright: 2019 Getty Images)

Look, the world was probably always full of horrors. We just knew less about them back then. I don't believe we're witnessing anything new. Everything is cyclical, after all. At least that's what is less worrying to believe. Our job, I think, is to stand up and challenge injustice when we can. Do what is possible, and find solidarity amongst others. And then, at other times, accept when that is personally too hard. Regular self-care and recharging are essential. Finding strength in an escapist film, or in the image of an exceptional sportsperson, can fuel and replenish our energy. And living joyfully, proudly, and finding pleasure in the mundane, can be downright subversive. Power to the people. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

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.