Writing, rewriting and an award

So, the rewrite is complete, several edits on the rewrite have been done and now it’s ready to go back to the writing agency for another review – a more generalized one this time. I’m not sure what to expect from the experience – a part of me knows that in all likelihood there will be still more rewriting to be done – and dreads the prospect – and a part of me looks forward to perfecting the manuscript, in the hope that it will ultimately find itself a “home” – i.e. an agent and a contract.

Of course, given all things writing, recessions, trends and Lady Luck, it could be that even after all this work - and no doubt still more - the manuscript may not be accepted anywhere. What then? Who knows but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it – armed with a sharp sword with which to deal with the crocodiles. What do you mean what crocodiles? The Crocodiles. There are always crocodiles – didn’t you know?!

In the meantime I have another manuscript to work on. The first draft was completed last year but I’m well aware that the plot needs deepening and the characterization needs strengthening. I’ll probably, once more, hold the original story in my head and start from scratch. As it is, the first couple of chapters that I’ve already dabbled with are turning up in a completely new “voice” – which is proving to be both interesting and considerably more “immediate”.

But enough writery stuff – I was given an award last week by Keren David, a debut YA author, who’s first novel, When I Was Joe will be published in the UK by Frances Lincoln books in January 2010. And in time-honoured fashion, I’m suppose to a) pass on the award and b) share seven things about me.


The award is the Kreativ Blogger award and the rules are:

1. Thank the person who nominated you for this award.
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you for this award.
4. Name 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting.
5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers.
6. Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know they have been nominated.

Seven things about me - which you may or may not find interesting...

1. I am an “only-child”. Yep that’s right, no siblings.

2. Although I love writing for children, I’ve never been remotely inclined to have any of my own.

3. My favourite dog is the Golden Retriever.


4. I have nearly died on two completely separate occasions – makes you wonder what I’m still doing here, right…

5. I am currently researching material for a non fiction article on porcupines who live amongst some vines… the vines below, in particular.


6. Although writing is my passion, I still wonder what I’m going to be when I really grow up – if I ever grow up.

7. I’ve consumed far too much chocolate this winter.



As you know I don’t usually pass these awards on but I’ll play nicely this time…

So, the Kreativ Blogger Award goes to the following seven people (why only seven, it’s so totally unreasonable!):

Tessa at Aerial Armadillo
Lola at Aglio, Olio & Peperoncino
Val at Monkeys on the Roof
Janey at Wittering On
Mandy at Fire Byrd
Carol at Not Only in Thailand
Lori at Lori Times Five

(and no, the list isn't intentionally sexist - sorry, boys...)

And now let me attend to the squirrel who is tapping impatiently at the window for his supper.

Into Granny's Subconscious

Inside Granny Were's subconscious...

Twasn’t brillig – it didn’t dare. And the slithy toves weren’t gyring or gimbling. Not if they knew what was good for them. As for the borogoves and the mome raths, they were sitting under the Tumtum tree, sipping cups of Earl Grey and having a quiet game of rummy. And the Jabberwock? Well he was perched on a rock in the sun giving his claws a particularly focused and fastidious manicure. Broken strains of Moon River drifted through the wood as he whistled toothily to himself.
In the background Alph the sacred river was running away faster than any river had the right to do and was flinging itself over the cliff - quite happy to smash itself on the rocks of very sunny sea far below. As for Kubla Khan, he’d clearly got word and had buggered off long ago.
Somewhere on the path leading to the stately pleasure dome, the Jean Genie was practicing yoga. Nothing at all outrageous, you understand, and definitely no screaming or bawling. On the steps of the dome Ziggy Stardust had all the spiders from Mars on a leash and was humming a lullaby to them while they practiced their knitting.
This, I have to tell you, in case you’re wondering, is what it’s like in Granny Were’s subconscious. Even her nightmares are so frightened of her that they behave well. There isn’t a hint of a whinny and definitely no bucking or wild, untamed rearing. Who’d have thought it, right? You’d have expected a werechicken to have violent dreams. But oh no.

You’re wondering, I can tell, what on earth I’m doing in Granny’s subconscious in the first place. To be honest, I’m not really sure.
See, the thing is, as you’ve probably noticed, I’ve not heard from the Hens in a while. I might even be pushed so far as to admit that I was getting a little worried - and missing them.
And then Granny turned up.

Note to self: remember to keep mind fully sealed when thinking about the Hens – it’s not like they really need the encouragement.

She’d nicked a spacepod from High Command and come whizzing through the singularity in time and space and landed, with an almighty splash in the swimming pool - of course - leaving the neighbour’s washing (and dog) well-soaked.
“Darling girl!” she squawked, flinging yellow tipped wings around me. “How are you! So delighted to hear you’ve been missing us.”
“I wasn’t really -” I started to say and thought better of it. “Where’s Atyllah?”
“Oh,” said Granny waving a claw, “she’s off in the Pleiadean system gathering meteors. We use them, you know, in our heat reactor – to keep the Novapulse temperature nice and temperate – none of this climate nonsense for us.”
It was some time later, while sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on mopani worm crisps that Granny suggested I might like to get to know her a little better. It was, she assured me, a genuine gesture of interspecies and intergalactic goodwill.
Right now, as I dust Jubjub bird pooh off my shoulders and find myself reading a bedtime story, called the Velvet Goldmine to the bandersnatch, I’m really not so sure about all that interspecies goodwill.
For one thing. I have utterly no idea how I’m going to get out of Granny’s head.
(Mind you, I’ll say this: it makes a change from having her and Atyllah in my head...)

Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated

It's true, they are. I really am not dead. Well, not as far as I know, anyway. I've not noticed any strange smells or worms or anything like that. I've just become a totally shite blogger. So much so I've even managed to forget Very Important Things like Blog Birthdays. My blogs' birthdays. Can you believe it that I started Atyllah the Hen three years ago and Absolute Vanilla two years ago. Perhaps I'm just worn out. Perhaps the blogging appeal has finally lost its lovely shiny glow. Perhaps it's a permanent meltdown. Maybe it's just a temporary glitch. Time will tell.

Of course, it may just be that I'm very goal directed on the scribbling front - and that I seem to be horribly sidetracked by Facebook - so much so that the bloody thing has taken to sending me warning notices, assuring me that I am indulging in spam or abusive behaviour. I hasten to assure you that I'm not - I'm just too sociable, flitting from one status update to another offering up my two cents worth of observation or opinion. Clearly the greatest social networking site of the decade thinks this is a bad thing. Evidently, I got the whole point of social networking horribly wrong. Apparently you're not meant to be that sociable. So, hang on, remind me again about the point of social networking? No, I don't get it either. So I'm just blowing a large, wet raspberry at Facebook and will go to the bottom of the garden and eat worms. Or not.

I'm wittering here, aren't I...? It comes from having very little to say - and from having been plagued all night by words. 01h30; 02h30; 06h30; 07h30... - all the hours of the night and morning I've been beset by words on the rewrite of my other novel (no not the one I've just rewritten). Clearly words have utterly no concept of time, or my need for sleep. I look like I've gone ten rounds with a panda. My bedside notebook is filled with scrawls - odd phrases, whole chunks of text, and sparkling metaphors. Okay, I'm not sure that they really do sparkle, it was 3am after all.

Still, lest you think I've popped my clogs, or dropped off the planet, I haven't. I'm still here, just, as I've now told you on several occasions, otherwise occupied. I'm sure that won't stop you from having a totally stunning weekend! :-)

Oh, I did somewhere, inbetween the scribbling, make time to find my desk. It was hidden under a mountain paper, as were large tracts of carpet. I therefore, given this is a rare occasion, offer you a glimpse of the writing cave. Please note the giant magic squirrel in the window. Yes of course he's photoshopped in - unless he really did eat ALL the nuts...