judith kinghorn...

So what happened?

2012-02-10T10:06:00.015Z

It's a week since the hardback publication of The Last Summer. But last week wasn't the launch of the book, as such, that happens in April - when the paperback's released; this is a limited release of what's known as a library hardback.

So, it's all new to me, and, needless to say, I wasn't too sure what would happen, if anything. Despite the limited bit of the book's current status, it's for sale on amazon, and a few other places, so I was hoping - at least - for a few readers, some feedback.

On the actual day of publication nothing much happened. I worked, received some flowers from my publisher, and worked some more; I tweeted, drank some champagne in the evening, and then, via the power of twitter, received a message of congratulations from Salman Rushdie. Yes, that was probably the high point, and I think I told him I loved him. (I was on a high by then, in love with the world, and fuelled by fizz and others' kindness).

That was publication day. Since then, it's been busy. Busier than I expected. I've received twelve 5 star reviews on amazon, had a surprising number of messages from people who've read and loved the book, and been reviewed on various blogs, including goodreads, 'one more page' and historical novelist, Deborah Swift's blog. I also received some very kind words from the novelist Rachel Hore: words that included sumptuous and absorbing (see column to right for quote).

It's been quite a week, a good week, but but but... I'm still in brace position. Because it's early days, and though all the feedback so far has been positive, wonderful, better than I anticipated, it could change. I know not everyone is going to love or even like my book. I know it's tough out there. I know that twelve amazon reviews does not a Last Summer make. And I know I still have another book to deliver. Which reminds me, I must get back to work.

Under One Small Star.

2012-02-07T15:18:00.003Z

By Wislawa Szymborska

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity

My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all.

Please, don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.

May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.

My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.

My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.

Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.

Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.

I apologise for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.

I apologise to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.

Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.

Pardon me, deserts, that I don't rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.

And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,

your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,

forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.

My apologies to the felled tree for the table's four legs.

My apologies to great questions for small answers.

Truth, please don't pay me much attention.

Dignity please be magnanimous.

Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.

Soul, don't take offense that I've only got you now and then.

My apologies to everyone that I can't be everywhere at once.

My apologies to everyone that I can't be each woman and each man.

I know that I won't be justified as long as I live,

since I myself stand in my own way.

Don't bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,

then labor heavily so that they may seem light.

(with thanks to Salman Rushdie)

The Last Summer: opening paragraph.

2012-01-17T18:52:00.007Z

I was almost seventeen when the spell of my childhood was broken. There was no sudden jolt, no immediate awakening and no alteration, as far as I'm aware, in the earth's axis that day. But the vibration of change was upon us and I sensed a shift: a realignment of my trajectory. It was the beginning of summer, and, unbeknown to any of us then, the end of a belle époque.

The new arrival...

2012-01-11T14:35:00.002Z

Delivered at 2.20pm today and weighing just under 2lbs - my book!

Memory.

2012-01-06T18:52:00.018Z

It's Twelfth Night, 'the eve of the Epiphany, formerly the last day of the Christmas festivities and observed as a time of merrymaking'... It's the end of Christmas, time to take down the tired tree, the always-faulty fairy-lights and pack away the decorations for another year.

For some reason the term has a romantic, magical nuance to me. Shakespeare? Perhaps. Or maybe because it's evocative, triggers my memory and takes me back. My memories of Christmases past are not so much about the presents as the visual feast: the lights, the colours, the textures. In my mind's eye, I see a tree in the hallway of my childhood; red lights - kept on all night - which I looked down on from a landing. I see the home of my grandparents, another tree - in a bay window, with illuminated opaque glass pears and apples hanging from it. And I see my grandmother, standing on a twilit doorstep, smiling, waving to me, to us, as we drive away. I'm waving back at her and I don't want to leave: never want to leave her. I watch her through the window in the back of the car as she grows smaller and smaller, her hand still raised, until I disappear from her, until she disappears from me. And now I remember her hands, the feel of them, her skin; her manicured nails, their shine, their shape. And I feel them again in mine, a lifetime ago, and now.

Christmas is over for another year, but our memories of it - the one just gone and each one before - remain with us. We can revisit them anytime we wish, even on the hottest summer's day. It's all there, stored away, we just have to take ourselves back, remember.

Memory is a powerful tool in writing. Perhaps the most powerful. We have within us a treasure trove of sights, sounds, textures and colours to draw upon and paint pictures with; to evoke, stir, and transport our readers. But to take them to that place we must first take ourselves there: see it, smell it, hear it, feel it.

Beryl Bainbridge said she didn't believe in imagination. She believed everything a writer drew upon came from their own experience, from memory. When I first pondered that (and I blogged about it here), I didn't completely understand, wasn't convinced, but now I am. Because I've realised that we can take our own experiences - our memories - and place them anywhere we want. We can transpose them, merge them, mix them. Then, writing from memory, drawing upon our own experience, our words have resonance, colour, shape and form.

The road to publication: being read.

2011-12-17T14:51:00.018Z

There are so many different stages on the road to publication... and it's a long and, sometimes, bumpy road.

Securing an agent - one who's passionate about your work and will shout about it from the rooftops - is a beginning, not an end. Getting a book deal seems like a huge result at the time, but it's the start of another lengthy - pre-publication - phase. Each stage is another hurdle crossed, another cause for celebration. But being read is the goal. Has to be the goal. Until then, until a writer has readers, we're not heard; we have no voice, no audience, no feedback. And surely that's what we all crave?

So here I am, finally, almost two years after writing a novel - being read.

Proof copies of The Last Summer have been sent out. ( In fact, my publishers tell me they're having to print more proof copies. They tell me this is a Good Sign. I hope so.) My characters have gone off into the world and belong to others now. And my story, the one I invented and lived and breathed, is out there. Not everyone will like it. I know this. But The Bookseller did, and yesterday - in a column titled 'Ones to Watch' - said:

'an enchanting debut... big storytelling stuff of social and political change spanning the First World War and beyond. It's a glorious read, highly recommended.'

It's my first review, and I couldn't ask for more.

Meanwhile, the first seventeen chapters of my new book are also being read - by my editor. I'm excited, nervous, daunted; I feel exposed and liberated at the same time. Thrilled and delighted to be read, but anxious as well. The crises of confidence never abate, are never far away; like another dip on a roller-coaster ride. And so I feel wobbly, and yet immensely grateful to be here, at this stage: being read. Oh to be read at last.

Pondering on Penelope's Punctuation.

2011-12-13T13:53:00.013Z

I slept badly last night. Mainly due to the window-rattling gale force winds sweeping the country... and also because I was preoccupied by commas. (Yes, I can see you yawning already).

Like colons and semicolons, and adverbs and adjectives, everyone has a different opinion and, I know, a different style. But at two o'clock this morning I found myself reappraising and reevaluating commas. You see, I think I've been too liberal with them in the past, allowed them to have too much say. And it was Penelope Lively who started it. My pondering.

Some of the best prose in Moon Tiger is devoid of punctuation. Lively uses simple short sentences. Full stop. And she uses long sentences that could have easily been paced by a few commas but which roll and tumble onwards without a single comma in sight and are really quite sublime to read.

It made me realise how punctuation can actually get in the way of reading. How restrictive it can be. And how liberating it feels when removed.

Of course the comma has its place. As does the colon and the semicolon (for me anyway). Twenty-first century punctuation is a matter of conjecture and debate, and - like hemlines, hats, gloves, and even manners - punctuation has always been prone to changing tastes and fashion. It's an issue of style, personal style: it's subjective. For some, there'll be too many commas in those last two sentences; no need for a colon; that last semicolon entirely unnecessary. And as for ellipses...

But in writing there are no rules. Or if there are, surely they're there to be broken?

My favourite reads of 2011.

2011-12-11T13:25:00.018Z

I've just finished reading Penelope Lively's Moon Tiger and it's right up there in my list of favourite reads of this year. In fact, I think it and a few others from this year are in my favourite books ever list. But it's another book that for some reason took me a while to get to... It won the Booker Prize in 1987.

Moon Tiger is a compelling read; complex, evocative, and perfectly structured: comparable, I think, to Barnes's The Sense of an Ending, and a lesson in novel writing. So, if you haven't yet read it, it's truly a must-read.

Anyone who knows me or follows this blog knows that I'm a voracious reader. I'm not sure how many books I've read during 2011, but I think I've read more than any previous year. So, in no particular order, here's my pick of the best - from the novels I've read during the last twelve months. These are the ones whose words made my heart sing, made me smile and laugh and cry, and make me want to be a better writer.

Moon Tiger, by Penelope Lively

The Sense of an Ending, by Julian Barnes

Journey into the Past, by Stefan Zweig

The Observations, by Jane Harris

The Rector's Daughter, by Flora Mayor

Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys

The Stranger's Child, by Alan Hollinghurst

Master Georgie, by Beryl Bainbridge

Today, by David Miller

Fiesta: The Sun also Rises, by Ernest Hemingway

Girl Reading, by Katie Ward

AND YOU CAN LISTEN TO PENELOPE LIVELY TALKING ABOUT MOON TIGER HERE.

Colm Toibin on simplicity, pleasure, and reading.

2011-12-10T15:38:00.002Z

Edna O'Brien on poetry and prose and books.

2011-12-10T15:34:00.000Z

V. The Soldier.

2011-11-11T10:26:00.005Z

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooke, 1887 - 1915

Writing women, and the C21st.

2011-11-06T15:53:00.021Z

I am, even as I write this, distracted by a book. Namely, the one I'm writing.

It's the one I've been writing for a few years, the one due to be published in February 2013, and the one due to be delivered to my publishers by... next May, at the latest. So, really, I'm rewriting a book.

The great thing is of course that I'm doing what I love, what I'm totally addicted to. I'm now paid to spend my time writing. It's a full time job, and the job I always wanted. How cool is that? I feel blessed, I feel lucky.

The bad thing - yes, like ying and yang, there is always bad with good, I think - is that I've fallen foul (as usual) of my obsessive approach. I can't switch off, can't leave it, can't back away. This feels like a failing: all the professional writers I read about are disciplined with time: they write during certain hours, then, somehow, walk away. But not me.

Consequently, I'm a hopelessly unreliable friend, a distracted mother, neglectful daughter, and an absent (in mind, at least) wife. Family and friends are patient and tolerant. They make allowances, know what I'm like, try to understand that this is the way I work: the only way I work.

But how does a writer maintain that difficult and delicate balance between the demands of the real world and the world we're creating, and inhabiting during our waking hours?

I have no answers. But one thing I do know is that once upon a time lady novelists were just that: ladies, with time on their hands and hours to fill. Did Jane Austen, or Charlotte or Emily Bronte have to break from their writing to cook supper? Did they have school runs, homework, bath-times and bedtimes to supervise? No. And neither did Virginia Woolf, Edith Wharton, Nancy Mitford - and so many others. Their babies were their books: their invented children. Real children - God bless 'em all - rather interfere with writing.

But then so do husbands... Which might explain why so many successful nineteenth and twentieth century women novelists remained unmarried. Those who did marry and had children often struggled. Jean Rhys was estranged from her husband and only child; Rosamond Lehmann sent her children off to boarding school as infants and had a string of unsuccessful relationships; Daphne du Maurier - almost a recluse in her shed - had nannies and servants to see to her family; and Sylvia Plath - estranged from Ted Hughes and left alone with two children - killed herself. Okay, that last one's very bleak. But you get my point, I hope.

It's tricky for women writers in the twenty-first century, trying to be good mothers, good partners or wives, trying to be good friends, and good daughters, whilst creating another world, other people. Because all of this - and all of them - require time. That one thing we can't buy, can't save or recycle, and the very same thing we need in order to create. Tricky.

Remembrance day poppies, & my German cover.

2011-11-02T17:37:00.003Z

O Mio Babbino Caro

2011-10-21T19:16:00.002+01:00

The Sense of an Ending.

2011-10-21T11:57:00.011+01:00

'When you are writing fiction your task is to reflect the fullest complications of the world.' Julian Barnes

This week saw Julian Barnes' The Sense of an Ending win the 2011 Man Booker Prize. And if you follow me on twitter you might just know that I was thrilled it won.

I read it about a month ago and, for me, it's a masterful piece of writing: compelling, concise, with each and every word in the right place, and not one of them extraneous. Its 160 pages are a lesson in how to plot, how and when to release information, and how to be succinct. And its ending? Well, let's just say it leaves you thinking.

Here's what the man himself had to say about his win.

And here's a podcast of what two critics had to say.

Finally - a cover.

2011-09-27T16:28:00.001+01:00

Me, twitter and Salman Rushdie.

2011-09-21T23:00:00.028+01:00

'Books choose their authors; the act of creation is not entirely a rational and conscious one.'

Salman Rushdie

Yesterday morning I posted this quotation on twitter. I like it, like it a lot; it resonates with me. Then, yesterday evening, I inadvertently stumbled across its owner - on twitter. I checked out his profile, who he was following, saw both Minogues, and tweeted:

do you think if I change my name to Minogue @SalmanRushdie might follow me?

The thing about Twitter is that you never know who or what is going to come back to you when you tweet, and that's its power: it allows you to step through doors you can't see, never knew were open to you. And so, who should respond but the man himself: Salman Rushdie.

I was unaware he'd only just joined the twittersphere - until I read this morning's Guardian, which described Mr Rushdie's twitter debut thus: 'You are, by any standards, a modern-day literary colossus. Your novels are fat, fantastical, fatwa-inducing and famously difficult to finish. You've won the Whitbread (twice), the Booker and the Booker of Bookers; are photographed, frequently, in the company of wildly beautiful women much younger (and taller) than yourself; have been elevated to a knighthood by Her Majesty the Queen. What kingdoms remain for you to conquer, what realms still defy your dominion? Well, twitter, for one.'

Of course it's no surprise that Salman Rushdie's already amassed tens of thousands of followers, but it was a surprise that he chose to reply to my silly tweet, and then 'followed' me. And I'd like to ask him a hundred and more questions, but tonight I managed to restrain myself - and kept it to one:

@judithkinghornJudith Kinghorn

@SalmanRushdie Can you tell me one thing, only one (140 characters & all), that I should focus on when I write?

@SalmanRushdieSalman Rushdie

@judithkinghorn Ask yourself: whose story are you telling?

@SalmanRushdieSalman Rushdie

@judithkinghorn And: how many adjectives can you cut?

So, whose story are you telling? And how many of those wretched adjectives can you cut?

PS: and thank you, Salman, for following me.

Dark days, minutes and hours.

2011-09-03T12:17:00.004+01:00

It's the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness... again. And though it's only been twelve months since I posted that poem here, it feels like years; because so much has happened in that time.

I havent done any writing for months. Over the summer I was going through the copy-editing process. Then, last week, I read and checked page proofs: the final stage before The Last Summer goes off to be published. But I've been researching, reading, and pondering the twists and turns and structure of my next book. I don't have long to deliver this, and, luckily, it's one I prepared earlier. That's to say, it's the novel I wrote before The Last Summer - reworked.

So, I'm about to enter a writing phase, which for me is always intense, and always coincides with this time of year. There's something about dark winter days - and autumn, always atmospheric - which propels that inward journey. And that's exactly how it feels, as though I'm about to go on a journey. For the next few months, like a hibernating animal, I'll be shut up here in my room, completely immersed in my story and characters, dreaming of it and them, and lost to my family.

I write during the day, very rarely at night (mainly because I'm usually mentally drained), and work for eight to ten hours, with the occasional break for coffee, or food (if I remember). It's intense, exhausting, all-consuming... and yes, obsessive. But that's the way I work. I can't seem to write in small chunks of time, two hours here and there; and I seem to need an hour or so - to meditate, cogitate - before the words start to flow. Then, when they do, that's it, I'm there, on a roll, and hours go by in minutes. I glance at the clock, at perhaps eleven or twelve, and - whoosh! - next thing I know it's 6pm. Spooky.

Perhaps I really am a time traveller...

'When summer's end is nighing' by A E Housman.

2011-08-30T13:05:00.003+01:00

XXXIX (from Last Poems)

When summer's end is nighing
And skies at evening cloud,
I muse on change and fortune
And all the feats I vowed
When I was young and proud.

The weathercock at sunset
Would lose the slanted ray,
And I would climb the beacon
That looked to Wales away
And saw the last of day.

From hill and cloud and heaven
The hues of evening died;
Night welled through lane and hollow
And hushed the countryside,
But I had youth and pride.

And I with earth and nightfall
In converse high would stand,
Late, till the west was ashen
And darkness hard at hand,
And the eye lost the land.

The year might age, and cloudy
The lessening day might close,
But air of other summers
Breathed from beyond the snows,
And I had hope of those.

They came and were and are not
And come no more anew;
And all the years and seasons
That ever can ensue
Must now be worse and few.

So here's an end of roaming
On eves when autumn nighs:
The ear too fondly listens
For summer's parting sighs,
And then the heart replies.

Desiderata

2011-08-30T12:28:00.009+01:00

By Max Ehrmann (1872–1945)

A few weeks ago, the lovely Katie Ward (author of Girl Reading) posted this on her blog, and, via the power of twitter, dedicated it to me. It was another moment of synchronicity, because I needed to focus; and I needed to find that quiet, calm place in order to focus.

... thought I'd share it with you again here :)

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

My favourite holiday read.

2011-08-28T13:01:00.012+01:00

On my last visit to Waterstones, before going away on holiday, and as I was about to leave the shop (having rearranged a few books for them, once again), I spotted The Rector's Daughter, by Flora Mayor. I didn't know the book, but I liked the look of the cover, picked it up, and read the blurb on the back:

Dedmayne Rectory is quietly decaying, its striped chintz and darkened rooms a bastion of outmoded Victorian values. Here Mary has spent thirty-five years devoting herself to her father, Canon Jocelyn, and to her sister, now dead. Although she is pitied by her neighbours for this muted existence, Mary is content. But when she meets Robert Herbert, her ease is destroyed and years of suppressed emotion surface...

Then I read Susan Hill's quoted words: 'This lost work of genius... is elegant and flexible, most fluently expressing every shade of human emotion.' And Elizabeth Buchan's: 'The most exquisitely written, delicate, passionately felt and haunting book I have ever read.'

Then I bought it... even though the VERY LAST THING I needed was another book to take away with me.

I shan't add to the words of those two esteemed writers, except to say that I agree, wholeheartedly. This is a haunting book. One that lingered on with me for days after I finished reading it, and so much so that I couldn't begin another book for a while. It's a quiet, passionate, beautifully told story of unrequited love. And, as unplanned and unknown as it was to me, it's definitely up there - as one of the best books I've read this year.

Feeling Good :)

2011-08-15T20:05:00.005+01:00

From boardroom to book deal... via home.

2011-08-13T18:03:00.009+01:00

When I was ten, twelve, or even fourteen, if anyone ever asked me what I wanted to do with my life I replied that I wanted to be a writer. I'd learned to read and write long before starting school and words were my passion. But life's full of distractions, alternative roads, and by the time I'd reached my late twenties I'd acquired a rather glamorous, albeit adrenaline-fuelled career, culminating in my appointment as MD of a long established PR and graduate recruitment company based in Covent Garden, London, and owned by the novelist, the late Josephine Hart. Shortly after that I became a director of a Plc.

I've never been much good at pacing myself. I tend to hit any deck running, and certainly - as far as my career was concerned - I'd peaked early. For a few years my buzz came from the boardroom, and, bizarrely, because I'd always hated maths at school, from figures; namely a profit & loss statement. I drove to work each day, parking my convertible outside my office, lunched at The Ivy (always the fishcakes), and shopped at Prada and Armani. I was nominated for Woman of The Year, became a fellow of the RSA, and by my early thirties I seemed to have it all.

But I didn't. I had no time. No time for myself and very little time for my young son. I spent an inordinate amount of my day stuck in a traffic jam, usually on the phone to work, and always feeling guilty: either about the little boy waiting for me at home or the people I'd left back at the office. I was permanently exhausted, and stressed. So, in 1997, pregnant with my second child, I traded in my seemingly glamorous career for the Tellytubbies, Tumbletots ... and tantrums. I became a full-time Mummy. It was a culture shock, a seismic shift in my life. And, though I loved spending time with my two young children, it took me a couple of years to know how and where I wanted this new life to be.

I suppose I could say I'd given up my career for my children, but it would be a lie. Because I'd never been entirely comfortable in my career. I simply wasn't tough enough for that corporate world, and so I'd always felt something of a fraud; as though someone could - and perhaps would - walk into the boardroom, pointing and laughing, saying 'Ha! She can't really do this!' And I'd begun to yearn for a different lifestyle; a sense of peace and space, an environment I thought would unlock my long dormant creativity. I wanted to paint again, wanted to write (though I wasn't sure about what), and I began to realise that the lifestyle my husband and I both craved wasn't possible in London. But the dawn of a new millennium seemed like the perfect time to be brave and pioneering, and so in 2000 my family and I upped sticks, and moved from London to Hampshire, to a mid-Victorian, quirky Arts and Crafts style house.

I'd never been particularly interested in the history of houses, hadn't thought too much about any of the places I'd lived in up until that point. But my house in Hampshire - its refurbishment - triggered something in me. Discovering solid slate window sills hidden under layers of chipped and bubbled gloss paint, tiled hearths, boarded over and long since abandoned as fireplaces, and varnished Victorian wallpaper beneath decades of differing fashions and tastes, made me feel like an archaeologist, and I wanted to know more. I wanted to learn the story of the place we now called home. I found myself imagining the house as it had once been, as it had first been; and I wanted to know who had chosen that wallpaper. All old houses have secrets, each one has its own story, and I had a hunch that my new home had a tale it was longing to tell.

I knew very little at that time. I had no idea who had built the house or when, but I guessed it had been built by an architect, and I knew that the army had been there during WW2. And yet, to me, completely inexplicably, the house felt predominantly female. I could only ever picture women having lived there. I'd also reasoned that with so much decorative detail the place must have been built for a woman. Over the course of two years I managed to piece together the story of my house and its former inhabitants. I discovered a small cast of vibrant, complex characters, who'd led fascinating and, sometimes, scandalous lives. From an aspiring lady novelist to a wannabe countess to a bona fide viscountess, I discovered that my home had indeed been home to some remarkable women.

That history - my research - ended up as a book (published as local history, unedited, and full of typos). Then came a novel: inspired (perhaps not surprisingly) by the wannabe countess - for whom the house was built - and rewritten a dozen times. By the end of 2009, with the book still unfinished and without any agent or publisher, I felt browbeaten by the wannabe, her story and my rewrites of it. I needed a break, but not from writing, from her. So I decided to write something else, something completely invented and fictitious: the sort of book I'd like to read...

I knew I wanted to write a first-person narrative, and a love story, but perhaps with a dark edge to it. And I decided to set the narrative in the period I'd most recently spent time in - researching. In January 2010, without much planning and with no idea of my narrative arc, I began writing The Last Summer. By July I'd more or less finished the first draft; by August I'd acquired an agent; a few months later, the book was auctioned and I had a publishing deal.

It's taken me almost half a century to get here, to be doing what I know I was born to do, but I think I've had an interesting journey.

The stories on your doorstep.

2011-08-12T16:56:00.011+01:00

I've lived in my village for ten years. I'm still a 'newcomer' to those who've lived in the area their entire lives. Not that there are many of those. People move on now. Everyone is transient. Communities are different to how they once were. But I know a lot about my village's past, its history, because I've spent the last decade listening to stories, delivered to me in astonishing detail by a few elderly residents. Sadly, two of them recently passed away: one, who was born and lived her entire life here, aged 100; another at 97 years of age.

I took copious notes as I listened to these stories (usually over tea and stale biscuits). I heard about the workhouse, later - in the '70s - home to Led Zepplin and the recording studio used by the Rolling Stones, amongst others. And the house, close to my own, that was home to Fleetwood Mac - again in the '70s (& the rumbustious parties of a village filled with rock stars). I heard all about the place at the edge of the village, now flats, that was - up until WW2 - a home for fallen women. I heard tales of scandal, and ghost stories; gossip and intrigue; supposition and fact. All of it fascinating.

My kids are long bored of me pointing out the house - once a grocery store - where one sultry summer's afternoon a man marched in and shot dead his wife. They're bored of me pointing out where the gibbet and stocks once stood, the woods where tanks were hidden during WW2, which houses were/are haunted, the old parish poor-houses, and the former gunsmiths, wheelwrights and fellmonger's cottages. But all of this was once here, and alive, and happening. And my village is no different to thousands of others. Every seemingly quiet, now redundant market square has had its moments of notoriety - its scandals, and its murders - as well as its moments of glory. And perhaps each and every old house has, within its walls, an echo of what went before.

With so many records now available online, historical research is easier than ever. But nothing's quite as evocative or as compelling as those first-hand accounts. They fill in the gaps, bring history alive, and those local tales, handed down from generation to generation, often contain a dazzling jewel of a story.

on copy editing.

2011-07-25T16:38:00.004+01:00

Just over a week ago a parcel containing my manuscript arrived here. I can't remember the last time I saw it in paper form. In fact, I'm not sure I ever have. So it was strange to see it: an enormous pile of paper, almost 500 pages, my book.

A copyeditor had gone through it, making neat squiggles and notes in the margins, altering some of my haphazard punctuation. They'd queried a few things, including a couple of obsolete expressions I'd used, and suggested more modern terms. Now it was time for me to check and approve these copy edits, and to make any further changes or amendments in a red pen.

The queries were easy enough to deal with: obsolete expressions remain. After all, these were the terms used in the 1920s. And I don't want my early twentieth century characters to use twenty-first century parlance. Everything else, mainly punctuation, I agreed with.

But seeing the book in paper form, being able to look at it in pages, not on a screen, and having a red pen at my disposal, made me see (quite clearly) more extraneous words, superfluous detail, and a few completely redundant adverbs and adjectives. The over-writing!

And though it's been exhausting to read through the manuscript - once, twice, three times - it was blissfully easy, and liberating, to use that red pen on those pages. It's what I should have done months ago.

Another lesson learnt.

Virginia Woolf... on words.

2011-07-12T13:22:00.003+01:00

The only known recording of Virginia Woolf, sounding exactly as I'd imagined her.

One year on...

2011-06-29T13:59:00.005+01:00

It's a funny old game, writing; sitting alone for days and months on end, inventing stuff, and then, in those somewhat delusional moments, allowing ourselves to dream of that elusive publishing contract. If someone had told me this time last year that the novel I was working on would be auctioned before the year was out, I don't suppose I'd have believed them. But that's what happened. And now, I'm months away from the big P day.

So, how has my life changed? Well, apart from the money (I had no idea advances were paid in stages, but this - I think - is a Good Thing), I can now do all of the following:

1. List my occupation as 'author', without feeling delusional/fraudulent.

2. Talk about my book, and characters, without sounding (to myself, anyway) like a nutter.

3. Feel confident enough to push myself further (vis a vis my writing).

There are of course other things which have changed. I have three agents now (UK, US & Foreign Rights); two publishers, covering various regions; and a team that includes editors, publicists, marketing experts and PRs. Oh, and I also have an accountant.

It all sounds fine and dandy, and it is. But the other side of this new reality is that I have to do this thing I do properly now; I have to replicate that formula and produce more books. The great thing is that I know, at last, that I can write. And whereas a year ago I lacked confidence and conviction, was possibly inhibited, self-conscious in my approach, I now trust my judgement.

I feel lucky, very lucky. But I'm too old to be smug, have seen too many talented writers left to languish in the slush pile, and so whilst I am loving this moment, this process I'm going through, I take nothing for granted.

Cut to the chase & cut the fat.

2011-06-26T19:04:00.017+01:00

Yesterday, I spent quite a while looking at other blogs. I read the first chapters of a few aspiring and self-published authors, some beautiful prose. But one thing struck me: the tendency to overwrite.

Quite a few of those I read didn't begin the actual story until chapter two, and I'd love to suggest to them that they delete chapter one, or perhaps weave it in to their narrative somewhere else. And I've been as guilty as any other of what can often appear self-indulgence. Because as writers, lovers of words, we all want to show off our ability at descriptive prose, but that doesn't necessarily engage the reader. We have to give them a reason to read on, and if it isn't there early on, if we don't hook the reader in the first chapter - or even first paragraphs - no amount of pretty prose will compensate.

"Cut like crazy. Less is more. I've often read manuscripts - including my own - where I've got the beginning of, say, chapter two and thought: 'this is where the novel should actually start.' A huge amount of information about character and backstory can be conveyed through small detail. The emotional attachment you feel to a scene or a chapter will fade as you move on to the other stories. Be business-like about it."

Sarah Waters

For anyone embarking on the editing process, sites like Editing Hacks show you how to identify all those extraneous words, and Bubblecow offers some great advice on the craft of writing, and on editing.

Sunshine, reading, & Mr Briggs' Hat.

2011-06-17T12:02:00.010+01:00

I've been away.

I spent a week in Greece, lying in the sun, reading. I finished the wonderful The Observations, read Fiesta, by Hemingway, and then some pretty mediocre chick-lit. And I also read Julian Grenfell: His Life & the Times of his Death (research). When I came home from Greece I headed north, spent a few days in Northumberland, read Katie Ward's beautiful tome, Girl Reading, and visited Barter Books: a place I heartily recommend any book lover to visit, and where I bought another seven books to add to my to be read pile. And en route south, I stopped off at Chatsworth. And guess what? Yes, I bought another half a dozen books!

When I arrived home from this book-buying tour of England, there were three or four amazon packages waiting for me... so, I think I can safely say I have enough reading material for the next 12 months.

In the meantime, I'm half way through Kate Colquhoun's Mr Briggs' Hat and it's certainly lived up to expectations, in fact it's exceeded them; but so unputdownable it's depriving me of sleep. It's the story of Britain's first railway murder, a deftly handled whodunnit set in mid-Victorian London, packed with the minutiae of life to make it truly evocative and compelling. And another of those books that once you start reading, from the very first lines, you can't stop.

Jane Harris: The Observations.

2011-05-27T20:36:00.008+01:00

Having moaned and grumbled - like the part-time luddite I am - about twitter, I'm truly addicted. Not least because it's introduced me to some wonderful - and I really mean wonderful - writers.

My latest discovery is Jane Harris: currently lurking in the shadows as @blablafishcakes, and the author of The Observations and Gillespie & I. I took a look at her books on amazon; Gillespie and I has just been published, but I decided to buy her debut, The Observations - published four years ago.

How did I miss this?

The book arrived, along with six others, a few days ago, and I hadn't intended to start reading it yet. I'm going away for a week - and it was meant to be one of my holiday reads. And the piles of books to be read in this house are always huge; divided and then sub divided into various stacks, in different rooms, and NOT to be touched - by anyone. But this morning, in bed, over a cup of tea, I thought, I'll just take a peek... read the opening pages.

From the very start this is compelling. A story delivered in a unique voice, and with such convincing dialogue and humour that I carried it about with me all day, giggling, and dipping in and out of it whenever I could. And oh the joy of discovering an untold story, and a new, fresh and vibrant character.

Nothing, nothing, beats a good book.

The Second Book, tenacity, faith & friends.

2011-05-21T17:59:00.010+01:00

I had some exceptionally good news this afternoon: an email from a writer friend - to tell me that they've finally secured representation. And yes, it was that second book again.

Like me, and Katie Ward (see post below), and no doubt many others, this writer had already written one book: a book that had inspired quite a lot of interest, numerous full mss requests, but, ultimately, one that hadn't secured them an agent. They'd gone through the process: the submissions, the waiting, the rejections, the waiting... and the agonising - am I good enough?

I was writing (tweaking, yet again) when the email pinged into my inbox this afternoon, and - lost in my own words - I didn't look at it for a while. But when I did, I almost cried. You see, it's all so fresh to me, still, and I know how hard this particular writer has worked, how much it means to them; and I also know how talented they are. But it was more than that.

When I was going through the same am I good enough scenario - they were there for me. When I found my agent - they were first to congratulate me. And when I secured my publishing deal - despite being in that god-awful quagmire - they were exceptionally generous, and celebrated with me.

Writing can be lonely. We have to pick ourselves up all the time, not just from the pitfalls and potholes of reality, but from that other place: the world we've created and those characters who are so much a part of us. Knowing other writers, having their friendship and advice, can be invaluable. But by being tenacious, having the humility to understand when Good is not good enough, by being prepared to start over, and then rewrite and rewrite and rewrite, and all the time hold on to the belief that IT WILL HAPPEN, this is what brings success, I believe. It's an endurance test, and a test of faith. And though the journey's not over yet for my friend, it's a great and wonderful leap forward.

The road to publication & second novels.

2011-05-02T12:08:00.021+01:00

I read Katie Ward's account of her own journey to publication and smiled at the similarities to my own experience. Her book, Girl Reading, will be published on Thursday by Virago - almost eighteen months after she signed her book deal, and 12 years after she began writing.

It's a long road.

Like me, Katie spent years writing her first novel and secured representation and a book deal with her second. For me her account is all the more poignant because of her trepidation at the thought of finally being read:

'It is strange indeed to finally accept that your work ― which was once just yours, which is deeply personal and has so much of yourself in it ― has become the property of other people, has taken on a life of its own. It produces a complex set of emotions.'

Her publication day looms, mine's still months away; but already - if I think about people reading what was once my story - I get an ache in my stomach, feel sick. Because I've also kept my writing to myself: a thing I do but don't really talk about. My family and friends have never read my words. A few have no idea I've written a book (or two) and will be published early next year; and some - who knew about the first book - stopped asking me about it as time went on, perhaps embarrassed, or - and almost like me for a while - wondering if I was deluded in my state of solitary confinement and desire to write.

I realise now that all those years spent researching and writing my first novel gave me time to learn, time to confront my mistakes, develop my style. I've never been on a creative writing course (though I often wish I had), but, in a way, through research, reading, and continual rewriting, I was on my own course. There would be no second novel without the first, and no publishing deal without the second. And yet, like Katie Ward, I carry a sense of disbelief, and my stomach continues to somersault and churn at the thought of looming exposure.

the adventure of books

2011-04-25T18:10:00.015+01:00

I can map my life by the books I've read: remembering where I was, how I felt, who I was with. One book's led to another, then another... and another; like a treasure trail. And I know I've blogged about this before, but I've made another discovery. In fact, I've made two... and I feel duty-bound to share them with you.

I have twitter to thank for introducing me to David Miller, and David Miller to thank for leading me to Cynthia Ozick. Miller's book, Today, sounded intriguing. Set in my period, it's about Joseph Conrad, or rather - about his death. By the end of Miller's sensitive, beautifully written book I was hungry for more; I wanted to know more about JC, more about Lilian... more of the story; and I wanted to know the story behind the story: what had inspired David Miller to write his book. The author kindly sent me some of his essays and work on Conrad, and I noted the mention of Ozick's book, Dictation, and then ordered it.

I'll remember this Easter, the glorious sunshine, and I'll remember spending it with Joseph Conrad, his family, and Lilian Hallowes. And all because of David Miller's wonderful book, Today.

It's the unexpected gems that are always the most thrilling; the ones you never anticipated, couldn't have foreseen, and were never on your list.

Take heart...

2011-04-18T17:05:00.015+01:00

I looked through my 2010 diary earlier today, noting my 'word count' - recorded in a scrawl each day, and then the one for this day last year: and I almost remember writing the number: 964. Not prolific by any means, but I'd been on a roll. In just over 3 months I'd written 50,000 words of a book now titled The Last Summer.

I didn't have an agent then, and I had no idea if what I was writing was really any good; all I knew was that I was writing from the heart, and it flowed, and flowed...

By early July, even though the book wasn't finished, I decided to send out some sample chapters to a few agents and one publisher (all via email). It was a beautiful sunny morning, and I felt optimistic; decided I had nothing to lose. Within an hour an agent came back to me and asked for an 'exclusive'. At the time I wasn't sure what that meant, but again - I thought I had nothing to lose. By the end of that day the publisher contacted me requesting the manuscript, and I had to explain to them that I'd just agreed to an exclusive with an agent.

A few months later I finished writing the book, and weeks after that I signed a 2 book publishing deal with Headline, acquired representation in the US and sold foreign/translation rights to Random House in Germany.

So... take heart, and remember, much can happen in one year.

Imagination

2011-04-07T11:37:00.009+01:00

Listening to other writers talk about their craft is always interesting - and listening to these recordings of Beryl Bainbridge was, for me, fascinating. One thing she said which struck me, was that she didn't believe in imagination, but felt that everything drawn upon (to write about) comes from our experience. I'm not sure that I completely agree with her on that. Surely paranormal and fantasy writers have to rely on imagination? And authors of historical fiction too. We can research our period, take in the details, language and habits, but the story has to come from imagining. I didn't live through the First World War - or become addicted to morphia - but I've written about it.

Whilst I'm thinking of dear Beryl, if any of you haven't yet read her historical fiction, I strongly recommend According to Queeney, Master Georgie and Every Man for Himself. All three superb.

Creative writing.

2011-04-04T10:35:00.012+01:00

Do creative writing courses make novels too 'literary'?

I've not been on a creative writing course, but I sometimes wish I had. I've never attended a writer's day or a conference, or even a writer's festival (yes, I do need to get out more).

Some of our most accomplished, award-winning writers (including Ian McEwan and Kazuo Ishiguro) graduated from the now famous (& obviously exceptional) University of East Anglia's creative writing course, founded in the 1960's by Malcolm Bradbury. But creative writing courses seem to have sprung up everywhere of late, even here, in the sleepy villages of Hampshire. And I'm tempted to attend one - out of sheer curiosity. But what I don't want - and never did - is someone else's formula for successful writing. Actually, that's not altogether true: I'd listen to McEwan or Ishiguro, and I'd certainly take advice from Bradbury, were he still alive, but I'm a tad sceptical about some of the courses I hear about and see advertised. I can't help it.

It's obviously a lucrative business. Everyone has a book in them, or thinks they do... they just need to get it out. But can creativity - creative writing - be taught? Obviously yes, to a certain extent, but surely McEwan and Ishiguro were born writers and would have been brilliant anyway?

Personally, I think I'd rather read the words of all those authors I respect and admire, the ones whose prose is so achingly beautiful it makes your heart sing, inspires you; makes you determined to become a BETTER writer.

...then again, maybe I'm missing out on something, that workshop spirit and collective impetus, which I know can be so rewarding. I'll think some more and report back!

Synchronicity.

2011-03-12T16:50:00.020Z

I'm fascinated by synchronicity. Those inexplicable patterns and runs of coincidences that life sometimes throws in our path. And it's happened with my writing more than once.

It was whilst researching the history of my home, almost a decade ago, that I came across the Countess de Champs. The house I live in was built for her by her third husband - a well known architect - around the time of their marriage, in 1876. She eventually came to live here towards the end of her life, and died here in 1923 at the age of 90. Before that she'd lived most of her life in Rome and Paris, and for a while, when married to husband number two, she'd lived at the Chateau de Chazelle, in Nievre, France. I shan't go into the story of her life here, tempting though it is (and it is SO tempting), but I can tell you a little about the circle.

It was the Countess de Champs' life that inspired me and gave me the idea for my book, The Memory of Lost Senses. And it was my fascination with her somewhat duplicitous life and my need to learn the truth (let's call it research) which led me to France to try and find her former home. I found the Chateau de Chazelle, discovered it has been in the Hachette family for the past 70 years, and is now home to Gilbert (pron Jeel-ber) Hachette: a charming, lovely man, who gave me an old photograph of the chateau (posted below), as well as a bottle of - still to be drunk - Sancerre from his cellar.

Three or so months later, I learnt that Hachette were to be the publishers of my book, The Memory of Lost Senses. But it's taken me a while to realise the synchronicity of this. And I still haven't written to Gilbert (long since retired) to tell him.

On editing.

2011-03-09T09:39:00.010Z

I usually hit the deck running, have never been much good at pacing myself. So, when they said, can you get it back to us by end of march? I said, yes, fine. Four weeks - plenty of time. I'll be able to pace myself, I thought. That was about a week ago. Since then, I've been here at my desk, at my laptop, working as though I had a deadline of midnight - tonight.

I'm pretty disciplined about my writing. Actually, that's not true: I'm ridiculously disciplined about my writing. I sit down to work at 9am and work right through until evening. I forget to eat unless someone is here - and thinks to feed me. It's not the healthiest way to work but it's the only way I know. And, I realise, I'm a useless friend too. I avoid committing to anything, and hate interruptions.

But the editing... the editing I'm enjoying! I've heard so many writers complain and say that they hate it, but I'm loving it. Maybe it's the knowledge of having a book deal, having people out there selling my work in other countries now; having people believe in me. And I have been helped... was sent chapter by chapter notes highlighting what could be added to, developed, amended. That focussed me, and, in all honesty, I'm not sure how or where I'd have started without it.

I'll probably be finished by the end of this week. But finished what? Because I know now that I'll spend another two and a half weeks, right up until that March 31st deadline, honing and polishing and honing and polishing my words. Like an obsessive compulsive given a duster and put in front of a piece of mahogany furniture, I shan't be happy until I can clearly see my reflection smiling back at me.

And of course that will never happen...

The rules of writing, and Jean Rhys.

2011-02-25T11:39:00.020Z

I've been pondering on all these rules of writing, and I have to say, I don't agree with all of them.

Writing, like any creative process - and surely all art - is an evolutionary medium, prone to styles and fashions, subjective, and deeply personal. Each one of us has a different voice, a unique perspective, and if we follow a formula (rules) - we lose that voice. Today, via the power of the internet and all those writers who've gone before us, we're inundated with advice on how to..., what not to do, and what to do...

I've just finished reading the novels and (unfinished) autobiography of Jean Rhys, a writer completely ahead of her time and one who certainly didn't follow the rules of her time. Her books were published in the late 1920s and 30s, but none were particularly successful: the themes of her novels - her tone and her style - were too modern. Her books quickly went out of print and she disappeared - for many years presumed dead. Then, in 1966, 'Wide Sargasso Sea' was published - to critical acclaim and scooping the elderly Ms Rhys a number of awards.

I wonder, had Jean Rhys followed the rules of her time, would she have been described upon her death, by the poet and critic Al Alvarez, as 'one of the finest British writers of this century'?

2011-02-21T11:22:00.009Z

Ten rules for writing fiction

Get an accountant, abstain from sex and similes, cut, rewrite, then cut and rewrite again – if all else fails, pray. Inspired by Elmore Leonard's 10 Rules of Writing, authors give their personal dos and don'ts here

tweeting madly

2011-02-18T14:44:00.006Z

Yikes. I can see why people get addicted to twitter, and I take back everything I said earlier (see below). The big thrill for me this morning was to see Yoko Ono following me, and my publishers (of course), and some other new friends/writers. But let's be honest, having Yoko as a follower thrilled me the most... and I thought I'd made a mistake, thought it can't be the real one, the real ONO. But it was, and it is :)

The Last Summer.

2011-02-14T10:30:00.005Z

So, more news: The Girl on the Gate is now The Last Summer.

I'm very happy with my book's new title, though I wasn't entirely sure at first... I'd become attached to my rather whimsical working title because I've lived with it for quite a while, and, perhaps, because it was an image that came to me so very vividly when I first began writing the book. However... I've put on my commercial/business hat (bowler? I'd quite like one of those). And I've killed off enough of my darlings by now to know that letting go can be a Good Thing. Also, I trust my publisher's expertise in this matter. After all, they want the book to appeal to as wide a readership as possible, and so do I.

The art of good writing...

2011-01-28T13:56:00.006Z

"Because the form and rhythm of sentences communicates as much meaning as their factual content, whether we’re conscious of it or not."

Please hit on link to read full article.

Losing The Plot.

2011-01-11T10:52:00.010Z

Yesterday I lost the plot.

I went back to The Memory of Lost Senses, the book I wrote a couple of years ago - and haven't looked at in almost as long - and I began the almighty task of reworking it. I spent no less than 9 hours unravelling the thing, or trying to, and ended up frustrated, depressed, (unravelled?) and with a monumental headache. By the time I went to bed (having fallen out with everyone, including the two stupid dogs) I was feeling seriously pissed off...

I can't do it...I can't write it...I can't, I can't...

Today, I'm going to ponder. Nothing more.

I'm going to think on the story, try to get the plot together in my head. I've been told it's 'ambitious', and, I realise now, that it is/was. I need to simplify it.

You're thinking, 'simplify? Easy'! But it's not.

The problem with this book is that it began its life as a work of non-fiction. It was based on real people and real events. It slowly evolved into a work of fiction, a novel, but it's still not there. What I have to do is ditch a few of the characters - whose development were stunted by all that research, and my (then) obsession with staying true to the facts. What I have to do is kill my darlings.

And this is probably why I lost the plot yesterday. Because the book I thought I'd written just isn't there, yet. And it's going to be painful, very painful, because I have to be brutal, have to be, if I'm to liberate the story, and myself.

How was it for you?

2011-01-05T12:42:00.015Z

So, here it is, 2011. A new year... time for (another) new start.

But what is it about December - the run up to Christmas - that makes us lose all sense of perspective? And then in January, as though we can somehow undo the excess of the previous weeks (months and years) make resolutions, and vow to ourselves to do things differently this year?

Oh yes. I may be spent...but I'm not over yet. Like a phoenix I shall rise up from the ashes and reinvent myself. Again. Jaded from partying (seemed like a good idea at the time), broke from the frenzied spendathon (but I felt rich amidst the twinkling lights and carol singers on the high street), and dreaming of a new, better me - I am resolute, determined...for now at least.

This year I have only one resolution: to spend less time online and more time writing. That's it.

And I've already announced that next Christmas will be different. (Is that a resolution? Okay, then I have two). Because I'm actually bored of Christmas. Bored of the parties, the food, the never ending customs, rituals and traditions; the god awful TV programmes, the *bored* games, the endless card-writing-present-buying-wrapping-giving-and-receiving; even the tree and decorations, which I once, not so long ago, loved...

You see, somewhere along the line it all got out of hand, expanded and grew... and grew. Now, it starts earlier, finishes later, and requires so much more: more effort, more money, more energy. And, year on year, it seems hungrier, greedier. Kids no longer want books (shiver), or even a bike (yawn): they want expensive technology - ipads-pods-phones etc. So, what's it all about?? Buying stuff, it seems to me. It's a shopping festival, don't you know? For we all worship at the shopping mall...

Praise be to HMV,

Halle-lu-jah to Our Store!

Glory on high to Philip Green

And to credit bills unseen!

Glo-o-o-o-r-i-a, hosanna in excelsis!

(repeat chorus)

Right. That was turning into a rant, so I'll end this here and promise you (another resolution creeping in) that I shan't moan again in 2011. Or I'll try not to.

Oh, and a very Happy New Year!!

2010, and The End.

2010-12-23T09:39:00.017Z

I was hoping that I'd be able to make an announcement before the close of this year, but it's going to have to wait until the New Year. And - unless I'm inspired to post something over the coming week - this is me signing off for 2010. But I wanted to thank all of you who've followed and been a part of this blog and my journey. Writing can be a lonely, hugely frustrating and sometimes painful way to spend one's life. We put ourselves through agonies - some necessary, some not - in order to take ourselves to that place, the one we need to get to. And let's face it, we're not the easiest people to live with, because we're so often in That Place (the one we've invented), with The Others (the ones we're in love with); outside the loop of here and now.

My editor asked me the other day, 'Where exactly is this place? Where's it based on?' And I had to be honest, it's not based on anywhere, it's inside my head. The landscape, gardens, house, the rooms...the decor, all of it. I'm sure it's an amalgamation of every old house I've ever looked at, visited or read about. But it definitely doesn't exist.

I chose my county, an unreliable location, and I built my house... then decorated it, in a rather cluttered Victorian way. I painted a landscape around it, laid down paths and roads and lanes; a farm, stables and cottages. The main characters had already been sketched out, and by the time I'd built them their home they'd found their voices and were ready for action.

And so most of 2010, certainly all of the first six months, was spent in that place. And I know it like the back of my hand; know every tree and path and fence and stile: because I put them there. In 2010 I've lived through four years of war, and over forty seasons. Is it any wonder I'm so tired? And I wonder how many conversations I've not heard during the last year? And how many times I've been kept awake at night by the incessant chatter of those invented voices? Like living with a multiple personality disorder, it's tough. Once we've created them - they won't be silenced. Or mine won't. They interfere with real life; have opinions and long to be heard. And even when we finally write 'THE END', they often continue to whisper in our ears, suggesting more...more: a new twist, another scene.

But the book is finished; and so, with an aching heart, I have to leave the characters I spent 2010 with. Oh, I'll no doubt hear (from) them again, briefly, next year, but that particular journey - that story - is done. Time to move on. And next year promises to be a very good year. So, I'll end this final ramble of 2010 by thanking you once again, my supportive, tolerant, inevitably kind and patient friends out there in the ether. And wish you all a very Happy Christmas; good health, happiness and success in 2011.

Happiness...is a reader.

2010-12-17T18:13:00.009Z

Very few people have read the mss of The Girl on the Gate. But the few that have read it - in its entirety - seem to have been so ... smitten, that I'm actually worried.

Why worried? Because I wrote the thing quite quickly, and wrote it really for myself. I was - I thought - being indulgent. I dreamt up a place, characters and a story, and then I languished, blissfully, in that daydream for a few months. So a part of me feels unworthy...as though I should have toiled and laboured more in order to be deserving.

This week I met a lovely young editor who told me she's reading the book for the fourth time. She was quite choked up about some of the scenes in the book, told me she'd missed her stop on the tube because she was so engrossed in it. And last night a writer friend - who'd just read the first chapters for the very first time - sent me the most lovely message. And again I felt unworthy.

I suppose I'm worried it's a fluke. Worried I'll not be able to replicate that winning formula (whatever it is/was) again. Worried that there's a mistake... somewhere; an undiscovered flaw lurking in the narrative (I never planned any arc); or that the powers-that-be will suddenly change their minds. So even now, at this stage, when I'm one minute walking on air, I still fall into that well of anxiety and self-doubt.

What I do know with absolute certainty is that I don't write to live, I live to write. It's all I want to do, what I LOVE to do. And so for people to love my words, my characters, my stories...is for me nothing short of complete and utter happiness, however fleeting.

to tweet or not to tweet?

2010-12-09T12:04:00.002Z

This is the question.

I was on twitter once before, but couldn't get my head around it. And although I've just gone back to it, I'm not sure I can now.

Posting soundbites may be a step too far for me. A wobbly step into a bright, high tech world. You see, when you choose to hang out in the past (and I tend to live in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries) it all becomes tricky. The switching back. Only last night I heard myself say something, nothing important, just a throwaway line to my husband, and I realised how old-fashioned I sounded. The words I used were so other-worldly, simply because they were whole and complete...oh, and perhaps belonged to another era. (Needless to say he didn't seem to notice/hear).

But everyone today seems to speak in strange abbreviations and text-style phrases that I find myself struggling to decode. I only discovered what a *muaah* was last year (had it been around for long?)...and I still don't know how to spell it. The LOLs are straightforward enough, I think, but all the others, the endless variations, the LMAOs and ROLFs (?) etc etc, still have me confused and coming up with strange, unlikely meanings. And TWEETING is yet another language... with lots of @s and other symbols just to confuse me further...

Anyway, for those of you who'd like to hear my (possibly old-fashioned and irregular) tweets - I'm here : http://twitter.com/#!/judithkinghorn

Town versus Country...

2010-11-27T10:24:00.014Z

Reading Sandie Dent's blog about her move from the country to the town, made me think about my own move, from London to Hampshire. It was autumn 2000: a time of fuel shortages, heavy floods, and an outbreak of foot and mouth. Not the best time to move to The Shires, perhaps. But, sometimes, I like to live dangerously...

Friends in London had warned me, tried to talk me out of this mad idea. They'd said, 'imagine a rainy tuesday in February... think of the mud...and the weather, you get so much weather in the country'. And when I smiled and replied that I'd already thought of that, could cope with that, they'd moved on, swiftly ...to shoes. I have to admit, although I'd accepted that I'd be trading in pavements, and that there'd be mud involved (at some stage, surely), I hadn't thought of footwear. 'Heels,' they said, shaking heads; 'it won't work. You'll last six months.'

And they were right. Six months in and I was begging my husband to move back to town. There was nowhere to get a decent cappuccino, no shiny shops or London-style delicatessens, everything closed at 5pm and still had half-day closing each wednesday. It seemed as though everyone I met had lived here forever, and I felt like an alien: a strange creature from that place called The City.

Then summer came. My trips back to London abated, and I began to meet other people who'd moved here from cities and far flung places. Coffee shops appeared, places began to stay open later, and people seemed friendlier. And I realised that even in the worst weather I could still wear heels: you simply travel in wellies, then change into heels ;)

Things have changed here in ten years, and so have I.

I don't suppose I could ever have done my school run in pyjamas, sunglasses and Ugg boots in the city, or felt the degree of space and peace I seem to need in order to write. And now? Now I could never give up this country habit, or go back full-time to the incessant cacophony of city life. I love London, love spending a day or an evening there; I feel a deep connection with the place, and it's part of my own personal history. But the joy of waking up here in the country is, for me, priceless.

Bingeing.

2010-11-15T11:09:00.010Z

No, not on food or drink; on an author.

I do this from time to time. I did it a few years ago with Edith, and then with Daphne, and with Henry too. I had to read everything they'd ever written and everything about them. Then I felt compelled to visit the places they'd lived and written about.

For a while Daphne was my muse. And I collected all sorts of stuff, including a postcard (of Menabilly/Manderley) written to a man in Torquay - and signed by her (amazing the stuff you can find on ebay!). It's framed and sits here on a shelf close to my desk.

But now I'm bingeing on Rosamond Lehmann. I read some of her work years ago, when I was a student and devoured all those green paperback Virago classics. Now I'm greedily working my way through her novels; insatiable, and at the end of each one only hungry for more. Then of course there'll be the biographies...the trip to wherever she lived (if I can do it)...and maybe a trawl through ebay for anything else.

Will she usurp Edith (Daphne did - for a while, at least)? No, probably not. I am, as I've said before, hideously faithful.

Knitting?

2010-11-09T18:36:00.008Z

...well, it might be something to do whilst I wait. And it can't be that difficult: two sticks and a ball of wool, and hey presto! A superbly hand-knitted sweater for my husband's Christmas! Now that's an idea...

But really, this is all very difficult for me. I'm in a holding pattern and not allowed to say anything. But I will write all about it soon, maybe in another week or two...

Today, because I couldn't get my brain in gear to write - and to try and distract myself - I reread some of The Memory of Lost Senses ...and, truly, I was quite shocked. Shocked at how badly written it is/was in parts. Overwritten, poorly structured and ... well, just not that good.

I haven't looked at it in about a year, and it was interesting to go back and read scenes I wrote a couple years ago now. It showed me how much my style's developed in the last two years, how much I've learnt. Now I realise it's not a book to be reworked...it's a book to be rewritten, one day. And I also realise that what an editor told me a while back is true (and very good advice to any writers not getting requests etc): she said that you need to distance yourself sometimes from your writing; put it away for a few months, and then go back to it... and before you start editing again, READ it.

Just over a year ago I was reading it: I was reading and editing it all the time, completely lost in the process, and, obviously, unable to see what needed to be done. Like sitting too close to the TV, or even this laptop screen, I couldn't see it properly, couldn't focus. By stepping back, leaving it for a year, I can clearly see the flaws.

So, like a badly knitted sweater -- it will be pulled apart; the wool rolled up into tight, neat balls, and then, I'll begin again.

I wish...

2010-11-06T12:06:00.005Z

I wish I could blog about what's happening to me at the moment, but I can't. I can only say that I've been warned that I'm in for a nerve-wracking two weeks, so I'm going to focus on Other Things, or try to. I'm formulating ideas for another story, already researching, and of course there's still The Memory of Lost Senses sitting on a shelf, waiting.

Anyway, fingers crossed that those reading, and about to read Girl love it as much as I do :)

Slapping protagonists...

2010-10-28T16:36:00.003+01:00

(Is it allowed?)

MM Bennetts came up with a list of ten protagonists she'd like to slap, some quite a few times too, and I have to say one on her list has to be at the very top of mine: Tess Durbeyfield.

But she needs more than a slap or two, she needs a really good shake and a whole load of expletives thrown at her. Also on my list are Fanny Price (hugely annoying, I think, and definitely worthy of a slap), Lily Bart (ditto) and the unnamed narrator in Rebecca. The latter, though a brilliant *vehicle* for delivering the story, always makes me want to scream: stumbling about, spilling drinks and making endless faux pas'...and always in a tweed skirt (unforgivable).

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

2010-10-26T15:07:00.005+01:00

Nothing quite inspires me to write like bad weather, and right now it's BAD.

Darkly dramatic skies and raging winds churn up my imagination like nothing else...other than perhaps hallucinogenic drugs, which I don't do/have (although I have been writing about them). And although I can write in calm weather, it's not the same and never quite flows as easily. I seem to need darkness...a foreboding atmosphere and the vaguest feeling of unease to really get me on my way and into the zone. I think it's one of the reasons I write so much during winter and so little during summer.

Which leads me on to wonder about writers living in other countries, where the weather is almost always fine...how do they do it?

Maybe it's because I spent so many years on the Northumbrian coast (always bleak, even in summer) and the Lake District (always misty). Anyway, enough rambling. I must be off and get to it - before things calm down again.

Found: one delapidated chateau in Nievre.

2010-09-17T17:32:00.008+01:00

The high point of my week in France was finding the Chateau de Chazelle. And I located it using Cassini's C18th map of France!

This is the place where the Countess de Champs, the woman who inspired my novel, The Memory of Lost Senses, once lived.

The old chateau stands high on a hill, down a dusty poplar lined track, looking out over the Loire. The place is somewhat delapidated, the gardens overgrown, but it is inhabited...

And it seemed as though Gilbert (the man who has lived there for the last fifty years) was expecting us. He greeted us like an old friends, took us inside and talked animatedly about his house and the de Champs family. There seemed no element of surprise in our sudden, unannounced arrival...or our interest in his home. Later we walked outside, and as I stood looking up at the shuttered windows I could imagine how the place had once been; how her life had once been.

When I left, armed with this old photograph (above) and a bottle of Sancerre, I realised that I'd never really needed to see it: it was exactly as I'd imagined. But in seeing the place for myself, by standing looking out across that valley, I can take myself back there so quickly.

Research. I love it!

mellow fruitfulness....

2010-09-02T09:57:00.006+01:00

It seems autumn has arrived here in England...and I'm hoping that it will indeed be a season of mellow fruitfulness.

Things are happening, vis a vis The Girl on the Gate, and it's all happened remarkably quickly. So, I have an agent. This in itself means nothing, I know that. I know it's a long pot-holed road to publication, and there may be many rejections yet. But my over-riding emotion is one of gratitude: I'm feeling grateful that someone believes in me and has taken me on; I'm feeling grateful for the unwavering support from so many authonomy friends; grateful to be at this point - no matter what lies ahead. And mellow. Yes, truly, I'm feeling quite mellow...

Just waiting for the fruitfulness :)

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

oh happy day!

2010-08-27T18:35:00.006+01:00

‎...three mediocre novels into my holiday and I discover a gem; almost lost in a bookcase swollen with the usual holiday reads. How did I NOT know about this book?

The Queen of the Tambourine by Jane Gardam :)

The Authors Prayer.

2010-08-16T20:09:00.004+01:00

I thought maybe I'd bless my new blog with a prayer...

Our agent, who art in salubrious South London,hallowed be thy name.Thy contract come, thy deal be done, and 15% will be yours. Give us this day our juicy advance. And forgive us our impatience, as we forgive those who do not get back to us. And lead us not into depression, but deliver us from self-publishing. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory. for ever and ever. Amen

by Kim.