There I was sitting at the kitchen table, scoffing a Flake and reading about TOWIE people on the Daily Mail website, like you do when you’re bored and can’t be arsed to actually do something productive. Some people call it ‘displacement activity’, I call it wasting time, and I’m the self appointed queen of wasting time.

Have I ever told you about the time I wasted well over twenty minutes sniffing the potted hyacinth’s on my desk? It was a tricky writing day, didn’t know what was going to happen next, was having one of those “it’s all crap anyway, so what does it matter” moments, but anyway, twenty whole minutes… I bet Jackie doesn’t do that. No, she probably has someone to sniff her hyacinths for her, I can’t imagine Lucky Santangelo hanging around waiting for her author to write the next bit.    

Anyway, back to the kitchen table, my laptop pinged to signify the arrival of a new email, and there it was, the words I’ve fantasised about right back from those days as a little girl, listening to the Archers, then writing a kids version and recording it on my granddad’s old reel-to-reel tape recorder, complete with imaginative sound effects. Did you know that rubbing a crisp packet between your palms creates a wonderful footsteps-on-a–gravel-drive like sound? Truefact.

And this is what the email said –

Just to let you know that we have been given the all clear, so I’ll be coming to you with an offer before the end of the week! Everyone really likes the proposal and are very excited…

SCREAM. Cue air guitar, gin, a rodeo of topless cowboys, Anya Hindmarch begging me to accept her entire Spring/Summer collection of handbags as a gift and quite possibly turning Tom Ford, oh yes, remember I’d been imagining this moment for donkeys. But no, none of those things happened; instead I went in to QT’s bedroom, scooped up her dirty clothes and put them in the washing machine. I then went in to the kitchen and made a cup of tea. It was pouring the milk in that did it, the very moment the contents of that email sunk in, the moment I realised. And that was the moment I cried.

And not graceful Lady tears like Meryl during an Oscar acceptance speech, no, these were big, gulping, snivelling sobs for those years of writing in secret before I got the courage to show anyone and then worrying if it would ever come to something. Would I ever get to hold my book in my hands? The years of yearning to write all day aswell as all night, but instead, having to commute in to London to sit at a desk and muster up a modicum of enthusiasm for stuff like “key performance indicators”, or being told to discipline someone for sending their husband an email cartoon of Snow White snogging a dwarf… honestly, the fuss those directors made about that, especially the finance director with his penchant for perusing the online Hooters calendar, I shit you not.

After several years of trying to get published as a novelist, completing two novels, starting several more, signing with two agents, parting with two agents and generally doing all those things that aspiring novelists do for years and years and years … it happened. I got me a three book deal with HarperCollins. A series, with the first novel to be published early next year, which is handy as I‘ve already written it, just need to get on and write the second one now, deadline 1^st December! Eek, and there you have it folks… the worry starts all over again.

What if it’s a pile of pony? What if I don’t meet the deadline? What if the world stops spinning? What if my arms get savaged by wolves and I end up having to tap the keyboard with a stick sellotaped to my head because I’ve spent the advance and can’t afford to give it back? 

Anyway, I’m exhausting myself now with all this worry, so I’ll go, but thank you, I feel I should say that as so many people have helped me to get this far.

One last thing…  I do love a picture, and I would have shown you one of the actual contract, but there are probably special laws about that kind of thing, so here’s one of Poundland instead. Particularly apt as my dear friend and mentor, Caroline Smailes, once said to me, ‘so what are you going to do instead then, get a job in Poundland?’ That was after yet another one of my “that’s it, I’m giving up writing” rants. Not that there’s anything wrong with working in Poundland, I’m just glad I didn’t give up writing, because if I had then I wouldn’t have been lucky enough to have realised my dream. 

Luck and love

Alex x

My dentist did the honours, she’s a maxillofacial expert, so I knew I was in proper professional hands. Antiseptic and anaesthetic creams were applied and after a number of tiny scratch like sensations, it was over and the difference was immediate. Like magic.  

Of course I know some people disapprove of such things and that’s their choice, but by the numerous tweets, FB comments and chats with friends, it seems there are loads of people out there wanting to have it done.  Anyway, feminism to me is about choice and not slagging off other women for exercising that choice. This was my choice, and nothing to do with social pressure, or wanting to look good for a man… I just got fed up of looking like a sad old beanbag.

That is all…

ps – I’m still working on the ‘beanbag’ bit.

Luck and love

Ax

Of course, there will be occasions when an outward show of happiness really won’t be appropriate, like if Monty Dog does a flyby lick of QT’s bare foot and she’s howling like it’s the end-of-the-whole-wide-world, or indeed if it really is the end of the world, or someone is seriously ill, suffering, living in a war zone, experiencing bullying, racial abuse etc, but on the whole, when it comes to a mindset over the mundane or how we respond to those moany, negative, soul sucker types who just can’t help swathing you in their gloom,  I think it is possible to choose happy. And besides, by sheer definition, a soul sucker is never happy, no, not ever… so I sure don’t want to be one of them.    

And in case I forget, I’ve stuck a little reminder on my bathroom wall.

And here are some pics of QT attemtping yoga to Waybuloo… this makes me happy.

But seriously, this time of year is all about reflection for me, looking back and remebering what’s happened, the highs, the lows, the exquisite moments where dreams come true, they don’t come along very often but I was lucky enough to have two this year. The first, QT’s new birth certificate arriving in the post one mundane Monday morning, with no warning, fanfare, not even a covering letter, just a piece of paper with our names next to boxes labelled ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’.  I had a cup of tea and a CurlyWurly to celebrate. The second moment is still ongoing, so if you hear a big squeeey scream, then you’ll know that dream has come true too.

Thought I’d share some of our Christmassy pics. The pink box in this picture has a tag on saying ’special little girl 2010′, I bought it last year to celebrate our first Christmas with QT, and the sparkly white seal below was chosen this year by QT because… quote, “he pants like a doggy”. The mind boggles.         

Here’s Rudolph, the reindeer who greeted us at the Christmas tree plantation.   

Happy Christmas and may all your dreams come true too…

As you can see, I haven’t got very far with the unpacking yet, although you might just be able to make out my most treasured possession, the Jackie Collins signed photo to yours truly on my desk, yep, I wasn’t taking any chances with JC going AWOL… so I stashed her in my handbag on move day.

 It’s West Dean College in Chichester, and I got to stay there for a writing retreat over the weekend before doing a talk for the MA Creative Writing students, although I suspect they probably know much more than I do about the craft of writing. Anyway, pushing this thought aside I was welcomed by the course leader Greg Mosse, husband to acclaimed author, Kate Mosse… so no pressure then.

The talk was delivered in a ‘chat show’ style, expertly facilitated by Greg, where I answered a variety of questions. I read an extract from my second novel and we chatted about characterisation and discussed the main character. The importance of creating believable characters and making their actions plausible for them. One student summed it up perfectly by saying, ‘I might not do it, but I love reading about someone else doing it. It’s about escapism.’  Quite… told you they knew more than me.

We talked about writing in the ‘first person present’ and how the reader can live the story with the main character, experience a very immediate section of her life. How the main character’s neutral narrator voice can co-exist with her emotional one and the rhythm that passes from one to the other is what drives the narrative.

They asked me about writers block, and I explained what works for me… my secret ‘third person bonkbuster’ (the book I’m writing alongside my real work in progress) which they all thought was hilarious. I explained that it keeps my writing on track, how whenever I feel the urge to waste twenty minutes sniffing hyacinths in the window box by my desk, I bang out (pun intended) a few paragraphs so I can then go back to the WIP and carry on with renewed enthusiasm. Works for me every time.

In summary, it was my first ever author talk, and although I was nervous beforehand, Greg and his students made me feel so welcome, they treated me like a proper published novelist, even though I explained that I’m still working on that dream, and that masquerading as a newspaper columnist* isn’t quite the same thing. But it didn’t matter to them, they were enthusiastic, engaging and interested in my writing… and that’s a truly flattering feeling. Thank you so much for having me.  

* You can read about that escapade on the ‘How I Became A Writer’ page

Yep, that’s right, it was a party organised by the Romantic Novelist’s Association, held in the glorious library at the IMechE building in Westminster, just around the corner from Buck house.  

I met a variety of women of all ages, either top of their game or aspiring to be – bestselling novelists, super agents and editors from world class publishing houses and literary magazines all willing to share and encourage.

The atmosphere was exciting, glamorous and scented with Halston, ok that was me, but you get my drift… it was modern and fashionable. Sooo, imagine my surprise when a Daily Moan (Mail) journo, claiming to be at the same event, reported a room crammed full of old biddys in twin sets and pearls looking to top up their pension pots or whatever by banging out a few saucy sex scenes, bla bla bla… I can only presume that she slipped into a parallel universe on the way to the event or accidentally stumbled into the Buck house monthly WI convention.

Anyway, after twenty years in the world of corporate business, I think I know a bit about networking parties, and trust me, this was one of the best… and I promise you, not a blowsy old dear in a dowdy outfit in sight, unless you count the floral number the journo was working…

PS – my nan had one just like it!

PPS – her photographer was pretty reem though, so not all bad..

Authors for Japan

Well, the wonderful author Keris Stainton has come up with an amazing initiative where authors are auctioning all kinds of fabulous writery things, books, mentoring, critiques etc. to help raise funds for the Red Cross.

So, if you fancy winning any of these and helping a good cause then shifty over to here http://authorsforjapan.wordpress.com and get bidding.

Thank you kindly xx

Anyway, who cares, it is Valentine’s Day after all, so here is a gratuitous picture of the man himself. Mark Ruffalo.

Oh my…

Her nail polish of course, and truly sublime. Think peach Fruitella, and just as delicious, not that I would know these days with being a fully paid up member of The Chub Club (Weight Watchers) oh no no no, but that’s a whole other story.  

Moving swiftly on,  the next glimpse came as Lady Holland’s lady-like hand (did you see what I did there?) clutched at the rim of the slipper bath as she braced her way into a very breathy, but dignified labour, while the butler politely but firmly asked her to imagine blowing out a candle. And as if by magic, a three month old baby appeared, all clean and snuggy in a blanket, like they always do on the tellybox.

Anyway, back to the nails, and after trawling the internet I managed to find the exact same colour.

And here it is… made by Essie, and aptly named Tart Deco. I recommend two or even three coats to achieve the same gloriously tangerine tips. Splendid, as Lady Holland would say.