Hyde Park Easter Sunday

With gusting winds and a little bit of sun peeping through, The Man and I took a stroll yesterday through Hyde Park, stopping for a cheeky glass of wine by the Serpentine Lake. The wind was a bit fresh (i.e., cold) but the flowers were gorgeous.



Happy Easter!

Easter in London

Happy Easter everyone! I'm spending a quiet weekend with The Man, working away on last-minute Paris stuff and generally trying to corral my life into some kind of order! But for those of you who are out and about -- or just want to know what to do over the Easter weekend -- here are a few suggestions (with modified text from 24 Hours London: because I'm just that lazy!).

For the few seconds it's not actually raining, the parks are always a hit on Easter weekend. Stroll around, see some birds or even take a dip if you're brave enough.

Hampstead Heath

In North London, the ancient parkland that is Hampstead Heath provides a great spot to work off the Easter chocolate. London’s largest park covers 790 acres of grassy fields and woodlands and is one the highest points in London. If you work up a sweat, take a dip in one of the three outdoor ponds. They are open all year, and were originally used to provide refreshment for the River Fleet.
Tube: Hampstead. www.hampsteadheath.net.


Kensington Gardens

You’re spoiled for choice with Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. These interconnected parks offer a wide variety of jogging routes. Or, you can take a plunge in the Serpentine Lake. Enter the park from High Street Kensington. You’ll see Kensington Palace straight ahead. Saunter by the former home of Princess Diana and past the black railings where mountains of flowers were heaped when she died in 1997.

Run by the man-made Round Pound, taking in the ornate Albert Memorial through the trees to your right, and go down to the Serpentine Lake. So-named for its snake-like shape, the lake is actually a river that was dammed by order of Queen Caroline as part of the redevelopment of Hyde Park. As you jog by the long arm of the lake, take in the oval-shaped Diana Memorial to your right, then cool off by braving the water at the roped-off swimming area at the Lido.
Tube: High Street Kensington or Bayswater. For opening hours go to www.royalparks.org.uk.

Holland Park

One of the most romantic – and smallest – parks in London, Holland Park is a mix of secluded trails, open fields and romantic courtyards filled with blossoming flowers. Situated on the grounds of former Jacobean mansion Holland House, the park has everything from squirrels to peacocks, plus an up-to-the-minute playpark for kids up to 14. Relax in the Kyoto Japanese Garden built for the 1991 London Festival of Japan, grab coffee or a sandwich at the café, or have a spot of tea at The Belvedere, located in the Summer Ballroom of Holland House. Or perhaps become an opera buff – in the summer, the park is the site of the open-air Opera Holland Park.
Tube: Holland Park

St James's Park

If you’re full but want to watch others enjoy their food, go to St James’s Park. The first royal park to be opened to the public, it’s home to five greedy pelicans – one from Louisiana
and four from Eastern Europe. The park’s pelican tradition was first introduced in 1664 when the Russian ambassador presented Charles II with the birds. They’re fed 12 pounds of fish – along with a vitamin supplement – every day at around 2:30 pm.
Tube: St James's Park.

Something for Sunday - Take a walk through town or check out a market.

London Walks offers a selection of walks on Easter Sunday. Check out www.walks.com for more information.

Spitalfields Market and the cacophony that is Brick Lane buzzes as usual on Easter Sunday. Head down around lunchtime to really take advantage of the atmosphere. Tube: Liverpool Street.

Have a great long weekend!

Getting Published

Just a quick one today to say that my publisher Prospera Publishing has launched a new blog which will host the content for its ongoing newsletter, Getting Published. You can read there or sign up to receive the instalments via email!

Happy Thursday!

Me and my eBook Reader

Last Wednesday was my birthday -- smack in the middle of the week, not that it makes a whole lot of difference for me! The Man surprised me with a wonderful Ibsen play, Ghosts, then dinner at a nearby Aldwych 1 restaurant. It was a great night.

But the best bit was when we got home and he unveiled... a Sony eReader!

I've read so much about these darn things I could barely believe it was right there, in front of my eyes. The future of publishing. The end of publishing. The killer of books. And there it was, nestled in its purple leather case, staring unblinkingly up at me.

I shivered with trepidation. The I reached out, touched it, and...

I fell in love. The 100 free classic books! The ease of choosing a book I wanted and having it... within seconds! And the best bit of all: the fact that my lovely Kensington and Chelsea has a digital library with a wonderful selection of books to choose from! It's amazingly easy: you put in your library card number, select the book you want to download... and voila. You have a limited time to read the eBook before it reverts back to the library (I think; I haven't fully investigated the 'return' of library ebooks yet).

I'm not saying the eBook Reader will take the place of other books in my life. But it is certainly handy to carry around with you to use when you're in that 'I need something to read, now!' state. A little anecdote: last Monday night I was stuck in a Tube tunnel for about 30 minutes on the 'new and improved' Circle Line. I'd finished reading one book already. In my former world, I would have sat there and been forced to listen to the annoying bloke beside me braying about how he forgot to set two places for invited guests during his wedding reception (yes, really). But with my eBook Reader, I simply opened another book I had downloaded, and let him fade away into oblivion.

If only real life could be so easy...

Breathe!

Phew. Well, I did it! I managed to get through the BBC London interview.

I don't know quite why I was so nervous -- I've worked in PR and in journalism. I know how these things go. And I swatted up big time, making up cheat sheets and refreshing my memory. Still, when it came time for the producer to ring me, my hand were cold and clammy and my heart was pounding.

All in all, I think it came out OK. Here's the link to the interview. Fast-forward to about 15 minutes in if you don't want to listen to the whole show, and I'm on! (The link's only up until a week from today.)

In other news, I'll be launching a contest soon for 100 followers -- it may take awhile to actually hit the mark but I really appreciate everyone who's helped me get there even if I've been absolutely rubbish at returning comments! Thanks everyone and stay tuned.

Tomorrow: My new eReader!

On the Radio

I'm going to be on the radio! If you're in London, tune in to BBC London at around 12:15 pm GMT tomorrow (Tuesday) where I'll be talking about late-night London with host Robert Elms. Here's hoping I can form coherent sentences! If you're not in London but you still want to listen, you can listen live here. I'll try to get a clip somehow, too.

And in other news, I've been severely remiss in returning comments and follows and I'm very sorry! I've think I've caught up with the follows but please feel free to give me a nudge.

Happy Monday!

The End of Publishing... Or Is It?

Get Yer Tickets!

I remember where I was when I first heard London was awarded the 2012 Olympics. It was Sport Day at the secondary school where I was teaching, a humid dank day, and we'd just finished running the teacher relay. The headmaster came on the tannoy and announced to the 500-odd hyped-up kids that London had won the games. Much screaming and cheering ensued, and the whole experience left me feeling quite patriotic and proud of my relatively new country.

Now, a few years later, the Games are just around the corner and the wangling for tickets has already begun! Although they haven't yet been released, you can sign up to be kept up-to-dated with tickets sales here.

The Man and I are wangling for tickets to Athletics. Fingers crossed! Just another two years and the Games will be here!

The Class System and... Books!

Ah yes. The Great British Class System has now been extended to books! At the top of the heap: poets. At the bottom: crime authors.

And my question is this: where is romance? Where is women's fiction?

Apparently they're so far off the radar, they don't even deserve a mention.

I'm In!

About a month ago, I posted about sending off my application for British Citizenship to the never-never land that is the Home Office. Advice on the Home Office website said it could be anywhere between three and six months before I heard anything, so I braced myself for the worst.

Saturday morning, I noticed a thin letter with a Liverpool post code in our front hallway. My heart sank. The Home Office was in Liverpool - they must be contacting me to tell me I've missed out something. I tore it open and out fell... an invitation to attend my citizenship ceremony on May 25! My application had been approved in just a month -- and I now declare May 25 to be my British Birthday.

I will never bad-mouth the Home Office again. (Not that I ever did in the first place, of course. I love you, Home Office, if you're reading this...). Just one request: can you please relocate my passport and driver's license, as they appear to be MIA?

Bring on the Yorkshire Pudding. Bring on the warm ale. I'm in, baby!

Hidden London: Thackeray Street

Just off High Street Kensington (almost directly behind the massive Whole Foods) is a small winding street called Thackeray Street. Although it's literally a stone's throw from the shopping crowds, it's a whole other world -- and century -- away.


The street is named for William Makepeace Thackeray, the 19th century English novelist, who lived nearby. You can almost picture him striding into Riders & Squires for his equestrian gear, or pulling up a chair outside Montparnasse Café for a baguette.


Peer through the windows of the art galleries or sip a coffee at Ottoemezzo and get a taste of le vrai Kensington.

Ghost Signs Archive

Awhile back, I posted on Ghost Signs in and around my neighourhood. I'm happy to report there's now an initiative launched to document these rapidly disappearing glimpses of the past. The Ghost Signs Archive is a gallery of signs in and around the country. Take a peek!

Happy Saturday!

Coming up tomorrow: Hidden London

What's Going On

Spring is in the air here in London and my mind is busy buzzing, so I thought I'd give a little update on what I've been working on lately.

24 Hours Paris is due out in May (you can pre-order on Amazon... sorry, had to put that in!). I'm now working on finishing touches, final edits and filling in lay-out gaps here and there. It's always exciting when you get a proof of how your work will look in book-form!

I've also been busy researching material for 24 Hours Sydney, which we plan to release in e-book and iPhone format, so keep your eyes out for that!

And 24 Hours London continues to roll along, too: Babes About Town recently gave the book a really lovely review. Thanks again to everyone who's helped out and supported that project along the way!

And on the fiction front, I'm happy to report that things are moving forward! I'm still managing to get in my daily word count despite the non-fiction work. Good things are a-comin' and I'll update soon.

Happy Spring (not official yet, I know, but I'm in the spirit!). Here's to a productive season.

Ode to Beckham

Phew. I'm still in recovery after five days with two five- and seven-year-olds who are a great deal of fun but endless bundles of energy! All respect goes out to parents who deal with children 24-7... I'm exhausted!

In between the play areas of Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park, I stumbled on this poem by the UK's Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy. Duffy holds a special place in my heart as The Man and I decided to have one of her poems read at our wedding.

Enjoy!

Achilles
by Carol Ann Duffy, inspired by David Beckham's Achilles' tendon
injury

Myth's river — where his mother dipped him, fished him, a
slippery golden boy flowed on, his name on its lips.

Without him, it was
prophesied, they would not take Troy.

Women hid him, concealed him in
girls' sarongs; days of sweetmeats, spices, silver songs...

But when
Odysseus came, with an athlete's build, a sword and a shield, he followed him to
the battlefield, the crowd's roar,

And it was sport, not war, his
charmed foot on the ball...

But then his heel, his heel, his heel...

Blog Interview!

I recently did an interview over at the lovely blog Define Fabulous. Click here to find out about my very exciting days and what I find most difficult about the writing life.

I'll be missing in action the next few days as family visit from Egypt via Paris, but I'll be back early next week. Have a great weekend, everyone!

Sing to Your Own Tune

There are some amazing buskers in Tube stations around London. One of my favourites was a Spanish guitar player at Tottenham Court Road a few years ago. The melodic chords of the music seemed so surreal set against the grimy white tiles of the station corridors. Some of the coolest buskers I've ever seen are at my 'home' station of Notting Hill Gate.

Buskers in London need a license to perform, and competition to get one is fierce. So Boris Johnson has launched 'Busker Idol'.

If you want to be a Busker Idol, you must do the following:

Entrants must upload a video clip of themselves performing on the ‘Rhythm of London‘ You Tube page: www.youtube.com/group/SOTUauditions2010 and complete an online registration form at: www.london.gov.uk by 6 April 2010. Judges will then select 100 people to be filmed performing at busking slots across London on 24 April and ask the public to vote for their favourite busker. The top ten will then perform live later this year at a ‘busk off’ for the final prize.

So: who will be the next Busker Idol (uttered in a Ryan Seacrest-style voice)? If I was auditioning, I'd sing my karaoke fail-safe: Bon Jovi's 'Living on a Prayer'. (It's good! Really!)

What would you sing?

Don't Catch the Bug!

Thanks, everyone, for sharing your writing book recommendations!

Still on the theme of improving your writing craft (for those who hang out here for London-based stuff, there's a post coming up soon -- promise!), I came across this today on Lynn Viehl's Paperback Writer blog. It made me laugh several times (in recognition of things I'd done), so I thought I'd share it!


Ten Things You Might Catch from Other Writers' Books

Dragonorrhea: the prevalence of countless, beautifully colored, magically-endowed, bejewel-eyed dragons in a story when said dragons are not logical to the world-building, have no lives, apparently have nothing better to do than suck up to puny mortals, and (no matter how enormous or powerful they are) usually behave like fanged, flying, fire-breathing bunnies.

Good Girlitis: A serious and often grotesque inflammation of the heroine's moral pulchritude, which results in her utter inability to acquire flaws, make bad decisions or otherwise mess up like the rest of the ordinary mortals on the planet.

InfoMumps: Swollen, boring and largely unattractive monologues offered by dull characters who seem to serve no other purpose except to be on hand to confirm what Bob already knows.

HEAlzheimers: no matter how emotionally screwed up one or more main characters were during the first nineteen chapters of the novel, in the twentieth they forget all their troubles, commit to a serious relationship for which they were always incapable of trying much less sustaining in the past, and otherwise present a permanently welded-on mask of unnatural, lobotomized bliss.

Projectile Dysfunction: the unreasonable, unrealistic but steadily persistent eruption of guns, knives, swords and other phallic symbols wielded by the hero to underscore or serve as visual substitute for his masculinity, heterosexuality, virility, or any other manly man attribute.

Pseudo-BadBoydom: a surface condition which presents the hero as a nasty dirty lowdown mean leather-wearing foul-mouthed ingrate who should be publicly flogged for his innumerable sins and yet mysteriously and instantly vanishes whenever the heroine confesses her love, self-doubts, troubles or any situation in which a real bad boy would actually come in rather handy.

For more, click here.

My Favourite Books on Writing

Thanks for some wonderful, thought-provoking comments on my previous post. Theresa asked if I had any book suggestions. Great question, since I do have a few!


Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott is a wonderful, easy-to-read and entertaining book on writing. Full of great life advice, too.













On Writing by Stephen King has practical tips -- such as axing those pesky adverbs -- and also discusses the writing techniques that work best for him.












How to Write a Damn Good Novel by James Frey: Terrible title, but if you can get past that it has very good tips on conflict and 'raising the stakes'.

Wanna Be a Writer? by Jane Wenham Jones was one of the first books I bought when I started out on the writing journey. Funny and irreverent.

Any other favourites out there?

Can Writing Be Taught?

Over the past few years, I've read quite a few books on writing -- all of which I have found helpful. But in the back of my mind, I've wondered: can someone learn to become a writer? Or is it something that's innate inside you?

I've gone back and forth on this. I believe writing is a craft, and like any craft you can hone your skills and uncover more about its nuances. But there's also a lot of creativity irequire to develop stories and character, and I'm not sure that's something you can learn.

What do you think? Can writing be taught?

Happy World Book Day... Again!

My previous post was becoming too long and cumbersome, and I wanted to put these next two authors in a post just for them! Out of all the people who helped me over the past year -- and there have been many -- these two stand out.

Mike Harling, author of Postcards from the Across the Pond: Dispatches from an Accidental Expat, and Toni Hargis, author of Rules, Britannia, were quick to respond to my requests for blurbs, passed many promotional leads my way and did their utmost to support my book both on their blogs and others'. I can't say thank you enough for everything they have done.

So without further ado, here are their books!

Mike Harling, Postcards from the Across the Pond: Dispatches from an Accidental Expat

Postcards from across The Pond began as a means of keeping in touch with the folks back home in the USA, but it soon expanded into a humorous commentary on British life by an accidental expat.

"Laugh out loud funny regardless of which side of the pond you call home... Bill Bryson move over, there's a new American expat in town with a keen sense of humor."
Jeff Yeager, author of 'The Ultimate Cheapskate's Road Map To True Riches'

"A very funny book indeed. I was literally laughing out loud whilst reading this book; not only did I enjoy it, but I am now craving more."
Steve Gillen, moderator of Ukusforum.com

"I savored the bubbling flavor of this Yankee reaction to Saxon country in the form of perky postcard-style epistles."
Eileen Swift, former syndicated travel writer for Newsday


Toni Hargis, Rules, Britannia

Born and raised in England, but living now in Chicago, Hargis offers perspectives from both sides of the pond, proving once again that the United States and the United Kingdom are two countries divided by a common language. In chapters such as "Words That Guarantee Giggles" and "Grub and Other Delicacies," the author explains differences in pronunciation and usage between American English terms and British English terms: "In the U.K., Hush Puppies are a type of comfy shoe, and a sloppy joe is a sweater." Such discrepancies, obviously, can fill a book. Throughout, Hargis also includes lists of "British words that might require translation" (their sleeping policeman is our speed bump, and blokes named Randy or Willy will likely get stroppy and not at all cock-a-hoop after taking the piss from a tosser about their names) and "American words that the Brits don't share" (busboys and the concept of bussing a table are "totally meaningless in the UK"). Sections on road rules, real estate, fashion and employment will be handy for readers planning on staying longer than a vacation (or, in Brit: holiday).

Happy World Book Day!

To celebrate, I'm going to recommend some books from bloggers and twitterers who have helped me, made me laugh and entertained me over the past year. This is the first post of 2... more to come later today!

Fairytale of New York, by Miranda Dickinson

Rosie Duncan is happy. Or so she thinks. Her florist store in New York's Upper West Side, which she took over from the enigmatic Mr Kowalski six years ago, is flourishing. She has a wonderful life in her adopted city, surrounded by friends that love her. While Rosie refuses to discuss her past - or why she won't consider looking for a relationship - her assistants Ed (the human iceberg) and Marnie (who appears to have dated the whole of Manhattan), together with inimitable New York Times columnist Celia (a one-woman tornado), do their best to convince her to open her heart. But when hopelessly optimistic Rosie meets self-confessed pessimist Nate, their blossoming friendship over coffee at her store begins to shake her resolve - and unravel the mystery surrounding her arrival in New York. Then a chance meeting brings Rosie face to face with her past – and now she must choose which way her life will go. Is she falling for Nate? Will she be able to love again? And what is going on with her best friend Ed?

Naked in Knightsbridge, by Nicky Schmidt

With mounting debts, threats from a crazy landlord and a cleaning business that was going well until she set fire to someone s house, Jools Grand is about to find herself homeless. She has to come up with a plan, and fast. So with an acute sense of desperation, Jools decides to auction herself online in a marriage of convenience. Who knows, she might even find romance? What Jools isn t banking on is a bidding war between two not-so-eligible bachelors a wealthy, gay, would-be politician who needs a wife as a cover; and a deranged loner with a newly-refurbished basement prison. Add to that a lecherous father, some soon-to-be-exposed secrets and an addiction to pastries, and Jools is set to discover that nothing comes without a price.

Farm Girl by Karen Jones Gowen

Farm Girl, the heart-warming journey of a girl coming of age on a 1920's Nebraska farm, is an authentic account of that era. It is a story told with warmth, gentle humor and amazing detail. Many cherished remembrances helped to shape the young girl into an educated, gracious woman--one of the worst dust storms in history when people got lost in their own yards, a beloved cousin who came to a sad end, the father who carried a burning kerosene tank out of the house with his bare hands. Be transported to another time and place as you visit the Marker farm in western Nebraska. Where horses were back-up transportation for cars. Where children were educated in one-room schoolhouses. And when no one ever heard of television. If you like the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder or Willa Cather, you will enjoy Farm Girl. It is set in the locale of Willa Cather's Nebraska novels, and there is even a chapter in the book about the Marker Cather connections. Richly photographed throughout with over 60 authentic photos documenting the people and places of the story. This historical, easy-to-read small book is suitable for use in the classroom from fifth grade up.

Dream Man, by Nancy J Parra

A NO NONSENSE WOMAN…Dr. Eva Stanford only wants to help her patient sleep through the night. Little does she know that the old woman holds the secret to a thirty-year-old mystery that threatened the political life of a presidential candidate and Eva’s own family.
A MAN WITH A DREAM…FBI Agent Nate Cancaid has a reoccurring dream of a woman with dark hair and blue eyes whose murder he is unable to prevent. When the blue eyed doctor enters his office, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

A MYSTERY THAT TRANSCENDS TIME…It’s bad enough when Eva’s patient claims that Eva and Nate are her married assistants, but coincidences grow too complicated for her scientific mind when some of the clues come straight out of Nate’s dreams. Can Eva keep from losing her heart to a man of intuition or has fate already dealt her a losing hand?


Death Watch, by Nicola Morgan

Someone is watching Cat McPherson. Is it a young schizophrenic, a retired scientist, or Cat’s ex-boyfriend? Or it could be someone else entirely. An obsession with insects seems to link them all. And Cat hates insects. She’s easy prey, especially as she has given away so much about herself on an internet site which her parents have forbidden her to use. But does she even realize that she’s being stalked? A talented athlete, she's too busy with the pressures of training and deciding whether she really wants to run for a living. The trouble is, soon she will have to run for her life…

Guide to Teaching in London, by Victoria Westcott

In this 110 page guide, you'll find:

• job hunting advice
• visas explained
• stories from Canadian teachers on the front lines
• UK curriculum guidance
• lesson planning assistance
• assessment strategies
• tried and tested behavioural management strategies that really work!
• supply teaching tips
• interviews with Canadian teachers in London
• interviews with recruiters in London
• words you need to know, movies you should watch and books to read
• comprehensive resources that will help you with your move across the pond

What Do You *Do* All Day?

Sometimes, when people ask me if I have a 'day job' and I answer no, I can see the unspoken question floating in their head: how does someone who works from home -- as a 'writer', no less -- fill the hours, day after day, on their own?

Truth be told, it was something I struggled with when I first quit my daily slog of a corporate job. I still had a part-time job -- the thought of not going out into the world to do something was too scary at that stage -- but the hours would sometimes stretch out before me like a desert to be crossed. I'd sit at my desk in the morning, with no colleagues to chat with, no coffee to make, and no emails to ignore, and stare at the blank screen. With only me to motivate myself, work became harder than ever.

Now, two years later and more than a year since I stopped 'working' altogether, I often wonder where the day has gone. While in the beginning I often found it very hard to concentrate, now I can sit and write for much longer periods of time without heading to the kitchen to snack -- or, heaven forbid, checking my Twitter. I'm more productive and while I still have my 'off' days, the hours are no longer as scary. They pass by even faster than when I was in the office, and they're infinitely more enjoyable.

It's taken two years, but I think I've finally trained myself to sit in a chair and write. Sounds easy but it's one of the most difficult things I think I've ever done!

Blogsplash: Thaw by Fiona Robyn

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.

Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.

*

These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.

The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.

I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.

So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?

Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat; books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.

Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about; princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.

I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say; ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for’, before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.

Continue reading tomorrow here...

What Would You Do?

Today a press release pinged into my Inbox and instead of reading through it quickly then deleting it as I usually do, I immediately headed over to the link it provided. Here's a quick synopsis:

Co-Create London is a new social initiative giving everyone who has ever been to London the chance to change the city.

The project is designed to capture the everyday problems and ideas of the general public by asking the simple question ‘What Would You Do To Make London a Better Place?’

The best ideas from the co-creation workshop phase of the project will then be taken to Town Hall and presented to London Mayor Boris Johnson.


Now, I realise this is very likely a direct initiative from our beloved mayor himself (Update: a recent comment below by Fran shows I may have been overly cynical - or paranoid...). But hey, why not have a think about how you could improve your city? I suggested a book-swap-style kiosk in every Tube station so you could pick up new books to read and recycle those you've already read.

What would you do to make your stomping ground a better place?

I Spy

When I took the Tube every day to work, reading material was essential. Every Monday I'd leave the office at lunch and venture up to the Finchley Tesco's to see what my fiver could get me. In most cases, it was a paperback on the bestseller's list, which I'd then devour over the course of my journeys that week. I'd covertly check out what my fellow passengers were reading, too.

Now that I don't take the Tube, I can't tap into into the collective mind of the London underworld. Or, at least, I couldn't -- until now.

CoverSpyLondon has launched a nifty website where you can see what the Tubites are reading without actually having to undergo the pain of travelling by Tube yourself!

Bloody brilliant.

All About Me (and the Green-Eyed Monster)

I admit it. I get jealous when I hear other writers have struck publishing deals, that their debut novels are gracing the bestseller lists, that they managed to get the killer agent I've been coveting. Yes, I get very, very jealous.

I'm happy for them, of course. It's confirmation that with a good novel, anything is possible. But inside my head, a little voice is bleating: why can't that be meeeeee?

Rationally, I know there are zillions of reasons why it isn't me. I haven't written the right novel yet; my story-crafting needs work. I do think that one day I will get my fiction published -- hopefully sooner rather than later. But that doesn't stop the monster gnawing away inside of me.

It's times like this that I think back to my days as a competitive sprinter. I used to run the 100m and 200m, and I could -- and would -- obsess for hours about 'being the best'. Once I was the best, I'd worry about who was up-and-coming, who might knock me off my number one position. And that was when my coach would remind me that worrying about other people is a waste of time. We can't control the actions of others. But we can control ourselves.

All I can do is write the best that I can, and let the chips fall where they may!

How to Write Well Badly

Thanks to all those who offered their best wishes on my citizenship application! Fingers crossed. I'll hold a 'I'm British!' blog party when (if!) the application gets approved.

If you're a writer, chances are you've fallen into one of the many traps satirised on Joel Stickley's comical website How to Write Well Badly. It's part of my daily read and often makes me aware of things I'm on the verge of doing (although hopefully not to the extent he goes to!).

Today he posted a doozy: 'Write with a Half-Eye on the Market'. Here's an excerpt:

The Darknight Academy for witches, wizards, troubled vampires and tragically abused children was just waking up when the screaming started. Secret Agent Sam Glowingly sprang athletically from his bed and immediately reached for his pistol. He had been undercover for three weeks now and this was the first sign of trouble, unless you counted the theft of the Holy Grail the previous week, which he didn’t.

‘McSleet. Wake up,’ he hissed. His grizzled, cynical, alcoholic yet oddly sympathetic Scottish colleague mumbled an unintelligible curse at him and went back to sleep. Fine, thought Glowingly. He would just have to tackle this one alone, with only his gun and his mysterious otherworldly powers to help him.

Click here for the rest.

Thank you, Joel, for a daily laugh!

Canabrit

I finally submitted my application to become a British citizen today. I want in!

It's strange to think that all things being well, I'll be British in a few months. Because I don't necessarily feel British, whatever that is. But then again, I don't feel completely Canadian either. I haven't lived at 'home' for six years now -- and over the past eight years, I've only spent eight months there. I'm out of the loop as far as politics goes and although I read the papers online to try to keep up with events across the pond, it's not the same as being there.

This was brought home to me earlier in the week when the Olympics started in Vancouver, British Columbia. If it hadn't been for my Canadian friends on Facebook talking about its imminent start, I would have had no idea the Olympics were even taking place. But for the average winter-loving Canadian, it was full-on fervour. I tried to watch a few snippets here and there on the TV -- to share in the spirit -- but the BBC offered up limited glimpses of my country and its competitors.

So what am I? Canabrit? Whatever I am, I'm happy to be where I am today.

Word Spout

I am nothing if not prolific. I may not be Shakespeare or Hemingway but damn can I write fast! My sincere thanks to Ellen B for giving me the 'Prolific Blogger' award, further confirmation of my ability to spout drivel daily! Seriously, though, thanks Ellen!

While I realise I'm supposed to pass this on to seven other bloggers, I must confess I do not like to tag others, so I'm just going to urge everyone to visit Ellen's lovely blog from Dublin.

And now, since I'm fighting a cold so lovingly shared with me by The Man, I'm going to be spare with my words and sign off to blow my nose yet again!

Lost and Found

I love the random objects that appear from nowhere on London streets. The beat-up chairs, the odd Christmas tree right up until March... and this chandelier, which I came across on Saturday just as I was exiting Carmel Court.

I love this little-known passageway in my neighbourhood and I always take every opportunity to use it. You head between two high houses rising up on either side of the narrow walkway and enter a tunnel for about 20 metres or so, before coming out right in front of the Carmelite church. While at night you could easily conjure up Jack the Ripper creeping behind you in the dark, during the day I love ducking into the secret nook.

As I walked away from chandelier (if one can call it a chandelier), I wondered what its story was and who had placed it there. Had it come from the church, staggered across the street after giving its confession and lay there to die? Was it cast off in favour of a swanky new glittery light?

Or had it made a break for freedom, tired of lighting interiors and desperate for the natural light of day?

Happy Valentine's Day!

From the most romantic day of my 2009...


Just after our wedding in August as our boat pulls into port after a cruise down the Thames.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

(Photo by GoldLens photography; awesome photographers!)

Past Perfect

I consider myself very lucky to have grown up just outside of Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. With miles and miles of woods around us and a back garden almost as big as my London block, there was plenty of space to run, build forts and divert streams (endless house of entertainment!). While it got just a wee bit boring as a teen, I couldn't think of a better place to spend my childhood.

It's easy to put the blinkers on when you look back, but as I browsed through the photos my Mum brought over before my wedding a few months ago, one thing jumped out at me: the dodgy seventies fashion!


Climbing a tree? Get those polyester pants on!
My brother and I hang out in the branches at our grandmother's house on Prince Edward Island.



Hanging out on harbour.
My brother sports a lovely plaid coat while Mum is the height of fashion with a Mary Quant hairct and jaunty scarf.



Ah yes, what a cool family.
This photo makes me laugh every time. Sadly my Dad's head is cut off but I do love his collar! I have bad memories of my bike, since it was taken away from me for a month when I was 5 after my brother and I drove through tar as the road was being paved. I'm sticking to my story: I was only following my brother!



Get me out of this!
I can't escape the plaid, either.



Yum... cake.
Wearing a poodle sweater knitted for me by my grandmother. This was taken at the church picnic; I'd baked some cupcakes for the competition but dropped them in the gravel before entering them. Nevertheless, Mum and I picked the gravelly bits off and no-one was any wiser!

Directionally Challenged

Continuing on with the problem theme...

First of all, thanks to everyone for chiming with their own problem words on the last post! It is very comforting to know I am not alone in this affliction. And a great memory tip to remember 'necessary' from Lahossner: think of a shirt - one collar (for the c) and two sleeves (for the s's)!

Not only do I have problems with words, but ever since I moved to London I seem to have problems with directions. Not directions as in 'How do I get there?', though: directions as in left or right.

Everyone knows the Brits drive on the left-hand side of the road. Although initially I was terrified of driving here (so terrified I told The Man that I was not going to drive my newly bought car home on the M25!), I adjusted without too much difficulty. When you're stuck in the daily traffic jams on the M4, there's plenty of time to contemplate which side of the road to drive on.

No, the asphalt wasn't the issue. The real issue was the sidewalk.

You know when you meet someone on a narrow stretch and you need to decide which direction to take to navigate by them? And they respond by moving in the opposite direction, so you pass without crashing? Here in the UK, I was continually confounded by which direction I should veer in. I'd inadvertently do a fake-out, adjusting my steps in one direction and then switching at the last second, pretty much ensuring a collision.

So I decided to leave it in the hands of the capable oncomer, to see what I could learn. But there didn't seem to be a pattern. Some would go left, some right; some wouldn't move at all, resulting in a shoulder crash (because I always refuse to yield to such sidewalk bullies. If they want a crash, they'll get a crash).

The issue was even more confused by the fact that on the Tube escalators, you stand on the right to let people pass by on the left -- completely disregarding the rules of the road.

Six years on, and I'm still none the wiser. So I now put the cry out: someone, help me make peace with the people of the pavement!

(And yes, this is what my life has come to!)

Problem Words

I think I'm a pretty good speller. Spelling tests were always something I actually enjoyed (yes, I was that kind of student. In English, anyway). Working as both an editor and an English teacher, accurate spelling and grammar is something I take pride in -- although I admit the results may not always be evident in blog posts as I don't edit them nearly as carefully as I should.

Why, then, are there words that always cause me problems? No matter how many times I look them up, I can never seem to remember how to spell them. Is it a mind block? Some wonky neuron firing in my brain? What is it about certain combinations of letters that eludes me?

And the troublesome words are, in no particular order (excuse me while I go look them up):

• Consistent: I always want to spelling this -ant for some reason
• Plumber: because that 'b' just doesn't look right!
• Independence: Along the way, I remember someone telling me that the ending is 'dance' and it stuck in my mind. Now I am scarred for life.

There are more but they're playing hard to get right now. I'll add to the list as I remember.

Does this happen to anyone else?

The Plot Thickens

Over the past few days, I've been busily sketching out an outline for a new novel idea. (Yes, I'm still revising Novel Number 4, but as my head was about to explode from trying to corral it into order, I needed a break.) What I'm discovering is that I really, really like to make things complicated - even when I don't need to!

I've tried a lot of things with plotting and structuring, but I confess it's not something I ever got the hang of (of which I got the hang? hmm). From just writing to plotting all the focal points, turning points ad nauseum, I still hadn't found my way. I'm not sure that I have quite yet, but I'm trying a new pared-down approach which should make things easier for people like me who like to make things more complex than they should be. It goes something like this (courtesy of Mary Naylus, YA author):

Once you have your concept and your one-line pitch, get a piece of paper. Mark out Turning Point 1, Turning Point 2, Climax and Resolution for your main character. Do the same for your subplots. Then fill in the events and join up the subplots. In this way, you can make sure everything stays on track.

Sounds simple, right?

I'd love to hear how other people plot and structure their novels! Please, do tell...

Sorry, Madam, No Nightwear Permitted!

I couldn't help laughing when I read this article recently, which stated that a Tesco's grocery store in Cardiff had banned all shoppers from wearing slippers and pyjamas whilst shopping.

According to the BBC, one of the pyjama-clad shoppers responded:

She said she had been "popping in for a pack of fags," but if she had been doing a full shop "then we obviously would have gone in clothed".

"But we only wanted fags and they still refused us to go in for a pack of cigarettes," she added.

The article made me remember my step-daughter's assertion that shopping in central Liverpool with curlers in your hair (in preparation for a big night out, naturally) was becoming a fashion, along with fuzzy slippers and pyjama bottoms. I have to admit I was slightly doubtful at the time... but not anymore!

My Favourite Bits

I meant to post this yesterday, but... I forgot! I recently did an interview with Ola Fagbohun of the Diverse Traveller website. Click here to read what I had to say about life, travel and my favourite London bits.

(And watch out for the giant photo...)

Getting Published - Seminar by Juliet Pickering of A P Watt

Sometimes I feel really lucky to live in London. Like when I cross Waterloo Bridge, with the dome of St Paul's Cathedral and the Gherkin in one direction and the pods of the London Eye rising in the other. Or when I run in Kensington Gardens, passing by Kensington Palace on my daily route. And, of course, when I hear there's a seminar being run by an agent from the oldest agency in the world -- and it's being held in my local library, a mere five-minute walk down the road. Even better, when I get there, they're serving wine. For free!

Well. Could it really get any better? Only if Juliet Pickering, the A P Watt agent running the seminar, reached down, plucked me up, and offered me a multi-million pound publishing contract. With the chances of that unlikely, I'd settle for listening to her views on publishing (whilst gulping - ahem, sipping - the wine, of course).

Some interesting points:

* It's better to approach in hard copy than email (for her, anyway), as email is easily dismissed.
* As more editors are taking on more and more work (due to cuts etc), agents are increasingly acting as editors
* Agents in the UK typically take 15% commission
* Advances are usually split in three instalments: first instalment after the contract signed; second instalment upon delivery of MS; third instalment upon publication
* Ultimately, promotion is the publisher's responsibility, not the agent's
* Book launches happening less frequently now due to economic conditions
* Royalties generally paid twice a year
* If your book sold averagely, you can expect to see a return on sales within 12 to 18 months (must earn out your advance first)
* Most books are not published in hardback anymore: published first in trade paperback then paperback
* Publishing is changing rapidly due to eBooks - uncertainty as to how publishers are dealing with electronic rights

Apart from a man claiming Isaac Newton decoded the Bible (or something along those lines), the session was informative and interesting. While most of the material wasn't news to me, it was good to get it straight from the source.

And did I mention there was free wine?

24 Hours Paris Trailer

I know I said I'd have a proper post today. But, well, I lied (but not on purpose, so that doesn't count... right?). Anyway, I've been busy cobbling together a book trailer for 24 Hours Paris, to be released in May. There was no way we could fit in all the lovely Paris locations in our short trip, but I hope you enjoy what we could get on film!

Back to Grey

I'm back to the grey of London Town after a great trip to Paris and boy, am I exhausted (eating is hard work, don't you know)! So I'll leave you with this wonderful photo taken by The Man. I'll be back with a regular post tomorrow!

It's Crude to be Rude

I wrote this post over a year ago, but the unfortunate trend of customers harassing staff still continues.


I was motivated to write this in reaction to something I witnessed today at my local Tesco's at Notting Hill Gate. In fact, I've witnessed similar incidents more than once: Customers deriding the staff who are only doing their jobs. It's dreadful to watch and, as a former member of the service industry, makes me very, very angry. In my previous part-time job, I was told to 'shut up', called 'stupid', and had my accent insulted. But I'm an educated woman with plenty of other options. I didn't need that job and could just laugh it off.

Most of the people who work at my Tesco's branch are immigrants. They probably don't have a lot of other choices available, and they likely don't make much money. They can speak English (at least all the ones I have encountered over my many visits there for the past five years). Yes, they do have bit of an accent. But it's not exactly a hindrance to scanning a grapefruit. Yet the number of times I have seen customers mock their accents or speak in loud patronising tones is cringe-worthy. And I'm certain those being mocked don't find it as easy to laugh off as I did when it happened to me.

I was standing in the queue with my £3 bottle of wine (among other things) when two men entered the store -- a big guy and his side-kick (possibly his son, but if so that's really messed up). Big Man jumps the queue -- a sin comparable to serial murder in British society -- and heads straight for the middle-aged Asian woman behind the till.

'Why couldn't 'e buy them cigarettes?' Big Man asks loudly in a strong East-End accent. He points toward Side Kick who's busy examining the floor.

The woman explains quietly and politely that it's Tesco store policy not to sell cigarettes to anyone unless they can prove they're over 18. I steal a glance at Side Kick, who looks about 16 max.

'I can't understand a word she's saying,' Big Man shouts back to Side Kick. Side Kick shrugs and the woman, now red-faced, repeats her explanation. The queue, by this time, has now grown exponentially and of course everyone is desperately trying not to look at the scene unfolding in front of us.

Big Man shakes his head. 'Nope, still don't get it.'

It's like a scene straight from 'Little Britain'. By this time the poor woman looks like she's about to burst into tears, and I'm about to clunk the idiot over the head with my wine. I don't want to break it, though.

'She said: HE CAN'T BUY CIGARETTES UNLESS HE CAN PROVE HE'S OVER 18!' I say loudly and clearly to Big Man before I can stop myself.

Big Man swivels to face me. He stares for a second then shouts over to Side Kick:

'Why does everyone in this bloody store have an accent?'

'So what do you do?'

Still in Paris, scoffing down pain au chocolat at the speed of light! It's a tough job...

Here's a post from about a year ago. I still hate this question!


I dread when people ask me what I do for a living. It's everyone's favourite cocktail party question, enabling the 'asker' to correctly place the 'askee' into the pigeon-hole of choice.

I used to answer with no problem. 'I'm a teacher,' I'd say, kicking off a whole debate about the dangers of teaching in UK secondary schools. It was a guaranteed conversation-starter. Now, though, it's a different scenario.

'I'm a writer,' I mumble, always feeling fraudulent. Hey, I've written three novels, I say to myself to prop up my self-esteem. But the next question always brings me back to reality.

'Oh!' The 'asker' perks up, looking at me with renewed interest. 'What have you published? Anything I might have read?'

'Nope and I've been rejected by about twenty agents and counting.' I always give it to them in one go, then take a sip of the (alcoholic) drink in my hand to allow them time to formulate their response.

It can go either one of two ways:

1. The sympathic/ patronising response. 'Oh, don't worry, it'll happen. Just keep trying. It's so great you're going for your dream!' All of this will be accompanied by a pitying look in the eye that reads: Poor, naive dreamer. You'll be sitting on your arse in ten years time still slogging away.

Maybe I will. But at least I'll be enjoying it!

2. The 'I write, too!' response. I never realised so many people want to write a novel of their own. It's like confessing my own writing ambitions has opened the floodgates. It's nice to hear that my postman wants to write a book. But I have to admit, I cringe at being put into the 'general public' basket of writers. Is that wrong? After all, I'm not published either. But I am serious about my writing, unlike those who consider composing a text message taxing but still want to write a book.

I don't know how long it will take before I can proudly say 'I'm a writer.' Hopefully sooner rather than later. Until then, I'll continue to dread the deadly 'What do you do?' question.

Mind the Bowtie

I'm off to Paris today to see my brother-in-law defend his PhD at the Sorbonne... and to eat a lot, in the name of research. So over the next few days, I'll be posting some of my favourites from the past year or so.

This is a piece I wrote back in March for the Writing Adventure Group:


I sip my strong coffee as the unfamiliar sun caresses my head. No gloves, no coat - it feels like freedom after the gloominess of a London winter. Lionel Richie floats through the mild air from a nearby old-school ghetto blaster. The street is slowly stretching its Sunday morning arms. Ahhhhhhh...

'Am I annoying you?'

Hunh? My eyes fly open. At the next table, a middle-aged posh-looking man has settled into the chair next to a complete stranger.

'No, you're alright, mate,' the stranger says, engrossed in his newspaper.

'I smoked seven grams of cocaine and had six hookers last night,' says Posh Man, swaying slightly in his chair.

Stranger barely looks up. 'Sounds like a messy night,' he says in a typically understated British way.

Posh Man looks offended. 'No, not messy. Not messy at all. I'm just coming down. I smoked seven grams of cocaine and had six hookers last night,' he repeats, louder, in case any of us have missed it.

Stranger continues with his newpaper. Silence falls.

'I'm the best film maker on this street. Too bad my wife has left me. Man, she was hot.' He points to Stranger. 'Now, if she was with you, I'd be impressed. You're rich. Not as rich as me. I have a Rolex that used to be owned by Frank Sinatra. I'm the best film maker on this street.'

Stranger folds his paper now, giving up. 'No, no, I'm not rich.'

'You are!' Posh Man protests. 'You have a Patek Philippe watch.'

At this, I have to steal a glance at Stranger's watch. I have only heard about Patek Philippe in Vogue, and even I know they're worth thousands of pounds.

Stranger doesn't deny it. He puts his paper under his arm and gets up. Silence descends again, until another couple nab the table where Posh Man is sitting. Posh Man looks their way.

'I smoked seven grams of cocaine and had six hookers last night,' he says, delighted to have a new audience.

And it goes on. The Man and I get up to leave, stifling our laughter.

'He's a nutter!' The Man says.

'But he looked so posh...'

'He's wearing a bow-tie,' The Man responds assuredly. 'The mad ones always wear bow-ties.'

Me and Mr Freud

I got a postcard in the post today. But while the address was correct, the recipient was not: it was addressed to Lucian Freud, the grandson of Sigmund and a famous painter in his own right (according to Wikipedia, in May 2008 one of his paintings was sold for $33.6 million!).

Did Lucian ever reside at my address? Unlikely -- our downstairs neighbours have been here since the 1960s and, as history professors, would be sure to have mentioned it to us. More interesting was the content (and yes, I admit to reading it; I was fascinated to see what someone would write to someone like him!). The front of the card was a sculpture by Rodin, and on the back the sender assured Lucian a current exhibition of Rodin artworks at an undisclosed location would more his taste. And that was it.

Lucian will never get his postcard, unfortunately. But the small peek into the world of a great artist made my day!

I'm off to Paris from tomorrow until next week. But I've scrounged up some of my favourite posts from the past to fill the gap. Hope you enjoy them!

Running and Writing

On my (almost) almost daily jog through the park last weekend, I couldn't help but think how similar writing is to running.

It's always a struggle for me to leave my warm flat and go out into the wind and rain. But once I have the gear on and I'm outside, I'm usually glad I've gone. There are some days I fly: my legs feel light and I could go on forever. Other times, though, I feel like lead and my chest burns. Sometimes it gets better as the run progresses, sometimes not. When other joggers burn by me, I often feel slow, slow, slooooooow.

It's the same as writing. My mind usually balks at the thought of getting into the chair, but once I've managed to maneuver myself into it (usually using the lure of the Internet) and I get down to the business of words on paper, I'm happy to be there. There are days when the words pour out. There are days when it's a struggle. And there are times when, comparing myself with other published writers, I wonder if I'll ever get there.

But the bottom line is this: I like to run. I love to write. But that doesn't necessarily mean it's easy.

Then again, who said it should be?

Help Me (x 100)!

The time has come to seek professional help. I want -- need -- to learn more about the process of novel writing. Writers' groups are great for feedback on individual passages, crit partners are good for overall feedback; paid readers are useful, too. But there comes a point (at least for me) where I need someone to tie it all together for me. I want to get better, and I need help.

So I'm applying to a part-time MA programme in Creative Writing at University College London (UCL). It's the best fit for me, as it focuses specifically on novel writing and it's only two nights a week. The aim, by the end of two years, is to have a novel of publishable standard. Along the way, there are talks by contemporary writers as well as agents. Sounds perfect!

One catch: there's only room for 12 to 14 people. When I heard that, I felt like banging my head against my desk and screaming: 'No! Please don't send me a rejection letter! That's the reason I'm applying - to have a chance at escaping the dreaded letter!'

But whatever the chances, I'm throwing my hat in the ring (rather than throwing myself out my office window...). Part of the application process is to write a personal statement: in 200 words, describe why the course would be beneficial to you. I was severely tempted to write Help Me! one hundred times. Surely that would convey just how much I wanted to be in the programme!

Stay tuned to see if I encounter rejection once more...

Let Their Bee Lite

Over at The Oatmeal, you can see some hilarious examples teaching the spelling (and meaning) of common problem words. My own pet peeve: it's versus its. People, please! Get it right!

Announcement Day!

Since I'm too lazy to write a new post, I thought I'd do an announcement round-up today. Happy Thursday, everyone!

* Buy a book and help Haiti at the same time - until the end of January, 20 per cent of all online sales from Prospera Publishing's website will go to Oxfam in support of Haiti.

* Want to write a review for Amazon? Fellow author Nicky Schmidt has five copies of her rollicking chick lit novel 'Naked in Knightsbridge' in exchange of a review on Amazon. She's got five copies to send anywhere in the world: the only catch is you must have an Amazon account and take five minutes to write a few sentences about the book. If you're interested, email me at marshawrites@gmail.com or leave a comment below.


* Interested in learning more about how to get published? Prospera Publishing has started a really informative newsletter called 'Getting Published' - email editor@prospera.co.uk to subscribe. Here's a taster:

Before you start writing, it's vital that you consider who will eventually read your book.The following is not a complete guide to every aspect an author should address, but it gives you an idea of how to begin writing a novel.

1. Think carefully through your 'novel' idea. Who is it aimed at? Kids, men, girls who read voraciously on the tube to work?
2. Is your idea unique? If so, how unique? So unique that it is too weird to be taken seriously? A serious literary work about an alien encounter in a dream is less likely to become a blockbuster than, say, the poignant, fast-moving story of a girl growing up without a father in Afghanistan.

Hidden London: Marylebone Parish Churchyard

Wintry view of the churchyard from Marylebone Blog.


Like many spots in London, the St Marylebone Parish Churchyard is not exactly hidden. But if you didn't know it was there, you could easily miss it. Just off busy, traffic-clogged Marylebone Road, you only need to scoot ten feet from the pavement and you leave the noise of the cars far behind.

The parish church -- for which the surrounding area is named -- is where Robert Browning married Elizabeth Barrett in 1846. Nearby resident Charles Dickens also had his son baptised here. But for me, it's the rounded churchyard that's the real drawing card -- particularly on Saturdays, when the Cabbages and Frocks market is on. Circle the yard for a selection of jewellery, shoes and food. The Man and I once bought a very potent and extremely tasty Jamaican rum cake here, narrowly missing out on spotting the wonderful Alan Rickman.

But the best time to visit this little patch of land is just when dusk is falling, with rush-hour at its height. Sinking down on a bench and listening to the distant horns of impatient drivers, it's pretty easy to feel that everything's perfect in your world at that moment.

Nearby recommendations: Just a little way down Marylebone High Street is Providores, a warm and welcoming Spanish restaurant with plenty of tapas and wine. And check out Daunt Books, also on Marylebone High Street.

Brainpower on Low

With 24 Hours Paris almost done (for now, anyway), I've been using the extra time to edit Novel Number 4, as I've blogged about previously. To be honest, a more fitting word would be 'slash and hack', as I've now axed over 20,000 words and I'm busily changing sentence structures and tense. It's exhausting, but reading back over the nine chapters I've managed to rework, it's getting there -- slowly.

That said, I don't have much to write today since my brain is tired of plodding through text, but I'll be back tomorrow with a Hidden London post. And keep watching this space for news of 24 Hours London and 24 Hours Paris iPhone applications, to be launched in the next few weeks!

Happy Friday!

Human Kindness

It was snowing and the streets of London were covered in a thin film of slush. But the household needed some vitals, so off I trudged into the late grey afternoon towards my first stop, Starbucks. While we're not giant fans of the chain, The Man and I both love the Columbian blend, which we buy in bags to make at home. Mission accomplished, I headed back out and onto my next stop, Tesco.

I set down my Starbucks bag for a second to take a closer look at the red wine (our supplies are low after the Christmas period). And when I turned back... the bag was gone. Now, I confess that I am often very absent-minded. I set things down and sometimes spend hours looking for them again. But I was quite sure I'd put the bag right beside my feet. And now that little parcel of coffee bean joy was nowhere to be found.

I ran through the aisles, my heart beating fast, scanning all the shoppers for any sign of my Starbucks bag. But after a futile search, I had to admit that it was over. I was coffee-less once more.

Feeling bereft, I paid for my remaining groceries that hadn't yet been stolen and walked back out into the cold. There are times, like when people steal your coffee, that I really missed my homeland. I could be wearing my rose-coloured glasses, but I was pretty sure that no-one in Nova Scotia would steal my Starbucks coffee. In fact, if memory served me correctly, a few years ago people in the Maritimes were proven to be the most likely to return a lost wallet to its rightful owner -- with nothing missing. Oh to be home again.

I couldn't go home without coffee (the thought of working all day without my shot of caffeine was, quite frankly, terrifying), so I retraced my steps back to Starbucks.

'You must like coffee!' the server said as I handed him my second bag.

I explained my plight as he ground my second batch of beans. He gave it back to me in a bag identical to the one I'd just lost.

'It's on the house,' he said, when I waved my Barclays card in the air.

I smiled as I walked away. Yes, there were days I missed home, but London wasn't so bad after all.

5 Minutes of Procrastination

Thanks to everyone who dropped by from Nicola's blog party! It was great to read all the comments.

I'm in the throes of editing right now, and after a particularly trying night spent blocking out The Man's increasingly weird-sounding snores, my attention was not what it should have been. I was up, I was down, I was eating... you get the picture.

A typical five minutes in my mind this afternoon went something like this:

OK. Right. (Sitting down in the chair). Oh, this is uncomfortable. Gosh, maybe I should fix the chair. (Fiddles with knobs on chair, thus making it even more uncomfortable). It's been a minute. I should check my Twitter account. Nothing. Maybe my email? Oooh, someone commented on a Facebook photo; let me check.

I must get back to the editing. (Fixes one sentence.) Hm, I feel a bit hungry. Maybe some bread. (Heads to the kitchen to get a slice and goes back to computer.) Well, I can't write while I'm eating, so I'll just check my GoogleReader. (One minute later.) That bread has made me thirsty. Maybe some orange juice. (Heads to kitchen to get juice.)

...and so on. Oh, the torture!

Monday, Monday

Happy Monday! It's been dusk-dark all day here, the perfect day for settling down to my edits.

Today, fellow Canadian Luanne has posted a review of 24 Hours London and a few quick questions and answers with me on her blog. Hop on over to read what she has to say!

Editing Errors

Not much time to write today as I have a load of editing to do this morning before trekking off to the wilds of Wimbledon for a spot of meat-eating (i.e, burgers with a fellow Canadian expat).

But I wanted to do a quick post in honour of Nicola Morgan's first blog birthday. As you may recall, back in November when my book launched Nicola was kind enough to host me on her blog, talking about my journey to publication on which she had been a tremendous help. I've also used her Pen2Publication service, and I have to say her critique was head and shoulders above other reading services I'd used -- highly recommended!

As I'm engaged in a lot of editing these days (very persnickety details, such as opening hours and admission prices - blergh), I've been thinking about editing errors. You know, those pesky mistakes that just don't get noticed and creep by into publication, mortifying and sometimes highly embarrassing.

One of the worst examples I've seen of this is a PR person describing herself on paper as being 'highly experienced in pubic relations.' Ouch.

What are some editing errors that you've seen (or made, if you dare admit it!)?

Writing in the Big Freeze

I've got nothing but a mind full of blankness today, so I thought I'd share this hilarious post with you, by writer Alison Wells. It addresses the challenges of writing at this frozen time -- you know, blankets, frozen fingers and such.

Click to read!

Revisionist History

Finally, a post about writing! Truth be told, I've been taking it easy on the writing front. My office morphed into the guest room over Christmas, and while I'd love to be one of those writers who can write anywhere... I'm not. After the 24 Hours London launch and finishing Novel Number 5, it was good to have some much needed downtime.

But now the new year is here, and I'm raring to go. Nipping at the heels of my consciousness over the past few weeks were all the changes I wanted to make to Novel Number 4, which I finished last May/June. I'd sent it off to the Romantic Novelists' Association to be read by one of their members, as part of the New Writers' Scheme. (If you're in the UK and you write romance - or anything that has some kind of romance in it - I strongly suggest you join. Membership fees for the scheme are only £90 and you get a free reading in the mix).

A month or so later, I received my manuscript back in post along with a detailed five-page critique full of extremely useful and valuable feedback, presented in a forthright and encouraging way. You never learn the name of the reader, but whoever took the time to digest my MS and write the response -- thank you! (I must add that the reader you get may be down to the luck of the draw, since another writer I know did not have the feedback presented in a very constructive manner).

I had other things on my mind at the time (like getting married that week), so I put the feedback aside with plans to come back to it at a later date. Letting the novel rest for awhile is something I always like to do; I find that when I do return to it I can see its faults much better. Having read through the novel several times last week, I had loads of new ideas for improvement. And on Monday, I started putting them into action!

This time, I'm putting the emphasis on having fun. In the past, I've been much too time conscious, trying to finish the novel so I could move on to the next project. With Novel Number 4, I really feel the 'big idea' is there; now, it's a matter of getting everything else right.

Who knows, this one may end up dusty and yellowed, too. But hey, I'm enjoying the process for once!

Snow's A-Comin'!

I know this blog has veered slightly off writing and more towards the random, and I did have a post lined up today all about writing. But there are just too many good stories out there full of gloom and doom about the impending apocryphal snowstorm.

Bet you didn't know snow could cause such distress and titivation! Well, you wouldn't be in the UK then. Since around the week before Christmas, the whole country has been caught in the grip of an icy weather system straight from Siberia. Some parts of the country have even got down to - gasp - minus 15 Celsius. OK, yes, so there have been respectable amounts of snow (i.e., over 15 cm) in Scotland and Northern regions. But in great swathes of the country, whole transit systems have been brought to a standstill by as little as 10 cm of the white stuff.

And tomorrow comes the mother of all: up to 40 cm are predicted in the South, including London. Even by my cynical Canadian standards, that's quite a bit. Southeastern Rail has already reduced their London timetable - and that's before the flakes have even started falling!

So why can't the UK cope? There's not enough grit (salt), people don't know how to drive on slippery roads, and they don't have winter tires. Snow is a rarity these days in London, as are the freezing temperatures, and we've all forgot (myself included) how to deal with it.

Newspapers are awash with the headlines, so I've rounded up a few for your enjoyment! A little bit of schadenfreude never hurts, does it?

Woman and Turkey Still Stranded 17 Days On
Long Night in Store: Snow Strands Shoppers
Leeds University Students Snowed in for Two Days at Pub
UK Snow Map
No Escape as Snow Heads South-East Dum-Dum-DUMMM!

And finally, my personal favourite... Naked Sledging!

Writing on the Wall

In a city as old as London, it's no surprise that buildings are constantly reincarnated as new businesses take over the premises. One of the most fascinating things is the signs they leave behind -- quite literally.

Strolling up to Notting Hill Gate for our Sunday morning coffee, The Man and I came across two such signs within about 200 metre.

Now an antique shop and a money exchange, this building used to be - you guessed it - a timber merchants. Hard to imagine that nowadays in posh Kensington.

Not sure if this was for an business or if it was an advert, but if you liked the 'finest ever' marmalade then you'd come to the right place.

Hankering after more signs of the times? Derelict London has some great ones on their website.

Happy New Year!

Photo of last night's London celebrations from the Guardian.

Happy New Year to all! We spent the night in the company of friends at a warm and cozy house party in Clapham/ Brixton, with plenty of good food and lots of great conversation. It was the perfect way to say good-bye to a great 2009 and welcome in 2010. Hope everyone had a great New Year's Eve.