The Next Big Thing

Yes, I have blogged!

And we can thank lovely Irish writer, Johanna Leahy for this auspicious occurrence as she’s nominated me for ‘The Next Big Thing,’ a blogosphere initiative where bloggers reach out to new readers, introduce you to some of their favourite writers and reveal a bit about their own writing before passing on the baton again… You get the gist?

In her own words, Johanna describes herself as a "Serial-expat, ambitious writer, living in Kuala Lumpur with 3 kids, 4 guinea pigs, and a Danish husband. Obviously not in order of importance." She's currently working on her second novel, “The Stolen Child”, a story set in two time periods – the 1960s and contemporary Ireland. It's about a young woman forced into a Mother & Baby Home to have her baby, the child ultimately taken against her will to be adopted in the US. Forty years later, her son, whom she has kept a secret, turns up on her doorstep. His appearance has far-reaching consequences for the two sisters who didn't know he existed and for their mother who has never recovered from losing him. It sounds just my cup of tea!

Johanna also invited our mutual friend, Sharon Naylor (talented writer and very funny blog alert) whom we met on an Arvon course a few years ago so we're blogging alongside each other today. Sharon is working on her debut novel, Legal Ade, the story of Adrian Pritchard, a hapless man who has long suspected that life as he knows it might well be over. He is overweight and hypertensive, the family business is teetering towards bankruptcy and his wife has run off with a biker. After a disastrous break at a French spa he forms an uneasy alliance with two women. Carol and Angie are temporary exiles from a tough London estate. They have many secrets, not least those large men with violent tendencies on their tail. After being mistaken for their accomplice Adrian is forced into events he doesn’t understand, and it all seems to hinge on exactly who and where is the mysterious “Frank”. As the differences and similarities between he and his companions emerge, Adrian realises with dread that it might be up to him to save the day. But he`s not sure he`s up to it…


And so now on to my questions:

What is the working title of your book?
Ahh, straight away I’m smiling. This novel started off as ‘Living in the Past’ but following a couple of adverse comments about the title I changed it to ‘Mothers Love.’ However, this year I sent it on the Romantic Novelist's Association New Writers Scheme and my wonderful reader said it wasn’t strong enough. It needed to convey the long-held family secrets and maybe have the word, ‘past’ in it. So guess what? Yep. ‘Living in the Past’ is back. It just shows you should trust your gut instincts, although don’t be too surprised if an agent or publisher changes the title anyway ;-)

Where did the idea come from for the book?
Can you believe, Nicky Campbell! I’ve always been fascinated by people and their lives; where they’ve come from, what shaped them, and the paths they have taken. Having a very complicated family set up and past myself.(For more see THIS blog.)I’ve enjoyed watching the series ‘Long Lost Families,’ hearing the tales of how families are torn apart and how sometimes people keep secrets from even those close to them to protect them, and themselves. And I’ve always wanted to write a ‘gritty’ novel. I adore the writing of the ‘Angry Young Men’ – the likes of Stan Barstow, Allan Sillitoe, Nell Dunn etc and anything that resembles kitchen sink dramas, and so the two aspects gelled together well.

What genre does your book fall under?
Commercial Women’s Fiction. A section of the book is a war-time romance but it definitely isn’t romantic fiction. It has the theme of love running throughout but it’s about many kinds of love; the love between mother, daughter, father, lover and the nature of truth and the fierce drive to love. I’d like to position it as a Book Club read.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
I’m afraid I don’t see Hollywood actors in any of the roles. My main character would be easy to cast if the wonderful Dame Thora Hurd were still alive. I can hear her voice narrating the story of the old lady as she lies in a hospital bed looking back over her life but Maureen Lipman would be my second choice. The ‘young' Maggie just wouldn’t work with Anne Hathaway’s version of a Yorkshire accent (sorry – I loved her in ‘One Day’ but the Yorkshire accent was none existent) so I’d want authentic, spirited, feisty Yorkshire characters like Helen Baxendale for the lead and seeing as her husband, 'Bertie,’ is from Sheffield I reckon Sean Bean would be perfect. Well, any excuse for a photo.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Living in the Past is a love story but it’s also a human story about how families can sometimes hide the biggest secrets from each other; the lies they tell to protect others and themselves and how secrets, however well intentioned, bring only pain but how forgiveness transcends all hurts.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
Three months. Trouble is that was three years ago and since then it’s had three further re-writes and I’ve ground to a halt over the last eighteen months since I’ve been crippled by writer’s block.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Hmm. I’m not sure. I would like to think if you like Louise Voss or Elizabeth Bucan, you’d like this but in all honesty, I think the reason this novel is different is because I’ve found my writer’s ‘voice’ and simply written the kind of book I enjoy to read. So I’d probably best let the reader decide.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?
Easy. My Nan - the most formidable, difficult, but kindest, biggest-hearted lady you could imagine. Oh yes, and a very complicated past. Also I spent my formative years in Pudsey, Leeds, so everything about the novel lends itself to a Yorkshire setting – wartime, life in a small town, textile mills, back to back terracing, and Yorkshire people and how they call a spade a spade.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
Nostalgia. Life in the Second World War. Growing up in the sixties and seventies. Yorkshire folk. And making you think about people and what makes them do some of the things they do.

When and how will it be published?
One day. I hope. I’m fortunate to be over the first big hurdle and already have an agent waiting to see the finished MS. How lucky am I? I met Jane Judd when I came second at the Festival of Romance Convention New Talent Award in 2011 but as I mentioned earlier, since around that time, writer’s block has hindered progress due to personal circumstances.

Well, I think that completes my questions. Sincere thanks again to Johanna for enabling me to talk about Living in the Past. It’s a rather special novel and I still get a huge buzz writing about it so the hunger isn’t lost to see it through to fruition once my head has cleared. And to Sharon for keeping me company today (and sometimes in the wee small hours on Facebook!)

In the meantime I’ll keep working on my other novels and non-fiction ideas but for now, pass the baton to my chosen writers who all have the potential to be 'The Next Big Thing. We are all sisters in words. And so it goes...

Check out their blogs and watch out for their ‘Next Big Thing posts:’

Where to start with fellow Romaniac, Laura E James? Rock. Kindred Spirit. Dear friend(even when she gives me a kick up the butt!) Laura is knocking on the door of publication and I don't think she'll be long until it opens.

Next is the gorgeous Nikki Goodman, a fellow member of the Romantic Novelist's Association New Writer's Scheme who I've become friends with and is an extremely talented writer. Oh yes, and we share a mutual love of wine too!

And last but by no means least is a cyber friend who I haven't yet had the pleasure to meet - Sue Jackson. Sue's a writer and journalist and has written several novels which she is seeking representation of. However her latest novel, FOUR LEFT FEET was awarded Highly Commended in the New Talent Award at the Festival of Romance in November 2012 and is currently being read by a literary agent so she really could be The Next Big Thing!


Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'M' is for... Mother's Love

Ok, so I'm cheating slightly today. You might call it a lazy day, although actually I'm trying to be brave (especially with all you writer's out there.) This is my current WIP in progress and other than the A-Z challenge, it's what's taking up every spare minute of my time as I prepare it for the RNA New Writer's Scheme. So I thought I'd share the first chapter of my debut novel with you. It's called, Mother's Love.


Until another day

Bye for now
xx

MOTHER'S LOVE

Chapter 1

You reap what you sow. I knew my time would come. I recall the exact moment, on a stifling, hot day in the summer of 1976 as I sat at the kitchen table and watched a fly stick to the yellow Vapona. At the time there was no hesitation in my mind of what I was about to do. But that was a long time ago and it’s wrong what they say about burying the past. It has a habit of finding its way out and I see now I have been sitting at the kitchen table ever since.

Over the years, the more I’ve tried to escape the past - forget the wrongs and put them behind me, hoping they wouldn’t stir - the more they remained, prodding at me every day, every birthday, every Christmas, every time I see and speak to Rebecca. And now, I’m consumed by that sense of fear again, the furtive unrest. The blind unreasoning panic.

All I ever wanted was to protect Rebecca. She was my life. My reason to live again when I thought there was none. I always believed I was doing my best and that anyone faced with the same would have made similar decisions. Then a few months ago, my son, David, sent me a birthday card. Inside the card was a short note asking if he could come and see me, and talk. As my fingers stroked the glitter that highlighted the rose and I re-read his message, I thought of the life I had before that summer in 1976 came along and changed everything, and I wondered, was it worth it? If I had my time again, would I do the same? I knew then it was time to face up to what I’d done.

And I lay here now, oxygen whistling out of the white, plastic moustache positioned underneath my nose, still deliberating how to put it right. Rebecca sits beside me, her long slender fingers – piano fingers I used to call them - absently flicking through a magazine, as she keeps vigil. The sun has bleached her hair a light honey shade and the thick, wavy spirals look as if she’s been riding a motorbike without a helmet. Her sun-kissed skin contrasts against the whiteness of the hospital bedding and walls. Willowy limbs and delicate features belie her strength. She’s stronger than she thinks, and wiser than she knows. I made her so.

Closing my eyes tight, the bright lights of the hospital ward tinge everything orange while my mind wanders as if I’m in a library, flitting across shelves, flicking between books, dipping into pages. Illustrations are my memories, and words, my recollections of the past. Clear, yet disjointed pieces in my mind.

I picture my old council house on the Wybourn estate, Sheffield, surrounded by a four-foot privet hedge. The Wybourn estate was a sprawling mass of matchbox houses with back-to-back gardens but it had heart, our community. People laughed at life and feared nothing. We all looked out for each other. But it was like living in a goldfish bowl, living at the top of the crescent, everybody that walked past gawping in the front room. Net curtains helped give some privacy but the small white window frames didn’t let much light in anyway, never mind that they forever needed washing of the orangey smog which belched out of the steelworks over the years. Thank heavens for the clean air act.

The house had a red brick lower floor, the upper half was grey pebbledash and ‘London’s Pride’ lined each side of the path from the front door to the green painted wooden gate that hung more off than on the hinge and banged whenever there was the slightest breeze.

And there’s Bertie, swamped by the tartan blanket that he could barely stand pressing down on his body, staring pitifully up from our big bed, his face all angles and hollows, and grey. Get the bed warm my love, I won’t be long. My body wills me to sleep, to never wake up but I can’t give in yet. I need to know Rebecca will be alright. I don’t want her to be alone again, like she was that day when I found her…

***

It was only a short walk round to David and Linda’s two-up two-down terrace on the Maltravers Road. Being only a couple of kids themselves, they were grateful for my help when they had Rebecca. But one day as I let myself into their house and heard her screaming from upstairs, I knew straightaway she was alone.

'Hello, Linda it’s only me.’ I listened for a second, watching the vapour of my breath suspend in the cold air in front of me. ‘Hellooo, is anyone home?’ At first I thought Linda might have fallen asleep or been taken ill. However, in the kitchen, dirty washing up floated in murky, grey water in the sink, scum lapping at the edges. Empty tins and redundant wrappers scattered every surface, and a sour smell emanated from an open, half-empty milk bottle. A stale loaf of bread sat in front of the breadbin next to a tub of Stork, the knife still sticking in it. The front room was the same; old newspapers, unfinished mugs of coffee all over, and a trail of vinyl singles and empty covers led to a new addition on top of the sideboard - a brand new Dansette record player sat - the auto-drop arm suspended mid-air interrupting the stack of vinyl singles, positioned and ready for playing. It must have cost a fortune, and they reckoned they didn’t have any money.

Hearing the baby’s screams become more urgent I ran up the wooden staircase, two at a time, almost tripping at the top, and was incredulous with what greeted me on the landing. One of the bedroom doors had a terry nappy tied around it and had been draped across to an adjacent door, securing it shut to stop the occupant getting out. Not that she could, a one-year-old baby.

‘It’s all right darling, Nan’s coming. I’ll get you out.’ I frantically tore at the knot of white towelling to undo it. ‘Nan’s here, lovey.’ I tried to reassure her through the door. ‘Oh, my God... Jesus Christ...’

My hand went to my mouth, part shock, and part reaction to the stench that hit as I walked into the room. Navy velvet curtains masked whether it was day or night. It made little difference to the baby in the cot on the other side of the room. Except when I pulled the shabby curtains back, she shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and cried even louder.

'It’s okay, Rebecca, did I frighten you? I’m sorry, darling,’ I tried to console her. It was hard to tell how long she’d been there alone. Judging by the state of the cot, it could have been a couple of days. It was more than a couple of hours. Somehow she’d managed to wriggle free of the rancid nappy and thrown it out of the cot onto the carpet. She wore only a dirty vest. Smears of faeces covered it and her delicate, pasty body. Her little eyes were red and puffed from crying and the effects of ammonia that hung in the air. Slivers of wallpaper she’d peeled off the walls and tried to eat lined the cot. Where she’d picked at the walls the damp of the room had lifted the seams, and the edges of the lime green and brown flowered paper curled up to reveal a sandwich of woodchip and several layers of other garish papers beneath.

Her eyes adjusted to the light and focused, her cries turning into more of a desperate giggle as she recognised me. Her slender arms reached out; a tiny, helpless bird, begging me to pick her up.

‘Oh, you poor lamb. I’m here. Come to Nan.’ Hoisting her into my arms, hot tears sprang in my eyes; a mixture of pity and anger seeing her in this state yet relief that I’d found her. ‘Poor little mite. How could they do this to you, my precious?’ I cried, cradling her in my arms and jigging her on my hip, attempting to pacify her. Precious little girl.

For a moment, I was cradling my daughter, Teresa. The day she died was the day I stopped believing in God. God would never have let her die so young. God would never have brought such misery and grief by taking my precious girl.

‘Come on. Let’s get you out of here.’ I tried to bend, baby still in my arms, to open the chest of drawers and get some clean clothes but I couldn’t manage it. I placed her on the floor but straight away she became hysterical and her arms went up again. ‘It’s all right darling, I’m not going to leave you. Nanny’s just getting your clothes. Here we are…’ I showed her the tunic dress and top. It was horrendous hearing her distress. ‘It’s going to be alright.’ Lifting her over my shoulder, I tried not to get the clean clothes dirty. ‘It’s OK, darling. Hush... shhh... Nan’s here.’ In the bathroom, I wrapped her in a rough towel to try to keep her warm before turning on a tap at the sink. Cold water bit at my fingers so I made downstairs to fill a kettle and heat some water to clean her up. They shouldn’t have had a child, they never wanted her, and David, where on earth was he with all this going on?

Without a second thought, I took Rebecca home with me. Don’t ask why, but I left a note for Linda, telling her where she was. Stupid really. I should have left her to worry herself half to death when she came back and found the baby missing. It was three days later before she turned up at my house, wailing and carrying on. I still don’t know if she’d only just gone home and found the note. She didn’t even ask to see her little girl. Simply handed over two carrier bags and stood there sobbing.

'You can have her, Mam. You can keep her,’ she cried. ‘I can’t cope anymore. And if you don’t want her, put her in a home.’

You might wonder how any mother could do that; give away her child. I wondered the same thing myself many times over the years. Maybe that’s why my search for redemption is fathomless - I’m running out of time, and there’s too much to forgive.

It started long before the summer of 1976, or the time I found Rebecca in the house, back to a time when I had a waist so slim I could span my hands round it. Before Bertie. That’s my only excuse; that it happened before Bertie. Things might have been different if I’d known him then. It was a lifetime ago. A lifetime spent searching for an absolution that will never come. Because the question I keep coming back to is, how can I ask for forgiveness, when I can’t forgive myself?

'Living in the Past' is history

Well, I’m back from the Mother-in-law’s-caravan; a whole week of self imposed writer’s retreat because I didn’t feel quite up to going on any writing courses or holidays this year while I’m waiting for my surgery.

And it’s been a productive week. I return with several thousand words added onto two of my novels, proposals for two non-fiction books, a couple of articles, one short story, and multiple lists of action points and ideas. Not bad. And the beauty of being away from home, the family and housework, is I didn’t feel guilty about writing once.

But it wasn’t always easy, maintaining the self-discipline and it took me a couple of days to get into the swing of things. In fact I have a confession to make. I wasted the whole of the first day dabbling with a possible re-write of Living in the Past.

Stop! I hear you shout. Surely ‘Living in the Past,’ (previously known as Tango Man,) is now complete? Yes, you’re right. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve tinkered with it, and I’m not talking just a little tweaking but three complete re-writes and numerous cutting and editing besides. I think this is the third year I’ve spent on it. And it’s not as if I ever thought it was the novel that would get me the Booker prize (indeed whether it will even ever attain publication remains to be seen.) I accept this because I recognise the novel served me well in terms of learning the craft of writing – serving my writing apprenticeship – and it was a story I was compelled to write. It’s been critiqued by the professionals, it’s had some positive feedback so I’m as happy as I’m going to be with it. And after all the hard work, I’m going to start sending it out to agents.

I don’t think it’s the elements of the story that keep drawing me back to tinker – the Nan, the husband, the betrayals, demons – they are all in the PAST and I worked through much of it years ago. So why the meddling? Why do I keep going back to it?

Is this normal behaviour for writers - this obsession, the pursuit of perfection? Do you have a piece of work or novel; something that you can’t stop going back to, something you can’t let go of in writing terms? Or tell me is my OCD towards my first novel simply habit or comfort, or maybe even lack of confidence towards moving on.

Anyway, it’s time to move on. I see that. Besides everything else, I’m fed up of looking at it. To mark the occasion (in addition to the blog,) I’ve penned a magazine article and a rough outline of a non-fiction proposal, all about living in the past and how to move on.

This blog is my promise to myself to let it go. It seems somehow symbolic.

So until another day

Bye for now
xx

Meet the Totleigh 16

DAY ONE
My first day of the Arvon Course does not start well.
Once shown to home for the next six days I locked the door of my room and waited nervously for the right time to come out. Half an hour later the main door opened and in burst a profusion of accents and raucous laughter, possibly a group of friends judging by the noise. What if they don’t like me? What if they all have English degrees? What if they already have a book published?
“Is someone in there?” A soft Irish Accent asked the group. Cue me. Maybe not. Better had. Cue time to pop out of my little hole, introduce myself, look them all up and down then scurry back into my room. They all look glam and ‘arty.’ What if they are journalists? What if I’m out of my depth?
I have turned into a mouse. It is time to circulate or I won’t last the day.

Into the great barn, our class and common room for the duration and everyone is younger than me. And more cosmopolitan-there are two Australians, a Brazilian, one of the two freelance journalists has come from Oslo, two girls from publishing, students studying English or creative writing-one is a model and dating a famous Aussie Rock Star. Our tutors arrive -Louise Dean is beautiful and boho chic. Patrick Neate, his quietness hinting at his eccentricity, was wearing a woolly hat and nervously pulling it down over his head constantly trying to cover his face. The last of our group joins us.
“Hey, that looks like Gilbert O’Sullivan!” I said to the girl next to me who looked at me like I was her Grandma.

It was not Gilbert O’Sullivan. It was Donovan ,the Donovan. The British Bob Dylan.
They do say that truth is stranger than fiction.
Here was the Totleigh 16.

The intros helped me relax a little. Everyone was nervous, self deprecating, humble about their writing to date and their expectations of the course. I was the only one with 90,000 words of my novel in hand. Contrary to what I thought, none of them knew each other prior to the course. We all felt much the same and that, along with the promise of tea and biscuits, stopped me from fleeing there and then.

And so to work. Exercises, one after the other, I could not do any of them. Every ounce of confidence escaped from my pores. Panic set in-totally unreasonable panic and self deformation.
“Take ten minutes to come up with.....”
Blank paper. Blank brain. The more I heard the others pens scribbling on their notepads the worse it got. Don’t cry. The mouse disappeared back into her hole by 10.30pm and barely slept a wink.

DAY TWO
It was time to give myself a good talking to. I won’t give in. I have been looking forward to this course so long. It is good to have some time to myself. I paid £550 for this.

Progress as I actually enjoyed the dialogue work reading it aloud to the group. Everyone was charming and kind which helped.
My safe room still pulls and gets the better of me by 11pm but not wishing to be beaten, I try to do the exercises I struggled with yesterday.

DAY THREE
Work about plots, building characters, weaving the magic in. This is when the light bulbs started to go on. This is what I am missing in my writing. The lack of self belief kicked in again as I sat down to my scheduled one to one tuition with Louise Dean, fully expecting to see huge swathes of red crossings out all the first three chapters of The Orange Man which I dared to let her read.
“There are some lovely touches. There are times when you really ‘see’ people and we have a taste of their pain. It is as if you know what they are thinking. I love your characters.”
You don’t know the half I wanted to say.
“Take out the tortured stuff. Lighten it up. Use more humour. You are funny.”
Me.
"Trust in your dialogue. Use more-especially your use of the vernacular-it is magic! Show don’t tell. That is what you do best. The little pictures you paint are wonderful!”
Did she say wonderful?
“Cut every sentence that does not progress the plot.”
Hmmm. I’m not good at paring down words.
“Be brutal.”
Ok. I get the idea. Some things will just take me time.

Louise Dean, winner of the Betty Trasker Prize for her first Novel told me that I should stop being so hard on myself. (Ok, ok. I know.) The basics are there in my manuscript. It is time now to start the crafting of it...Nuts and bolts can be learnt-from the course, books, internet, courses, I can read someone else’s book that is in the same genre as mine and learn from how they do it.

Lots of character work. I made a promise to myself to not freeze up-must ‘have a go’ at everything and read it out, even the rubbish. Our guest speaker in the evening was Bidisha. Crikey to have a book published at 16. Wow.
At least I have her enthusiasm.
All I want to do is get out my lap top and start the re-write.

DAY 4
Now I am starting to really enjoy it. A wonderful day. At first I was nervous about tutorial with Patrick especially when he tells me he’s not sure about the story-
“It is an archetypal love story. Therefore you must do something different if it is going to get you a book deal. Make it funny-you are really funny. You do tell a very good story and the way you paint the scenes is very vivid. ‘Show don’t tell’-that must be your mantra.”
How strange-the the second person to tell me that in two days. I don’t do funny.
Maybe Milla could ‘ghost write’ for me?

In the evening we are treated to Donovan and his ‘friend’ Kelly, (his beautiful green guitar) doing a 'minstrel' act. Amazing. I am in heaven with the music until 1.30am.
Still on a high, my laptop winks at me when I get back to the room and I stay up writing until nearly 3am.

DAY FIVE
“Let’s talk about getting published.” Patrick says to the class. We hear about book deals and ‘another world’ of publicity and bidding, launch parties and how Waterstones have the stranglehold on publishers. We do the synopsis of our novel that we will send to an agent. This is in fact more difficult than the 90,000 words of the novel done this far.
Setting free your imagination.... Patrick has never been to New Orleans. How on earth could he have writtenTwelve Bar Blues?
"Use your imagination" says the winner of the Whitbread Prize like it is easy.
"Look up the facts on Wikipedia and make the rest up, but convincingly of course."

Last night we discovered one of the girls in our group has a wonderful voice-she has sung Les Miserables. So we set her and Donovan to sing Yesterday for our last night. Amazing. Jen McDerra.Remember her name. She is looking for a band. I am sure we will hear her or read her works in years to come.
We all joined in Mellow Yellow, Monster Mash and lots more of Donovan’s hits which we knew verbatim by now. I was so happy I could have burst. Instead of that I started harmonising. Before I knew it I was scatting with Donovan. And everyone was cheering me, and Donovan, of course. The word legend is over used except in this case, it applies. How surreal...Or some might say...how Mellow Yellow. (and take a look at the Totleigh 16.)

A bit like Purple Coo, it was a pleasure and an honour to be with a group of people where you could be ‘yourself’ for a whole week without anyone thinking you are bonkers.


So until another day

Bye for now


























22 comments:
LittleBrownDog said...
Oh, Angel, I lapped up every word of that - it sounds completely wonderful. Would love to go on an Arvon course, but have always made excuses for not going this year, maybe next? I'm so glad it was everything you hoped it would be, and more. That confidence is so important. Looking forward to seeing your name on the shelves of Waterstones one day.

Thursday, November 20, 2008
ChrisH said...
WELL DONE! It's sounds as if it was a real ordeal for you at first so you were very brave to stick with it. Writing from cold like that is hard - I hate doing it! - especially when you have to read it out to other people but at least everyone was in the same boat. Take confidence from the praise you've been given - the tutors wouldn't say it if it wasn't true. Good luck with the rewrite.

Thursday, November 20, 2008
Milla said...
what a fantastic sounding time. SO exciting and reinvigorating - and, believe me, that sense of positivity DOES last, so build on it and go, girl, go (wrote go, gril, go first!)

Thursday, November 20, 2008
Pipany said...
Lord thoe idea of reading something out makes me go cold all over Angel. Well done you, feel proud and go for it! xx

Thursday, November 20, 2008
elizabethm said...
I am just so pleased it was all worthwhile and fascinated by the sound of it. I have always fancied going and never done it - it feels as if you are saying you should be taken seriously as a writer and that makes me feel uncomfortable, but you will know all about that!
Great, just great and I know all that positivity will stay with you.

Go for it!

Thursday, November 20, 2008
lampworkbeader said...
Oooh! Angel. One day I'll be able to say, 'I knew here when she first started writing on Coo.'
(Cut out every sentence that doesn't advance the plot. I''ll remember that. Though it makes for a very short novella)

Thursday, November 20, 2008
lampworkbeader said...
Oops! meant her not here,

Thursday, November 20, 2008
snailbeachshepherdess said...
there is a new animated Angel bursting out of the page - go girl go!

Thursday, November 20, 2008
mountainear said...
It sounds so exhilarating - hope you keep up the momentum and write, write, write. You've got it in you - now do it.

What a fantastic week.

Thursday, November 20, 2008
Tattie Weasle said...
Oh it sounds wonderful and you are SO brave! Some mouse though...fantastic!!!

Thursday, November 20, 2008
bodran... said...
What a brilliant time you had . i can so understand the hideing away i would have done the same .
As for donovan you lucky thing i love his music.xxx see you soon .

Friday, November 21, 2008
muddyboots said...
wow, angel, this sounds sooooooo cool!

xx

Friday, November 21, 2008
Arcadian Advocate said...
In the 90's I looked at Arvon courses many times, but have not done so for a while as I have been so busy. Perhaps one day, after all, I will be brave enough to go.
Good Luck and thanks for sharing your experience, you brought the week alive for us all, and yes many of us can remember Donovan!

Friday, November 21, 2008
pinkfairygran said...
Congratulations Angel on actually doing the course, seeing it through. I know how nervous you were, but you did it, and aside from what you got out of it, you must be so proud of yourself for going.


You sound so fired up from it all, well done and more power tol your writing. And of course, I remember Donovan. What an extra treat for you!

Friday, November 21, 2008
Cait O'Connor said...
Comgratulations Angel. That was a great piece of writing in itself and good luck with your present and any future work. I am so glad it was money well spent.

Saturday, November 22, 2008
Frances said...
Please forgive me for being so late in leaving you a comment. Your experience at arvon seems to have been quite enriching.

Don't lose a bit of the energy, confidence, enthusiasm that you took home with you.

Write, rewrite, share what you've written with more folks (even those whom you fear might be critical, because they just might be excellent readers.)

I did check out the Utube segments, and those were also so much fun. First there is a mountain then there is no mountain then there is. Etc. Create!

Sunday, November 23, 2008
Exmoorjane said...
I am so so thrilled that you loved it (would have beaten self with a wooden stick over the head if you hadn't). Ah yes, show not tell.....those words echoed through our week too. But your bunch sound much younger and trendier and go-getting that our lot (who had a penchant for running away and crying -but that could have been the Philip Hensher effect!).
You go girl indeed or even gril go.....we all know you have it in you.
Janexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Monday, November 24, 2008
CAMILLA said...
Well done to you Angel, for sticking it out, if it was me I probably would have run.

Definately money worth spent though Angel, and the very best of luck with the writing for the future.

Ooh, meeting Donovan, how wonderful is that, I adore his music.

xx

Saturday, November 29, 2008
Fennie said...
They are wonderful those courses. I went on one years and years ago - on writing comedy - Ha! (or even HaHa!) but they are hard work. Great camaraderie. Certainly it's an experience you will remember for a very long time. And meeting Donavan as well!

Sunday, November 30, 2008
Tessa said...
OMG - you are so brave. I would have run away the very first night. What an absolutely wonderful experience it turned out to be - I'm so thrilled...and excited...for you. Bravo!

Friday, December 05, 2008
blogthatmama said...
Angel I'm so glad I found this post, I'm in such a muddle these days I couldn't remember who was going on the course until I went on purplecoo today. It sounds absolutely brilliant but very scary, well done for being so brave, I think I would have pretended to be the cleaner. I would really love to go one day, when life calms down a bit! Mellow Yellow! Haven't thought about that song in ages

Friday, December 05, 2008
Marianne said...
I am so impressed that you did this. Well done for being so creative and so brave. Loved your description of your stay and good luck with the novel!