This time next year

A fun afternoon paddling in streams and making cookies with some grandchildren yesterday. The day before it was library story time with the other local grandchild. I am so happy to have them close by. Although I might not have said that when GrandDaughter1 giggled and slopped her hands around the blob of supposed-to-be cookie dough, covering everything in flour and bits of flying-around-cookie. And GrandDaughter2 kept asking, 'Can I lick this?' and both of them kept eating the chocolate chips. Cooking with children is such fun.

What else? I suddenly remembered my copy for the next issue of Bay magazine was due shortly. (Do you like the way I drop in that technical term 'copy'? I'm a professional, me.) I decided I'd do some shameless plugging for my novels. (Have you noticed that plugging is almost always shameless?) I'm waiting to see if it will be rejected on the grounds it's too shameless.

But I impressed myself with unexpected wisdom. When my first novel, This Time Next Year came out Uncle bought twenty-five copies to send to various women in his life. Uncle has since died. I was going to make some jokey reference to the down-turn in sales of my books in the final sentence of my article but decided it could come across as heartless if taken out of context. See? Unexpectedly wise.

Some unashamed self promotion

It occurs to me that some more recent readers of my blog may not be aware that I am a published author. (I know: you can't tell from reading my blog.)

After success with a number of non-fiction books I tried my hand at a novel. After twenty-seven rejections I decided to self-publish and This Time Next Year is the result. 

To give you a taste of it here's the blurb from the Amazon page:

When her decree absolute arrives in the post with her 50th birthday cards Alison Turner wonders if middle age life can get any worse. When the highlights of the last year include being told off by the plumber for 'putting feminine items of hygiene down the lavatory', and her husband leaving her for a 28-year-old 'bimbo', it's easy to understand why Alison exclaims in her diary, 'I do not want another year like that. I must get a new plumber.' 

But if the romantic aspect of Alison's life leaves a lot to be desired (including sex, which is something the rest of her family appear to be enjoying) the everyday aspect is full of incident. In a year of well-intentioned ineptitude, as Alison records in her diary, she is thrown out of a pub for the first time in her life, begins to diet eight times (at least), finds out twelve unappealing things about dogs and discovers that first impressions can sometimes be misleading.

This Time Next Year is available as a paperback or as an ebook from Amazon. Just click on this link.

It might be worth bearing in mind especially with Mother's Day coming up! Or as a present for yourself.

By the same author (as they say on the back of books): A Cop for Christ For Officer Mike DiSanza of the NYPD patrolling the harsh, unforgiving streets of Harlem and the Bronx, it was a near-death experience that led to an amazing turnaround in his perception of the world around him. 

An unexpected proposal

It's amazing what ironing can do for the brain. I was merrily pressing t-shirts when I thought, 'Suppose David proposed to Alison? That could lead to a whole series of disasters! And another book!'

Aliss, the heroine from This Time Next Year, my first novel, has her own blog and her own Facebook page but both have been sadly neglected for some time. It doesn't stop Facebook from reminding me though when it's the birthday of my friend, Alison. Which was, in fact, a couple of days ago. Hence my thoughts on what would happen if David, the hero, had proposed to her on her birthday.

To find out what happened, visit Alison's blog, also called This Time Next Year.

Signed, Bleurgh of Swansea

So on Saturday I was feeling bleurgh. Husband asked if I'd taken my pill; I had. I couldn't explain it; it was just a sort of apathy mixed with edginess. Which isn't a good combination.

I finally got myself together enough to go to Sainsburys - once that would have been a major achievement for me and I was nowhere like at that depth, thankfully. Driving there it suddenly struck me, the reason for my bleurghness: the rejection I'd received the day before for Novel2.

I joke a lot about sending in submissions and just waiting for the rejection so I can do it all over again but that doesn't take away from the fact that it hurts. I'd successfully pushed this one out of my mind briefly but it had taken its revenge in this sneaky surreptitious way.

I think it was worse than it has been because recently I've been thinking about aspirations and ability and wondering if, in my case, one outstrips the other. I know you should push yourself but surely you also must need a realistic limit beyond which you accept you can't go. I should probably never have gone to university. I scraped in and scraped through, though my determination to take science, which I wasn't very good at, rather than languages, which I was, probably didn't help.

So it's thinking this and going into libraries and seeing the hundreds, thousands, of books that have been deemed worthy of being published when mine hasn't that have contributed to my ennui. I read books and some I think, yes, I can see why this was published, but others I read and have to ask: what stood out about this that made the agent choose it, out of all the hundreds received each year. And, yes, I think some are better than mine but some are worse.

Anyway, once I'd worked out why I felt like bleurgh it was easier to handle. And this is why I shouldn't go to Sainsburys when I'm feeling depressed.

Not just a large box of Maltesers but three packets of Buttons too. One packet didn't even make it home; they were devoured before I'd even got into Sainsburys petrol station. I'd probably have eaten the other two packs in the car if the petrol pump hadn't been covered in fuel making my hands smell horrid.

In the shop I asked an assistant if they had a toilet I could use to wash my hands (knowing they didn't but seeing that she was grumbling about the state of her hands too.) She said it wasn't for public use but that I could go in there with her. Cosy. So we both washed our hands and she explained that it used to be open to the public but 'they abused it.' 

Apparently I wouldn't believe the sort of things people did in there. In twos sometimes. And men are the worst. They only go in there - here she lowered her voice Les Dawson fashion - 'for a dump. And they're not fussy how they leave it.'

I took great care not to splash water or soap around and even remembered to pay for the petrol (or diesel as Husband insists on calling it) before I left. But you know what it's like when you get fuel on your hands. It takes ages to get rid of the lingering pong. 

I have another submission, for Novel3, still 'being considered' so no doubt bleurghness is just around the corner but tonight I have to be upbeat as I speak to a ladies' group at Sketty Methodist church about my wonderful novel, This Time Next Year.

Booked!

I've been booked to speak to a ladies' group about my novel, This Time Next Year. And it wasn't by one of the groups I've approached: they're all ignoring me. It was, apparently, word of mouth; I was recommended by someone who'd heard me speak before. How cool is that?

So I receive this phone call and the lady asks if I'm willing to speak and I say yes and she says, 'Oh good. Well, let me see, can you do June 24th?'
'Yes.'
'Don't you need to check your diary?'
'Oh, um, yes, of course. Let me see ...' (pause while I flick through an imaginary book) 'yes, that's fine.'
'Excellent, now I only need to know how much you charge?'
'Oh I don't charge.' (Laughing.)
'Really? You're one of the few who don't then.'

I expect the ones who do have real diaries with things written in them.

As it happens June 24th 2014 will be our 36th wedding anniversary. But anniversaries happen every year. 

Me, a film-maker!

My first attempt at a promotional video!


Try our slideshow maker at Animoto.

The perfect Christmas present

For women of a certain age, mothers, aunts, friends.

And men too!
"There are many many elements of great humour within the book - a couple of embarrassing laugh out loud moments which draw the stares of my compatriots on the 7:20 to St Pancras." (Graham H)

"Haven't laughed so much in ages. This book is outrageously funny! Love it!" (Sue E)

"Have just finished reading what I would say was one of the funniest diary/journals I have read." (Fiona H)

You can buy it for the Kindle from Amazon,

in paperback from Lulu

or direct from me for £10 including post and packaging. Just email me.

If you're in Swansea it's available from Waterstone's in Oxford Street or Cover to Cover in Mumbles - and if I get my act together, from Uplands Bookshop too.

P.S. I'm reminded of someone who bought two copies for her sisters-in-law. 'It looks like the sort of thing they'd like'  - but not the sort of thing I'd like obviously. (She didn't say that; she didn't have to.)

Why I'll never be a millionaire

I took copies of my book into the bookshop yesterday - the one that had requested some to sell. I chatted with the owner and then we got down to the nitty gritty: how much discount?

In my usual efficient way I said, 'Um, I don't know. What would you like?'
She said, 'Normally, with a local author I'd ask for 20%.'
'That's fine.'
I told her the selling price was £7.99 and she got out her calculator. 'That makes it £6.39 a copy I'll pay you,' she said.
Then I said ... no, wait, can you guess what I said? Husband did when I asked him what he thought my reply would have been.

'Oh, just give me £6 a copy!'

In case you'd forgotten ...

I'm planning a new push on my book come autumn. Or after the wedding at any rate. I'll try and find some women's groups I can speak to - and sell books to - and find other and unique ways of publicising it. Maybe.

I've had some lovely reviews - and not all from friends! I did wonder if people were just being nice to me but when people I don't know read it and still enjoy it, it must be okay, mustn't it?

I was recalling the critique I had when I joined the Romantic Novelists' Association (RNA). I've written about it before: on joining the association you're entitled to one free critique. The woman - it was anonymous but I'm sure it was a woman - hated just about everything about my novel. I think the most positive thing she said was that it was mildly amusing in a couple of places.

It was so bad a review I couldn't take it seriously! If I had done I would have given up writing for ever and ever. As it was, I put it down to experience. One of the comments that convinced me the reviewer was on a different planet was when she said that if a woman really wanted to lose weight, she would. (My heroine goes on a diet several times during the year only to weaken or find excuses within a day of starting.) Anyone who's ever tried to diet will know the absurdity of that sentence. The reviewer also said no-one would forget to order a turkey for Christmas. I did.

But even when you don't take something totally seriously, it impacts your morale, and that's why it's been so lovely to have nice reviews with people saying how much they laughed or could identify with. 

If only I could convince the publishers what they've missed.

P.S. I didn't renew my membership to the RNA after the first year.

Trashy

I was touting my wares after church this morning (yes, I know Jesus rid the temple of traders ...) and one lady read the back of my book and said, 'I'll have a copy, please. I like trash to read when I'm on holiday.'


I don't think she realised what she'd said and while I acknowledge that it may be trash it's not usually the done thing to tell the author! It's a good job I'm not easily offended. If I were I would spend most of my life in a state of Offence.


Husband and I were discussing an elderly lady with dementia and I said, 'I hope I don't lose the plot.'
Husband snorted with laughter. 'You don't even know what the plot is.'


And long may that continue.

Lady writer on the tv

Not really but in the library. It's just the words of the Dire Straits song that kept going around in my head.

I had a lovely time this morning in Gowerton Library. I'd been invited to speak there as it's National Reading Group Day and most of the audience (some had left by the time we took this photo) belonged to reading groups  at the library. They were a lovely gang of ladies who I think would have managed to enjoy themselves anywhere and were very chatty, asked lots of questions and empathised with the situations Alison gets herself into. Especially as one was called Marilyn and another Fifi (you have to read the book to understand the significance). 

And there were M and S cupcakes with tea afterwards! And the librarian gave me a beautiful bouquet of flowers as a thank you! I feel just like a proper author! Although I always feel someone's going to find me out one day and expose me for the fraud I am!


What a plethora of exclamation marks! But it was that sort of morning. It takes me some time to 'come down' after events like these and I feel the need to 'do something'. Unfortunately I can't think of anything so I'm going to have to resort to cleaning? Or I could make a cake ... but I'm on a diet. But then again I have to use up the rhubarb in the garden ...


P.S. I found something to do other than clean or bake: I went to Mumbles and posted a copy of This Time Next Year to Di/Trubes in Liverpool. Thanks, Di.

Now listen to me!

Thanks to Anonymous who sent me the link I'm able to share my interview with you! Aren't you pleased?! 


You can listen to me here (skip to 1:09:25)  telling the world not how marvellous my book is but that I'm related to Lady Godiva, Boudicca and Wodin (yes, him of Wednesday fame).

Don't think I even mentioned the book title

I was early in town so I called into Waterstone's to see if I could find my book. I did: it's on the shelves and the title is facing outwards (as opposed to the spine) so that's good but they still have all 5 copies that I took in originally so that wasn't good. I was tempted t move one copy onto the Beach Reading table but there was an assistant tidying shelves just next to me and I'm not good enough an actress to make it look as if it were by accident.


Anyway, I arrived at the studio and a sound engineer let me in and settled me down. He was very reassuring but then disappeared as he had something else to do. Leaving me, in the studio, to pretend to do the traffic report and sing a song ... before noticing the security camera.


Roy (see how I'm on first names terms with nationally-known radio presenters?) (admittedly nationally meaning Wales isn't that famous) was very easy to chat to and I came away thinking it had been a success: at least I'd only lost the thread of my sentence before the end on only one occasion. I put my sunglasses on before leaving the premises in case the paparazzi were outside and I didn't want to be recognised.


Then I had to collect George from the kennels and I made the mistake of listening to the rest of the show on the car radio. They had another author on and she was MUCH better than me. I hated her. She was flirting and giggling girlishly. Then I started remembering what I'd said and realising how much rubbish I'd spoken and all the things I hadn't said - and all the things I shouldn't have said.


I've had to eat chocolate.

Today's radio interview

I'm on the Roy Noble Show on BBC Radio Wales just after 3 today. Trouble is Roy Noble is in Cardiff and I'm in Swansea so I'll be speaking into the air. Husband said, 'There's no need to stress: it's only like talking on the telephone.'
'I hate talking on the telephone!'

More than David Nobbs

The librarian was delighted to tell me that more people had come to my book launch than attended the talk given by David Nobbs (professional writer and creator of Reggie Perrin). So I needn't have worried. A few people who'd said they'd come forgot but others I hadn't expected turned up so that was really lovely.

And it all went well. I talked a little about the writing and publishing and then read some extracts. I possibly read for a bit too long but everyone laughed in the right places and we sold a good number of copies. We being my accountant, aka Husband, and I.

To give your a flavour here I am reading about Alison's experience in the lingerie shop. 

Zero hour approaching

I am blogging to take my mind off the fact that in just over an hour I'll be doing my book launch.


I am petrified.


Normally I'm fine when I'm reading at someone else's event. But this is different. I'm asking people to come and support me in something that is entirely about me (not the novel, the launch). Years ago a friend told me not to expect anything and then I wouldn't be disappointed. If I don't expect many people to come does that mean I won't be disappointed? Or that I will be?


Either way I'm scared.


The librarian wasn't very hopeful about people turning up either. There are lots of other things happening in the village at the same time including another book launch! (My old tutor from the MA creative writing course is compering that one but it's altogether a different class of literature so our audiences are unlikely to clash.)


Ah well, all the more chocolate for me if no-one comes. (I doubt if anyone will want to eat it anyway as I left it in the car this morning and it melted ...) (It won't stop me, of course.)


And it can't be worse than prison yesterday.

I do it to myself

I leave everything to the last minute. It seems sensible at the time - until the last minute arrives and I realise, whoops, it's not long enough.


Monday I have my book launch - have I mentioned that? Oystermouth Library, 7.00 pm? (My boss has thoughtfully arranged a church meeting to clash with my launch so I won't have to worry about too many people coming. He's supportive like that.)


And tomorrow morning I'm leading the service in prison. Two big things, both need preparation, and I've got to fit in food shopping and a party tonight. (I'm delighted to go to Debs and Nick's 25th anniversary do, I just wish it wasn't tonight.) But, as I said, it's my own fault for leaving it until now. 


I've prepared the talk for prison; I just need to rehearse it and tweak it here and there. And then I've got the rest of Sunday - oh bother, Father's day, I have to look after Husband in the absence of children. Perhaps we'll postpone it a week ... or two. 


And, really, I shouldn't be procrastinating now. I'll just quickly check my emails before I go and shower ...

Famous!

 Priscilla told me she'd spotted posters advertising the library event in Mumbles so, of course, I had to go and have a look at my name in if not lights then pink.

And as we were in Mumbles we thought we might as well take a walk to Verdi's where I had an ice cream not quite but nearly as big as the one I had to share the week before with GrandDaughter.

 This casualty of the recent high winds and tides was left high and dry on the rocky shore.

Embarrassing even by my standards

I did something so incredibly stupid last night. Even by my standards. And so acutely embarrassing that I'm not even going to tell you about it.
Suffice it to say that at one point I thought a trip to Casualty was imminent. And that would have been entertaining. 
'How did you do this, Mrs Hinds?'
'Well, it's like this, Doctor ...'


Anyway all's well and this afternoon I took copies of my book into Waterstone's.


All I need now is individuals from Rent-a-Crowd to go in to the shop at frequent intervals during the day, pick up my book and exclaim loudly, 'I've read this: it's brilliant.' And make sure it's in a prominent position, moving it if necessary.
Volunteers?

Tra dah!