Adele Archer's Blog, page 10

Aaaaaand that’s a wrap!

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Behold, Book 3!

Fiddly-dee *prances about like a slightly weird and not-in-the-least-bit cute foal*! The day has finally come! My trilogy of books is complete and available to all the world for a very reasonable price! The third and final book in the saga (as you can see) is called ‘Foreign Affairs‘. I’m so excited about actually finishing a project for once in my life that I’m fit to burst. Kind of. You know me, I’m not big on wild displays of excitement/emotion. But I’m still kind of chuffed.

I’m just relieved it’s over, to be honest. I’m quietly pleased about the prospect of a bit of a rest; just for once, to have nothing to do. I mean, of course there will still be tonnes to do, BUT there will be no ‘book to finish’. I can finally be a more ‘engaged’ member of my family – I hope I didn’t put my husband and kids second too often. They’ve been very patient with me. I’m very grateful for their understanding and help towards ‘the cause’. Oh, and another thing, I’m looking forward to actually binge-reading instead of binge-writing. I’m looking forward to not spending my time plotting, planning, researching, and calculating over story narratives. I can sit on my big arse and do bugger-all (actually, I always did a fair bit of sitting on my arse, but I maintain I was always doing something)!

Now, before I go any further, I’d better break this to you gently; ‘Foreign Affairs’ is a bit darker than the previous two books. I’m sorry, it just is. I think I was going through some ‘stuff’ when I was writing and rewriting it. And that ‘stuff’ creeps into your work unbeknownst to you sometimes. I never do anything for shock value; I’ve always said the stories dictate themselves. They go where they want to go. And I’m just the writing vehicle. So I’m warning you now, you’re going to need your tissues. For your eyes.

You know, I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think I initially sat down to write these books sometime in 2002/2003? I know I had a toddler (first child) who took long daytime naps. That’s when I physically began typing out the words that had been living in my head. Instead of hoovering or washing up, like I should have been. And officially, the books date back even further than that. The actual idea can be traced back to my mid-teens (I’m really bigging this up here, you’d think I’d single-handedly circumnavigated the globe). But more of my life has been taken up by these books than I’d like to think about. It was only in 2011 when my sister died that I got an unhappy wake-up call. Who knows how long we have? Maybe other people should be allowed to read those (at the time, unfinished) books on my laptop too? So I set to work in fixing them. And in 2015 I was ready to go. But what if everybody hated them – or worse – laughed at them? Oh well, I thought, f*ck it.

Thinking about it, though, I’m not sure why I’m quite so excited. I mean, nothing in my life actually will change. I’ll just be a writer who isn’t writing. The initial euphoria will inevitably wear off once I realise the project I have spent so many years on – is over. I may feel bereft. Writing this book (although undeniably hard work) has got me through some rough times. The escapism you get through immersing yourself in a world of your own creation is unsurpassed. No series on Netflix (however gripping) could ever come close to that. I promise you. Two bereavements, the general crappiness of life – the book tided me over. And now it’s gone. It really has. There won’t be any more sequels (‘hooray!’, I hear you cry – cheeky gits). I’ve written the third book in such a way that I can’t pick up where I left off. This story is complete. I think I did that on purpose; to stop myself falling back on something that was familiar and comfortable. It’s time to move on.

So when I’ve had my little ‘writer’s vacation’, then what? Do I write something new? Or was my mission only ever to write one set of books? Could this be the end of my writing career? Well, I hope not. I’d like to think the writing bug is in my blood and I’ll be itching to get back to it soon. But I won’t lie to you, there’s nothing in the tank, there are no new ideas rattling around up there. I’m not being coy. I’ve literally no plot strands at all. Perhaps I’ll finally know what it is to have writer’s block. A big, blank page I won’t know how to fill. The project dates back so far that I can’t remember a process; the plan one uses to create a story. And if you suggest the ‘story arc’ to me, I’ll probably come around your house and punch you. That is the most mind-numbingly boring way to write a book that I can think of. I’d rather not bother.

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A little Google+ banter..

What I will say is, my plan is not to write a book at all (‘hooray!’ I hear you- hold on, hold on – I haven’t finished), but to write a screenplay. Or something made for British TV. I’d like to think it will be gentle and amusing. But not like ‘Last of the Summer Wine’. Because although that was gentle, it was also quite sh*t. I did watch it weekly as a kid, though. But that’s probably because we only had four channels in those days, and we were desperate. Anyway, the brief is; ‘gentle, amusing, and not sh*t’. We can only hope to reach those heady heights.

Anyhoo, the fact remains, I’ve come to the end of a huge chapter (chapter; see what I did there?) in my life. And maybe I didn’t write ‘Life of Pie’, maybe I didn’t write anything Pulitzer Prize-winning, maybe I didn’t set the world on fire. But I wrote my story from beginning to end. And yes, these days, anybody can a publish a book. I mean, I did. I published three. But not everyone does. So I’m going to take solace from that. And if just a handful of people enjoyed my novels, or the books affected people in some way (but hopefully not just with a severe bout of vomiting) that will be enough for me.

Foreign Affairs: Book 3 in the trilogy available now on Kindle. Paperback soon to follow. Click HERE.

International Relations: if you haven’t read the first instalment of the trilogy (and want to), it will be available for 99p or 99c (UK and US) this weekend only. Click HERE.

American Cousins: Well, if you’ve read book 1, you might as well read book 2. Stands to reason, really. Click HERE.

Enough self-promotion for one day? Yep.

You couldn’t make it up…

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Excuse me…?

As far as I’m concerned, it isn’t the norm for me to write about things that drive me absolutely insane. Well, I have on a couple of occasions, but I don’t believe ranting is my ‘thing’ either. But the other evening, I was caused to become so irate about a certain matter that a scathing blog post began to form in my bitter, belligerent little mind. So let me tell you all about it…

I am ANYTHING but a ‘soccer mom’ (please insert English equivalent here because I can’t think of one). I actively encourage my kids to participate in extracurricular clubs, but my heart always sinks a little when they decide to take me up on it. Because I know it’s going to be ‘Billy Muggins’, as my mum would say (i.e. me), who ends up playing taxi for all these activities. It’s not that I’m lazy, as such. Well no, it is absolutely that. I am lazy. There, I said it. Anyway, I take it on the chin. If my children are brave enough to get involved in something new, exciting, sporty, or sociable, I am not going to be the one to stand in their way. I did bugger-all in the way of clubs when I was a kid, so I try to encourage my children not to be like their anti-social mother.

Luckily for me, though, I dodged a bullet with my youngest daughter’s obsession with becoming a gymnast. The club fell on a Monday night which was my long day at work, but coincidentally my husband’s day off (oh, shame). So for a long time, he did the gymnastics run. Whoop-whoop *congas around the room*. However, my ‘day in the sun’ came to an unfortunate end when my husband changed his days at work and could no longer do the ferrying to and from gym club. So therefore, the baton has now been handed over to Billy Muggins. God damn it! *abruptly stops conga*

So, from seven to eight o’clock every Monday evening, I am to be found sitting in the freezing-in-winter, boiling-in-summer parents’ viewing area of the gym. This viewing area is furnished with a number of chairs, a few coffee tables, and two windows that look down on your little darlings doing gymnastics. Forget about standing at one of said windows to actually look at your child, though. Not unless you’re prepared to elbow twelve mothers and five fathers in the ribs to shove them out of the way for a peek. They may as well black those windows out, because you have no sodding hope of getting to ‘view’ anything from one. So I don’t even bother trying anymore. I just sit on one of the chairs and get my laptop out; try to fill my hour with a bit of editing, writing, or social media.

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The chance would be a fine thing…

‘Try’ being the operative word. There is this one mother who, week after week, causes my blood pressure to rise to alarming levels. So, four-hundred-and-eighty-five words into this blog, THIS is what I want to complain about. Now, bear in mind, this parents’ viewing area houses about twenty parents each week, either clogging up the window space or sitting on the chairs with a laptop, phone, or iPad (like I do). But this room is largely quiet but for the odd annoying kid running in and disturbing the peace. However, this woman (let’s call her Flossy, for argument’s sake [plus, I don’t know her name, I hope never to find myself on speaking terms with her to find out]) week-in-week-out always decides to make a telephone call from her mobile phone. In a completely silent room.

I have a thing about people making or receiving telephone calls in silent public spaces – mainly in quiet train carriages; that gets right on my chimes. Unless it’s a matter of life and death and it’s your sick mother calling, you don’t answer that phone. Actually, my mother did call me on a train once and I refused to answer it. She wasn’t sick, though. But that’s how I roll. You go out into the corridor to take the call, or don’t take the call at all but call the person back the moment you get off the train. Or send a text (they’re underrated, folks, you don’t have to talk to anyone. Yay!). No harm done, no feelings hurt. But I swear Flossy actively saves up her ‘important’ telephone calls throughout the day just so she can make them at gym club on a Monday night in front of me and numerous other people.

To date, Flossy has telephoned ‘Chiquito’s’ to book her child’s birthday party (making specific enquires as to how much of a fuss is made over children, and whether the child’s name can be written in chocolate on the edge of the birthday-cake-plate). She has also telephoned a company to enquire when her ‘beautiful’ holiday-rental property would be cleared of raw sewage which had leaked in over the weekend. Then she proceeded to ring a friend and repeated the entire ‘raw-sewage’ story in intricate detail, going on to arrange a dinner date with said friend; Flossy constantly and condescendingly insisting that she would be paying as she wanted to ‘treat her’. There are other instances too boring for me to list. When Flossy can’t think of any other telephone calls to make, she engages other ‘gym mums’ in conversation. Last week (I kid you not) I overheard her chat with another mother about which secondary school to send her child to, and how she had a £300,000 trust fund for the child, so ‘money was no object’. The unlucky recipient of the conversation tried on occasion to ‘be involved’ and ‘engage’ and ‘give opinions’ of her own. But Flossy wasn’t having any of that (Flossy sure likes the sound of her own voice). Flossy then proceeded to advise the poor woman (and nineteen other completely silent people who were occupying the room), that her daughter was conceived outside her marriage because her husband was infertile. Then said husband tried to divorce her and ‘take her for all she was worth’ (quite a lot, from her accounts), but “he came out from court empty-handed,” she gloated. It only transpired at the end of this conversation that the hapless lady to whom Flossy was speaking had never spoken to Flossy before in her entire life! I’d been under the impression they vaguely knew each other! And to divulge personal, sensitive information like that in front of a crowded room of deathly quiet people??!!

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I am stunned into silence…

I mean, who does that? Is it just me and my sniffy, overly-English rules of behaviour? You – dear reader – wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you? No, of course you wouldn’t. Because you have more than an ounce of decorum and weren’t raised by wolves! Whatever happened to ‘not airing your dirty laundry in public’? What ever happened to basic common decency? Perhaps it’s a small thing and perhaps it wouldn’t make you at all mad. But me? I’m proper livid.

Don’t worry, I keep myself to myself at gym so Flossy will never read this post. She probably doesn’t even know I’m alive. I don’t think she knows anybody is alive, other than her. So anyway, I’m off to have a nice lie down and psyche myself up for next Monday evening. All I want is a bit of peace and quiet to do a spot of editing or read a few blogs. But alas, I think I might have to sit in my freezing-cold car if I want any chance of that happening.

PS: This blog got too long, but once Flossy left, another chap decided to spark up a face-time conversation on his mobile with his friend. So I then had to endure fifteen more minutes of a conversation heavily littered with expletives between he and his mate. In a quiet, crowded room. Inbred.

PPS: Update, my daughter has requested that she no longer go to gym. Hazaarr! I promise I didn’t coerce her into this decision. She wants to replace gymnastics with drama classes, which coincidentally, also happen to run on a Monday evening. And that could be a whole different animal. ‘Drama Mums!!!’ OMG! Watch this space…

Two

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Me being vaguely ambivalent about anniversary…

Today, the 11th February, is the second anniversary of my blog. Which I suppose is kind of cool. I was all set to write an upbeat, gong-banging, self congratulatory post. But for some reason, I don’t feel wildly pumped about this milestone. I guess two years in the blogging game is nothing to be sniffed at – I know I haven’t eradicated world poverty or anything as philanthropic as that. But it remains a little victory for me. I’m still standing. I’ve read a number of articles which suggest that approximately ninety-five percent of blogs are left abandoned within a few months of their creation (other statistics are available). That’s a pretty massive number, I think you’ll agree. Various reasons are cited for this; lack of passion, sporadic posting, inattention to networking (not enough schmoozing on social media), or insufficient traffic (i.e. nobody comes to read the bloody thing). So I’m one of the ‘lucky’ five percent. Still, I fully appreciate why blogs can and do fail. Mine could. It probably should. I don’t think I blog the way one is supposed to. But I think this blog lumbers on through adversity because I still have something to say. For now, at least.

When I first started out, I remember thinking how easy blogging was. I thought I could write a blog every single day and would never be uninspired. Wrong!! Of course I couldn’t sustain that. So I settled for blogging approximately once a week. Ish. And even a weekly post is a struggle at times. Life gets in the way. Firstly, there’s the day job. And like a lot of other bloggers, I’m an author too. That third book ‘aint gonna’ write itself. So yes, two years later I’m still here. But who can say what next year will bring? Who can say what curve-balls life will throw at me – causing me to stray?

For one thing, next year I certainly won’t have a new novel to tout. I’ve nearly finished my trilogy (and one could argue authors normally write a blog primarily to sell their books). Of course, I can still tout the old ones, but I’m not sure I can be arsed to do that (they’re over there in the side-bar, if you’re interested – it’s fine if you’re not). However, I have to say this blog long ago stopped being about the books – I’d have shut up shop long ago if it was. My blog became a very personal diary, or just a way to unleash my emotions; vent my thoughts. Who knows – maybe my lack of novel-writing projects may mean this blog becomes even more important to me. It may be the only writing vehicle I have. Crikey…

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the best blogger who walked the face of the earth. ‘What?‘, I hear you cry. Yes, its true. I’m just not. I’m surprised I have survived really, because I’ve virtually NEVER listened to advice or followed standard blogging rules. Whenever I see an article about how to become a successful blogger, I just scroll on by (scrolly, scrolly, scrolly – ooh, look! A cat in a coat!). Not because I know it all, but because I don’t like to be told. Never have, never will. What’s more, I don’t think I could write with any regularity if I was forever following a formula (which is what a lot of this articles are subliminally trying to suggest). That would just feel contrived. I’m not a corporate blog, I’m a very personal blog. And okay, no blog can survive without visitors (or you’re really just talking to yourself…perhaps I am right now..echo, echo…), but I get by. I do more than my fair share of networking; I’ve always taken that side of blogging very seriously (only because I enjoy the camaraderie, though). But even the mere mention of ‘SEOs’ and ‘keywords’ and ‘boosting traffic’ makes me want to kill myself just a little bit. If I’m content writing for others, then of course I DO follow the rules. A corporate blog is all about keeping your site current and relevant. Being listed first in search engines is what it’s all about when you’re a business. But when it comes to my own personal, tuppenny-happenny blog, I just can’t seem to care about those things. So wracking up mahoosive numbers on this blog may never be a reality. That’s my choice and I live with it.

I know a blogger who had been around for five years, then suddenly decided to close her doors to the public. She felt writing the blog was detrimental to her career as a writer, as all her energies were focused on getting that regular post out on time – not writing her novel. So she chose to quit. And I can see why one would. Blogging does take away valuable time that you could be using to do other things; like hoovering the front room carpet, or tidying your sock drawer, or cleaning your dog’s ears, for instance. As I sit down and write this particular blog, I’ve got this nagging concern that I should be hard at it on the final read-through of my book (which I really should be), but the blog needs my attention too.

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The chain can be poignant or not, it’s up to you.

Do you know why I’m really still here? I’m here because I like it. I’m here because I like spilling my guts on the internet. I like it because I spent the first forty-three years of my life without an outlet, bottling up my thoughts and feelings. And now I don’t have to. I’m here because I believe there are a few people out there who want me to be (three in total, I believe), and they might be disappointed if I suddenly disappeared. Or they may be hugely relieved, I’m not sure. But I do this because it reminds me that I’m not alone. There are other people a lot like me out there – maybe thousands of miles away; questioning life, having random thoughts about even more random things, enduring daily struggles, or laughing inanely at their own jokes – like I do.

The heyday of blogging has long since past. There are more fashionable forms of social media available to get your point across. But it remains the only form I’m really interested in – because I’m a writer. So if you’ve ever considered starting a blog, please don’t let me put you off. Maybe it’s time that little voice in your head found an audience. But I’m just saying it isn’t easy. Finding your audience and keeping that audience is the hard part. Finding something new to say week after week doesn’t get any easier either. But it can be done. I’m proof of that. Who knows if I’ll be around for my third anniversary? There are never any guarantees. But right now I still have something to say. And I would never have done something for two years for absolutely free if I didn’t enjoy it. Currently, this blog still needs me. And do you know what? I still need it.

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I’ve flown with them for TWO years, actually, but they haven’t sent me my notification yet. Shoddy.

Miss Adele’s Feeling for Snow

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A frosty morning 2017 (not snowy, I forgot to photograph that).

It may seem a tad usual to write a blog about snow, coming from a country that doesn’t get a great deal of it. And where I live, in the South West of England, we get even less. And thank the Lord and all that is holy for that! I don’t like snow. I’m sorry, I just don’t. As a kid, I had that vague excitement that every kid gets; waking up to a blanket of it covering your street, and finding out school was shut. Oh, the joy! When I was 10 years old, it snowed heavily on my birthday (never once has this been repeated), and I thought that was the coolest thing in the entire world. But even then, as a child, I didn’t like the near-frost-bite and subsequent finger amputation you might encounter if you handled the stuff for two long. Now I’m grown up, just the mere threat of snow fills me with dread…

Just the other week, the TV and radio were warning about impending snow across the UK (even in our area which, I like I say, doesn’t get very much). Britain went into a bit of a panic. You see, us Brits don’t handle snow very well. We don’t have enough experience of it. There were news reports that the snow would hit at about 4pm, so everybody fretted about getting home from work and school etc. OMG!!! SNOW!!! The now didn’t come at 4. But as it was, pretty much the entire country woke up to, what I would call, a mere dusting. Y’know, as though you’d sprinkled a meagre amount of icing sugar on a yule log because you’d forgotten to replace your near-empty box from the cake-making shelf (do you have a cake-making shelf? I do. It’s a very small and poorly-stocked shelf because I hate making cakes). Anyway, that was it. The kids opened their curtains with a little sigh of disappointment, and I had a secret chuckle to myself. Panic over. Crisis averted. Phew (I can’t speak for you guys up in Scotland; you may have been wading through the stuff. I’ve no idea, I would never be silly enough to live in Scotland because of the higher incidence of snow. I wouldn’t be silly enough to live anywhere with a high incidence of snow. Not unless my job and the kids’ school was two minutes’ walk from the house)! But the recent snowfall for us down in the South? Not so much. By the time I set off for work, it had mostly gone.

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My daughter and ‘Jacques’ on Snow Day 2013

I think my irrational dislike of snow comes from an incident I had in 2013. We had the usual snow-threat reports on the news, then work and school sent out their snow policies (so I had an inkling there may be a fair bit of it). Then we all woke up one Friday morning to deep, unadulterated snow. It was, I admit, beautiful. But my little heart sank. My current employment at the time was 45 minutes’ drive away with a full quota of patients probably waiting for me… So it was panic stations at our house. We all hurried downstairs to switch on the radio; fiddling with the dial to find a local station to listen out for local school closures. My children stood silently praying that they would hear the name of their school announced, I stood praying for the exact opposite. And low and behold, both my kids’ schools were pronounced as being closed, to the subsequent whoops of joy from my children. But that news only put the fear of God in me. Just because school closes, doesn’t mean that work does. I was going to have to take them with me…and just put them…somewhere. I’d sort out the details later. So, equipped with my best (fake) gung-ho attitude, we set off after breakfast. I’d just get in the car and drive very, very slowly – right?

Wrong. I knew things were going to be problematic when my car struggled to even climb the slight incline in our quiet street without sliding backwards. But I thought, ‘once I get onto the main road, things will be better. Lots of other cars will have already done the trailblazing for me’. Not so. It was fairly early and even the main roads were thick with snow. I’m not sure if it was just my totally ill-equipped two-wheel-drive hatchback’s fault, or if it was my lack of snow-driving experience, but I was sliding about all over the place – and I had only been driving for about five minutes. It was then that I decided I was being very stupid. Not only was I putting myself and my children at risk, I was potentially endangering pedestrians and other hapless drivers too. I had literally no control over my car. So, with great difficulty, I turned around and inched my car home. We even had to walk some of the way back because I couldn’t get my car up a certain hill without sliding backwards again. Like I say, we don’t handle snow very well in our country (well, I don’t). I have never, ever even seen a set of snow chains in real life, let alone put some on my car tyres. I wouldn’t know how. We’re a maritime country; we understand how to deal with rain perfectly well, just not snow.

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Pristine pink sledge of dooooooom! Your dooooom, not my doooooooom!

Anyway, the kids had a lovely day after that – we had no choice but to have an enforced ‘snow day’. I called work and explained that I’d attempted the drive, but it was impossible – I’d have to owe them a day. And off we set (on foot) down to the local park, where every schoolchild in the land seemed to have converged; building snowmen and sliding down hills on sledges. On the subject of sledges, we didn’t have one at the time. And guess what? Sliding down a snow-clad hill on a tea tray really sucks. Tea trays just aren’t designed to be ‘slidey’ at all. Who knew? It’s a serious design flaw. So after that, I saw a sledge on sale at the end of the season, and I thought, ‘I’ll have that for the next time it snows’. And do you know what? It hasn’t snowed since. That was exactly 4 years ago. The sled was the kiss of death for snow in this country (a bit like buying a vest in the summer = end of summer). I keep it in my lobby and smirk at it every time I walk past.

So to all you English people who, like me, don’t like snow very much, and are grateful that we’ve had virtually none in recent years. Well, you have me to thank for that. That pink, round sled put the kibosh on any future snow, it seems. You’re welcome. And for those of you that do like snow and hold me responsible for the lack of it – well, tough t*tties. Oh, and to whoever controls the snow up there, just so you know, I don’t want any. Unless you’re prepared to ensure it only snow on Christmas Day, then have it entirely cleared away by the Monday that we have to go back to work. Because by January and February, I’m just not interested. Thanks!

NB: If it snows heavily this weekend as this post goes out, I’ll be severely pissed off…

All in the Game

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I’ll admit straight away that I’ve written about the various social media platforms before (here). I’ve written about everything before. But I wrote about them a month into my blogging career (which is almost exactly 2 years ago – I might write a post about that in early February, I’ll definitely be scratching around for ideas by then…). And I didn’t know jack-sh*t in those days. I mean, I don’t think I quite understood how all the various platforms worked back then. Of course, I knew Facebook like the back of my hand – who doesn’t (actually, there are still a few souls out there who, understandably, avoid it like the plague)? But my aim back then (as a newly self-published author and blogger) was to have a social presence on everything. It’s all in the game. It’s my job to publicise myself on the internet; to spend much of my life on social media (much to my husband’s chagrin). But all the other social media sites were fairly new to me back then – now I can pick and choose. Some platforms I literally couldn’t do without, some I can take or leave, others I won’t touch with a barge pole.

You may be a social media junkie or you may utterly detest that kind of thing. I use it more than most – I have no choice. So, I’m going to briefly discuss the social media platforms with regards to their usefulness to me as an author and a person (because authors are people too). I never say never; if you know something I don’t, I’ll happily eat my words. But I’ve been in ‘the game’ for nearly two years (writing, not prostitution). I won’t bore you with details regarding what each site is for (I’ve put Wikipedia links in each title, I’m so good to you), we’d be here all day…

Won’t Touch with a Barge Pole

Reddit:- There’s only one site on my ‘Won’t Touch’ list. Reddit. It’s elitist, prescriptive, unfriendly, antagonistic, and a thoroughly horrible place to be. I have no clue how many followers I have, or if one even has followers. I can’t remember. I dislike it so intensely, I’ve forgotten my password, so I can’t even look for research purposes. I’ve never had any hassle there, but I know plenty of people who have been ‘told off’ for not posting to Reddit’s strict guidelines. I hate Reddit. I loathe it. Sorry if you don’t, but that’s just the way I feel.

Take it or Leave it

Tumblr:- Now Tumblr means no harm but I just can’t get into it. It’s just another way of having a blog, I think. And if you already have a blog, why do you need Tumblr? So your blog is just duplicated somewhere else. My blog is automatically shared on Tumblr, but I only have about 2-3 followers (can’t remember my password to check). But as with all sites, you only get out what you put in. And I don’t put anything in.

Stumbleupon:- If I’m honest, I don’t even know how to use Stumbleupon. I have 2 followers – which pretty much reflects my lack of effort.

Pinterest:- I try to like Pinterest. I do. It’s definitely grown on me. Whenever I see useful stuff on the internet about writing or exercise, I will endeavour to ‘pin it’. But it doesn’t seem to be terribly helpful to a writer, as such. I have 20 followers – nothing to write home about.

LinkedIn: – Now, you’re probably thinking ‘LinkedIn is for business; people get headhunted or find jobs on there. Adele doesn’t need to be on LinkedIn‘. And you’re probably right. My blog has a setting which will automatically share my posts on other sites the moment they are published (Facebook, Google Plus, Twitter…and LinkedIn is one of them too). I have no dislike for LinkedIn; I keep my profile updated, I chat to a few authors over there. I have 40 ‘connections’ – not too shabby. It’s harmless, it’s innocuous. But as an aside, did anybody in the history of the world ever get a job through LinkedIn? No. Never.

Literally Cannot Do Without

Twitter:- I’m in a very small minority when it comes to Twitter. As an author and a blogger, I just have to have a Twitter account. Anybody who is anybody has a Twitter Account. As we speak, I have 631 followers – pretty nifty. I check my Twitter account on a daily basis (which can’t be said for the two aforementioned categories). But do I actually like Twitter…? Well… I mean, it’s alright. But it’s a pretty cold and loveless place to be. All my author friends are over there, and some of my real-life friends too. But it doesn’t send a huge amount of traffic to my blog. Maybe that’s because it’s too fast-paced, it certainly is for me. The timeline  moves too quickly, and I never spot any tweets from the people I really interact with. I’ll always have a Twitter presence, but I don’t have to enjoy it.

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Facebook:- Now, I like Facebook. I’ve been using it long before I ever deigned to call myself an author. I have two accounts; the real me, and the writer me. Facebook is great for sharing photos, sharing blog posts, and conversing with friends in the ‘messenger’ app. I don’t have a tonne of ‘FB friends’ but it sends the majority of my readers to the blog. Without question. The author me has 129 friends on FB (the real me has marginally more), but that’s because even the author me is a bit more careful who I’d befriend on FB. Still, no writer could do without it. But Facebook has it’s dark side. During the British General Election and Brexit (and to a lesser extent as a British person, the American General Election), Facebook was an unpleasant place to be. Everybody had an opinion, not necessarily the same one. It got ugly over there; people fell out, people deleted one another as friends. During these rough times, I had to retreat to Google Plus and Instagram where there was little to no political agenda or aggression. I like Facebook, I couldn’t do without it. But I know people who hate it; they hate the constant stream of photos of people showing you how wonderful their lives are, and how much better an existence they lead than you. It’s all fake, of course. Most of us only post the good things that are happening to us, not our bleak days (I tend to post photos of fridges [private joke]). Facebook is fine. It certainly has it’s place. But if you use it, take it with a pinch of salt. Or use another platform from time to time.

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It was just like this…

 

Google Plus:- I’m a big fan of G+. I’m one of a few rare Brits over there (it never really took off in my country). As an author, it has been a lifeline. I’ve met the majority of my author compatriots on G+. To date I have 522 followers – also pretty nifty. It doesn’t quite send the large amounts of readers to my blog that Facebook does, but that’s partially because I’m now friends with my G+ buddies on Facebook too. So they’re more likely to see I’ve published a blog there first. But it’s easier to chat to my author friends on G+. This is where my connections are made and I wouldn’t be without it.

Instagram:- This is a surprise one. I only joined Instagram exactly 40 weeks ago (that’s as precise as I can be). I couldn’t see the point of it. I’m not a hugely talented photographer. What pictures could I possibly share that would be of interest? How could it be helpful to a writer? Well, that’s where I was wrong. I only have 146 followers, but I’m still a relative newbie. Instagram doesn’t send a huge amount of readers my way, but it’s such an affable place to be. There is no political agenda. There doesn’t seem to be that ‘look at how wonderful my life is‘ ethos that Facebook has, either. I’m a fan. And the filters you can use to spruce up your photos are sublime!

Now, not everybody reading this blog is an author or somebody who requires a big internet presence. So a lot of these sites will be of no interest to you. In fact, this entire blog may be of no interest to you. Oh. But to those people all I can say is, if you like using social media at all, there’s more to life than Facebook. I’d recommend G+ and Instagram to anybody. Give it a whirl, you might even see me there. But then, you’re going to see me everywhere. I’m pretty much unavoidable (apart from on Reddit).

PS: I can be found in numerous other places too, I just couldn’t be arsed to put in any more links which virtually nobody will bother clicking on.

 

Crazy Cat Lady 2

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Almost a year ago, I wrote a blog called, ‘Crazy Cat Lady’. This blog performed exceedingly well – for some time it was ranked as my ‘most liked post’. It’s still in second place even now. I think it got shared on Flipboard or something. I don’t know – I didn’t share it there, I didn’t even know what Flipboard was at the time. Anyway, as pleased as I was at the performance, I never really understood why. It was fine, as blogs go, but it wasn’t the best thing I’d ever written (I’m kidding, it was brilliant– much like this post will be

Can’t, can’t, can’t!

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Oh, the shame!

Do I strike you as stupid? Because I’ve never thought of myself as stupid. Maybe a bit slow on the uptake sometimes, but never that. Some might say (I don’t know who, but some) that I’m a fairly streetwise forty-something-year-old. I’m no rocket scientist, to be fair, but I hold my own in this thing we call, ‘being an adult’. It’s just over the years, I am noticing a number of failings in my repertoire that I don’t seem able to put right no matter how hard I try. Who are we kidding? I don’t try – that’s the point. I’ve accepted these little blank-spots in my know-how. They are now my idiosyncrasies. Or, in real terms, things I’m too lazy to learn how to do now I’m no spring chicken. So I’m going to let you in on a few of them. You might want to sit down.

Make a Cup of Tea
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Oh, the horror!

This is pretty shameful for an English person to admit. I was in two minds about telling you this. I mean, making a cup of tea is a British person’s birthright, isn’t it? I prefer coffee myself (for obvious reasons), but I do enjoy a cup of tea. Only in the afternoon, mind – preferably with a bit of cake. But alas, I can’t make a decent cuppa. I’m not talking about tea leaves in a pot (nobody can do that anymore, not unless they’re over eighty-five). I’m talking about plain old teabags. You may think that a common-or-garden teabag is idiot-proof. Well, you’d be wrong. That or I am of sub-normal intelligence. I just can’t seem to get it right – my husband has assured me so on many occasions. And he’s not wrong. My cups of tea always end up with a greasy-looking film on top. I think the trick is in the timing; how long you leave the teabag in the boiling water. But I don’t know how long that should be. And should you squeeze the teabag against the side of the cup to get out the last dregs of brown liquid or not? It’s got to the point that whenever a friend comes over and I offer them a cup of coffee (you see, come in with a leading question – that’s how I roll), and they answer that they’d rather have a cup of tea, I just freeze – staring at them mid-grimace. ‘Really…? You want tea…? Surely you meant coffee? I can make a nice coffee – out of the Nespresso machine and everything. Go on, have a coffee…’. But some people still insist on a cup of tea. Selfish b***ards.

Swim
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I’ll just sit on the side, shall I…?

Well, alright, I can swim. Just about. I was taught to swim at school just like everybody else. But I certainly didn’t have private lessons like (seemingly) every child in the western world does these days. I think I may have made it as far as passing my 100 yards in my school lessons (I don’t know, I didn’t care enough to keep the certificates). But seriously, they didn’t teach me properly. We had a large class of kids trekking to and from the pool each week, and I really feel our swimming instructor didn’t give a monkey’s toss how you made it across his damn pool, as long as you made it across his damn pool. So I suppose I invented my own reworking of the front crawl, which probably resembled somebody drowning, yet I still managed to reach the other side more or less alive. And that was evidently enough. ‘Great, you’re still alive. That’s a first for today. Here’s your certificate. Well done, Adele!‘. But my technique, as you can imagine by my aforementioned description, is poor. My breaststroke is also sh*t – this is largely due to the fact that I was never taught this stroke at all; I made it up my own. I expel far too much energy, my legs and my arms are most certainly not in sync, and I haven’t learned to breathe correctly (it doesn’t help that I can’t tolerate my face being in water or getting my hair wet). I always say that if I fell off a boat in the sea or a river or a lake, I would be highly unlikely to make it back to shore. I don’t ever envisage myself as one of those boring lane-swimmers who go up and down the pool for four hours straight, giving kids ‘the evils’ for having the audacity to get in their way. But one of these days, I’m going to have to invest in adult swimming lessons. I’m sick to death of my kids beating me in races across the length of our local pool; beating me by miles, I might add. Something must be done, if only for safety’s sake. Actually, it’s more my pride I’m worried about.

Read Roman Numerals
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I can no longer find this ruler. Bugger…

I’m not sure if I have a great deal of company when it comes to my complete failure in being able to do this – but I can’t do this. I mean, it’s not über important as life skills go. On a daily basis, let’s face it, the ability to read roman numerals doesn’t really come up. So nine times out of ten, people are deceived into believing that I’m pretty normal. There’s a vague possibility you may be asked to decipher a date all in roman numerals in a pub quiz. And if that ever happened, I would just pretend to rifle through my bag for something essential to my well-being, or pretend to answer a very important phone call. Failing that, I’d fake my own death. No, the only occasions that my R.N. inability really becomes an issue is when I’m watching a film or TV series and I want to know what date it was made. Because I don’t know where to start. There’s MM and XV and VIII and…erm… I have a strong suspicion that we were taught this in school, but evidently I was off sick that day (that day and the day we were taught about cloud formations, because I don’t know anything about those either). I once went to The Roman Baths in Bath and bought my children a roman numerals ruler from the gift shop (secretly, I bought it for myself, with the intention of going home and revising in a locked room one evening – but I never got around to it, and probably never will).

I suppose there will always be things in this world that each and every one of us won’t be able to perform with any real success. Many of us (probably) have regrets about what they didn’t learn in childhood – I know I do. But all I really want is to successfully make a decent cup of tea, efficiently read a set of roman numerals in the end credits, and swim like a graceful eel across the length of a swimming pool. Is that too much to ask? Is it too late for me now? Well, possibly – being the apathetic creature that I am. But it’s important for you know that these things still irk me. Let’s just hope one day that that irksomeness leads to decisive action, or these blank-spots will forever remain blank-spots. Oh, the shame…

NB: Please don’t leave me hanging here. Tell me there are some fairly easy things that you guys don’t know how to do. Or is it just me…?

Ode to My Other Half

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Seemingly, 2016 has been a universally horrible year. I’ve been trying to see if I can salvage any good memories from the last 365 days, and it’s proving a struggle. All I could really come up with was ‘The Olympics’ – I enjoyed that. Oh, and Andy Murray won Wimbledon again. So I guess there were a few sporting achievements – some personal ones too. I published a book in 2016, I suppose. But that’s no biggie because I published one in 2015 as well. And unless I get hit by a bolt of lightening, I’ll be publishing one in 2017 too. I’m nearly finished, but it’s taken me much longer than I’d hoped because I found time-management difficult. And I don’t much feel like patting myself on the back for that. So what I thought I’d do instead of looking back at my year, is celebrate the one constant of 2016. The one constant of every year, really, but doesn’t get enough credit.

I don’t talk about my husband a great deal in this blog, unless it’s to take the piss about one of his weird idiosyncrasies. I think of this blog as an introvert’s way of being an extrovert. It’s my decision to discuss the things I do, so I mainly leave my husband out of it. He can start his own blog if he feels like airing his deepest, darkest thoughts hidden in the murky recesses of his mind. It’s a bit like the way a celeb wouldn’t discuss their family in interviews because they didn’t choose a life of celebrity. Except that I’m not a celeb and Time Magazine isn’t interested in interviewing me. Which never ceases to amaze me. But this post is about redressing that imbalance. Because my husband is, whether he likes it or not, an extension of me.

I more than alluded to this in a recent post, but this year hasn’t been a great one for me. And not just because tonnes of celebrities who shaped my childhood have sadly passed away. It’s been a difficult year on a personal level too. Oddly enough, the last person I wanted to tell that I was struggling this year was my husband. I don’t know why. An admission of weakness, maybe? But it got to the point where I felt I had to confess. And I’m so glad I did. He had noticed, of course. I’d been particularly short-tempered and had withdrawn myself deeper into the Internet world (who, moi?). So it was a relief to discuss the reasons behind it. And an even bigger relief to find him so understanding. I don’t know why I thought he wouldn’t be. I think the trouble with us medical professionals is, we are happy to sort out other people’s problems, but we don’t like to allow ourselves to have any of our own. Anyway, my husband has been great, and a problem shared kind of is a problem halved.

[image error]So, to my other half: I know I’m not the easiest person to live with. I’m a bit of a cold fish, sometimes. I believe public displays of affection have their time and place. But neither of us are particularly touchy-feely, so that’s cool, right? But never forget that I do love you. You were the first and last person I was capable of loving in that way. And remember – COLD FISH – so that’s quite an achievement for you. Well done. We’ve had some great times, and we’ve had some hard times. But we always seem to weather the storm. I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit distant; my head constantly buried in a laptop or a smartphone. It’s my escape, you see. I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner when I was finding things tough; I ought to have known you’d understand. If I don’t tell you I love you enough, it doesn’t mean I don’t. I’m just…difficult. But you’ve had eighteen years to get used to that.

Anyway, as shockingly crappy as 2016 has been, it has made me realise how much I appreciate him. He may collect one too many pieces of vinyl, spends every Sunday flinging a circular piece of plastic around a field (Frisbee-golf, don’t get me started), and his robot collection is becoming a bit of a cause for concern, but we all have our foibles, right? Not everyone could put up with him. Not everyone could put up with me. Most people wouldn’t. He may be a bit of a weirdo, but he’s my weirdo. And I thank him for being my constant in 2016. Just like he has been every other year, he’s my rock. Not a boring rock – more like a geode, all sparkly and stuff.

PS: Happy New Year, friends! Thanks for always being there. May 2017 be better than 2016. It can’t possibly be worse…

Merry Christmas, Darling!

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Merry Christmas from my family, to you, my blog family xx

‘He’s been! He’s been!’. Has he been? Well, for your sake, I hope so. Though you do look like somebody who ought to have been on the ‘naughty list’, if you ask me. What? I’m just saying what everybody else is thinking. Anyway, I’m going to keep this short and sweet. I’d just like to wish all my blog followers and readers (all three of you) a very Merry Christmas.

Without your comments, likes, and shares, this blog would be a pretty dull and lifeless place. I don’t think I’d have kept this lark up for nearly two years without your friendly patronage. Because I would largely have been talking to myself. Thanks for popping by once a week (more or less) and listening to my incoherent ramblings. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading these posts as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them (mostly I’ve enjoyed writing them…).

For a bit of an introvert like me, this blog has been a lifeline. I don’t do it to sell books (which is lucky, because it doesn’t sell many books) or to market myself, I do it as it’s the only way I know of reaching out (I do it for the love, people!). I don’t know why everybody doesn’t write a blog…

So, to my dear readers all over the world (all three of you); the ones I know in day-to-day life, those I know only virtually, I hope this Christmas is a special time for you. I hope you enjoy some quality time with loved-ones, just getting away from the rat race for a while. But if, circumstantially, it can’t be happy, then may your Christmas be event-free. You can’t beat event-free, I always say. It really is underrated.

MERRY  CHRISTMAS

Love Adele xxx

PS: Apologies for calling you ‘darling’, The Carpenters’ song dictated that I did…

In the Bleak Midwinter

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Little help…?

I’ve got to admit it, I’m just not in a good place this Christmas. No, it’s okay, I didn’t accidentally take a wrong turn and find myself in Swindon whilst frantically trying to buy some last minute presents. You don’t have to send out search parties and rescue me just yet. I’m talking psychologically and emotionally (I rarely find myself in Swindon). A recent bereavement, and a not-so-recent bereavement that I hadn’t previously dealt with, have taken their toll. This wasn’t the post that I had scheduled to write. That was a frivolous blog about cats. And who doesn’t like frivolous blogs about cats? But feeling the way I do, it seemed a tad inappropriate. I’m virtually writing this blog off-the-cuff, and I never do that. I usually write a post a week before it’s due, then edit a good few times throughout that week. So this this post will be a bit rough around the edges, and I apologise in advance. I was in two minds about writing this blog at all, but I just felt I had a few things to get off my chest. When I’m at my most desolate, my writing is largely unaffected. That and my appetite, that hasn’t been affected either. In fact, I’m pretty hungry as we speak.

I know what you’re thinking. ‘She looks alright to me. I saw her laughing hard at funny cat videos just the other week’. And you’re right. I’m sure I was chortling my guts up about some insane feline climbing up (and subsequently knocking over) a Christmas tree. I’m still able to see the funny side of life, I remain ever on the look-out to be first to the punchline. But I’m not my happy-go-lucky self either. And this melancholia has manifested itself in a fear of responsibilities; anxiety over expectations put on me.

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Did you ever bury something that you didn’t feel able to deal with? Did you ever put something in a metaphorical box and think, ‘you know what? I’ll come back to that later’. Well, I did – I thought I was pretty clever to be able to do it. To actually have the ability to compartmentalise something and store it out of sight, so that even I didn’t think about it. Really, for days and weeks on end. I didn’t even know I had that ability. But low and behold, I did. It’s funny what grief can make you do. But of course, that hidden box seems to have resurfaced – I knew it would eventually. These things can turn around and bite you on the bum. You don’t need to be Sigmund Freud to have predicted this bad patch, but I dealt with my loss in the only way I knew how at the time. If I had a fault (and I assure you, I hardly have any), it would be that I always feel I need to be the strong one. And I don’t believe in airing my dirty laundry in public (apart from on this blog, of course). So I don’t speak to anybody about anything – ever. But sometimes you need to be able to put your hand up and say, ‘everything is not okay’, or ‘I’m struggling a bit’. And that’s alright – it has just taken me five years to figure that out.

I’m being fairly cryptic, I know, but I’m not really at liberty to go into huge amounts of detail. Although I’d love to, there is always this overwhelming compulsion to pour my heart out on this blog. That’s why I love writing; you just have this inherent ability to say things that you could never normally voice in your daily life. But suffice to say, Christmas isn’t always the happiest time of year for everyone. There are lots of us that carry a burden every December. In fact, I think it’s partly because you’re expected to be so happy, that you literally can’t live up to that expectation. And guess what? Us bereaved people don’t own the rights to being miserable at this festive time of year. There are many despondent people out there, living with situations far more difficult than mine. Some people can’t even find a causal relationship between their experiences and their unhappiness, and I can’t help but think that must be even worse. At least I know what’s getting me down.

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There’s always my Kirby.

So, if Christmas is a difficult time of year for you – it’s alright to admit it. Sometimes, Christmas is overwhelming – if you’ve lost somebody or are just generally in a bad place (like Swindon). Perhaps this year, take that expectation to have an amazing time off yourself, and you just might. Well, it might be alright, anyway. Christmas Day is just a day. Personally, I’m sure I’ll be able to enjoy it. I’ve got some time off and that will give me the opportunity to do a few of the things I love; namely writing and reading – and being with loved-ones. Also, I adore how excited my daughters get at this time of year; that inability to sleep on Christmas eve, the mad rush to open their presents, and the thrill of getting together with their family. And what’s more, there’s tonnes of really nice food to eat – so that’s a bonus in itself. On the downside, I’ll be overweight again because of it, but let’s deal with one problem at a time. Baby steps. And don’t worry, I’m sure I will have cheered up soon enough; there are other, (potentially) funnier blogs in my arsenal – there will always be a few more gags up my sleeve. I like to laugh just as much as the next man/woman – and if it’s at my own jokes, then so be it. And if I can’t, well then maybe I can watch a couple of funny cat videos. There’s always that to fall back on, right?

PS: Apologies to the people of Swindon. I’m sure your town has its charms. Not many, but some.

PPS: This post of originally titled ‘Tears of a Clown’, but I decided that sounded as though felt myself to be utterly hilarious (just a bit of a crier). I mean, do I look like the kind of girl who’d say, ‘you don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps!‘. ‘No’, is the answer you are looking for.

PPPS: I don’t mean to be so flippant about the holidays when some people are experiencing real problems. Here’s a list of helpful UK numbers: –

Childline: 0800 1111

Samaritans: 116 123

Crisis Homelessness: 0300 636 1967

Domestic Violence: 0800 970 2070

Mind: 0300 123 3393

Age UK: 0800 169 6565

Cruse Bereavement: 0800 808 1677