Jane Lovering's Blog, page 5

Things someone should invent...

...I mean, I'm giving you the ideas but I'm not very good at practical things.  I mend most things with a bent nail, which is tough when it's the underwiring in your bra that's gone, but I am also a dab hand with sellotape (lots of) and, when all else fails, wrapping it in toilet paper.  But there are some things that I think the world needs, and, if I had the time, I would go off and invent them properly.  But, since I don't, I am putting those ideas out there for someone else to do the hard work on...

A washing line brake.

I've got one of these.  And I live on a very windy hilltop.  If you have ever experienced the delight that is trying to peg out damp towels whilst the washing line rotates at a speed equivalent to that of a turbine blade, you will know what I am talking about. It is no fun to bend down for the next item in the basket, only to straighten and be kicked in the face by your own underwear.  So, something that would stop the line turning, so I could reliably hang things out without having to run around it, like someone tied to its central pole.

A Wireless Freeze Device

This may already exist, I don't know.  But what I need is a device that can be set to cut off the wireless to my laptop.  I know I could turn it off, but being able to turn it off means that I can turn it on again at moments such as wanting to know whether anyone has emailed me. whether Twitter has anything to say on the subject of biscuits, and whether there are any particularly fetching pictures of kittens anywhere on the internet because, after all, this book will virtually write itself as long as I have a HobNob in each hand and lots of pictures of kittens.  What I'd like to be able to do is to 'freeze' my wireless, so, for example, for four hours each day I could NOT turn it back on again, and would thus be forced to sit in front of a word document and eat biscuits hopelessly.  And, possibly, you know, write something.  I am aware that this device is actually called Willpower, but I don't have any of that,. although I do have lots of HobNobs, and I now think those two things may be connected.

An Arm Cage.

Full body cage, actually might be more use...  You see, I spend a lot of time out of the house, at work.  So, when I am home, I like to be around my dogs - they have enough time on their own, plotting and scheming and generally eating the furniture, so I think it's only polite that, during my 'not at work' times, I am available.  However.  I have a work station under the stairs (no, it's not in a Harry Potter sort of way, my stairs are open plan and everything), where I sit and work on my laptop.  It's in the living room so I the dogs come and sit on my feet.  And my lap.  And then the cats come and stomp all over my keyboard, and try to sit on my head, and the dogs climb up on me and try to chase the cats, and it all becomes one big mass..

So I want a body cage, in which I can sit. I'll still be visible, and the dogs can sniff me and know that I am there, but I will be able to work even if they are sitting on the top of my cage.  I suppose this is otherwise known as 'going into another room', but they can't see me in there.


Plus, they won't be able to steal my biscuits...

Five easy ways to annoy a writer

So, as another in my series of 'How To Write a Book Whilst the World Conspires Against You', I bring you my List of Annoyances, otherwise known as Ways to Annoy The Writer in Your Life (Should You Want To Risk All You Hold Dear). 

You'd think writing would be a fairly relaxing activity, wouldn't you?  On the flopometer somewhere between a warm bath with candles and an undemanding episode of 'Shed of the Year'?  Oh, how wrong you would be! It's quite astonishing at the things that will irritate a writer, particularly when they are mid-manuscript, and if you wish to avoid the wrath of a writer close to you, here are some simple ideas for things you should not do, for fear of riling them beyond all mortal understanding:

Want Things. If your pet writer is mid writing-stream, then avoid wanting anything at all costs.  Questions like 'how long should I cook this chicken for, then?' or 'when do these fish want feeding?' should never be asked...if you need an answer to your question, then make sure you do not disturb your author, but Google instead.  Although Google, to be fair, probably won't know where you put your socks.

Try the big cupboard on the left. Behind the sheets.
Ask How They Are Getting On.  Particularly if you have an opinion about how fast they should be writing and/or what they are writing about. You have no idea what is going through the head of your writer - it could be anything from the next plot point to wondering whether there are any chocolate digestives left in the cupboard, so don't make them feel any worse about sitting staring at the wall.

Turn The TV On Loudly.  Especially if you then walk away, returning only to complain 'I was watching that!' when the author in question turns it off.  Be warned, an author with a long stick can turn a TV off from quite a distance away.  If your author also has white, thin lips whilst this is going on, then be very careful, authors are quite adept with that long stick and can rearrange your undercarriage very quickly, should they be sufficiently annoyed.
Just imagine this coming at you with extreme prejudice and a tight-lipped writer at one end... Develop A Habit...like coughing, clearing your throat repeatedly, humming, tapping your foot or, in extreme cases, even blinking.  You might think your author is completely involved in their manuscript, but, believe me, that author is just waiting for a reason to explode away from the keyboard, shouting something along the lines of 'how can I work with all this NOISE?'  In the case of the blinking, you may find this confusing. Trust me, it is normal behaviour from an author.

Offer Help.  Trust me, if your author needs help they will ask. Or, more probably, shout. It doesn't matter how gently you ask, or how carefully you approach, you will be met with a 'what do you want, now?' and a waving of the long stick in a threatening manner.  Leave your writer to come to the conclusion that they need your help in their own time.  Most likely they will source this help by suddenly yelling at you, out of the blue, a random question such as 'so who the hell did win the Grand National in 1955, then?!'  Again, here Google is your friend.  And never ask why they want to know - they just do.  It's safer if you don't know.
Quare Times, actually.  So, if you do have a writer in your life, it's probably best if you stay at quite a distance while they are writing. At least, further than the length of their stick.  And learn not to hum.

It's for your own safety.

My brother, the rover...which sounds like the opening line of one of those folksongs.

...you know the kind of folksong.  The ones which start with a long nasal note (perhaps, as Terry Pratchett speculated, to give bystanders the chance to get away) and then descend into a lot of vocal twanging and that sort of 'singing with a clenched jaw' that gives everybody a faux Irish accent.  The songs are usually wildly mysogenistic too, lots of 'dewy maids' doing euphemistic things to cows and their herders.

But I digress.  The title of this blog is actually literally true, my brother has been a bit of a rover.  In fact, he has just been the first person (properly really and everything) to spend 24 hours travelling on a London Underground train.  It might be news to you, but the Tube has just started to run a few 24 hour services on Friday and Saturday nights (I always vaguely wondered how Londoners got home after late nights out when there were no trains. I assumed buses, but for all I know there were licenced Pogo-Stick suppliers and you had to hop your way back after a late date).

Anyway.  The boy done good, he spent 24 hours on the Underground, without ever breaking surface, and he did it to raise money for the Samaritans.  You can read some of his story here, it comes with pictures of said brother, so be careful.  And, should you wish to donate to his cause (which is a very good one and everything), then here is the JustGiving link - both he and the Samaritans will be extremely grateful for anything you can spare.

This is him.  No, not the big red circle, that's the Underground symbol.  He's standing next to it, and isn't the big long silver thing (that's a train).

The part that really worries me is that he wasn't allowed to leave the station at any point, so all his food and drink came courtesy of the vending machines on platforms, and...and I want to be delicate here... he could only use the station toilets.

Anyway.  If you admire his spirit, ability to stay awake, and restriction on toilet usage, then please pop over to his JustGiving site and leave a few pennies to support the Samaritans.  Otherwise I shall subject you to folk songs until you do...

I go to the seaside...

You know the best thing about being an author?

No, it's not the biscuits - although, I must admit they are a contributing factor.  Neither is it the free and ready access to Lovely Tone (well, I get to mention him frequently, anyway), or the fact that I can sit around the house in my jammies covered in egg stains, staring out of the window and say I am 'working'.  No.   The best thing is being able to go to places and call it work.

Yesterday I went to Scarborough.  There's nothing truly remarkable about this, Scarborough is a nearby town and I'm often found there. usually in the winter, accompanied by howling gales and dogs and showers of spray that threaten to knock me off my feet.  When you live near the sea, especially a seaside town which tends to be overpopulated in summer, you don't go that often in the Season.  But I had Visitors (my brother and his wife), who fancied a trip to Scarborough, so I took them.  It's all right, I brought them back as well...

Anyway.  Having toured the sea front, with its arcades and smells, I took them into the Old Town.  It's not generally recognised by many people that Scarborough has an Old Town, but before it was a purveyor of fried food and bingo, Scarborough was a working harbour, with ship owners and an old castle, and once you get up into the steep streets of little houses and views over the whole bay, it becomes a lot nicer experience.

At least, it's a nicer experience until my big face looms up over it.

Of course, they had to paddle, but they are from Down South, so that was all right.
And I took them to visit Anne Bronte's grave, and we walked along the headland that divides the two bays and looked out to sea.  All in all it was an example of 'how to look under the surface of the expected' - which is a writerly lesson if I ever heard one.  Superficially, Scarborough is a tacky, slightly down at heel seaside town with far too much face paint and the smell of fried food.  But when you get a bit off the beaten track you can find yourself looking at the place from a whole new perspective.  With a fresh doughnut in each hand, admittedly, and often wearing a 'Kiss Me Quick' hat, but at least you are getting some culture...

The Perfect Hero...must have own head,, and no My Little Pony tattoos.

Right.  I now know what I must write to make big mega-bucks...  I've been conducting a survey (for which read looking at a lot of book covers and blurb, because I don't have time to survey..I barely have time to get up and dressed...actually, no, not time, that's not the word.  Ah yes, inclination. I barely have the inclination to get up and dressed).  And this survey (yes, yes, all right, I only looked at covers, it's hardly scientific) has shown me a few trends that I really should get in on, in order to sell those millions.

Right.  The hero should be (in no particular order) at least three of the following: - a motorcycle rider, tattooed, ex (or current, jury is out) Navy SEAL (I'm not quite sure what one of those is, I'm imagining a lot of swimming and looking cute, which never did any hero any harm, and, come to think of it, the motor cycle had better be one of those huge big throbbing jobs, I'm fairly sure a Vespa won't cut it.  And the tattoos shouldn't be 'I Luv Mum' or a My Little Pony one..), billionaire, troubled (dark past optional), bringing up his nephew/sister/child-after-traumatic-death-of-his-wife (see, dark past), immensely HOT (probably looks-wise. Unless they just mean that he has trouble with heat regulation and is often sweaty), protective, unable to take 'go away, I never want to see you again' as an answer. If his 'trouble (optional dark past)' can also cause him to have episodes of 'brooding', that appears to be good too.

If the covers are anything to go by, having a head is optional, but he must possess a torso that looks like a tarpaulin stretched over builders' sand and planks.  How the hero and heroine are ever to have a conversation when he hasn't got a head is a question one must ask, but I suppose conversations are not required when he's a hot tattooed, motorcycling SEAL billionaire - once you've got the 'take me, I'm yours!' out of the way it's pretty much grunts from there on in.

But... y'see, my main problem with heroes like this is that I have to be able to believe in them.  And I just find it very hard to imagine that a man who spends most of his life either in the gym (working on those concrete abs) or riding his motorcycle moodily up and down the corridors of his multi-million pound business, will make a good partner for more than six weeks, before he gets either bored or moody and rides (or swims, if he's a SEAL) off in search of the next pretty girl.
Sigh.  Tony wouldn't do that.  Mind you, I'm struggling to find him on the above list, unless he's got secret tattoos, of course...

Home Decorating - a fancy excuse for not writing that novella...

My life at the moment seems to be spent racing ineffectually from one thing to another.  All right, I've decorated most of the living room, but there is still the Wall of Shame in the dining room that hasn't been painted (mostly because it's falling down, so it's less of a wall and more lots of separate lumps of plaster of various textures).

I need to hire a carpet cleaner too, but am reluctant, on account of the terriers thinking that, in the absence of a good walk, the carpet will do just as well for an emergency wee (they never do this in front of me, which is the only reason I even suspect them of being housetrained).

And it's all really just prevarication, because I'm supposed to be writing a christmas novella.  Well, I am writing it, just very slowly.    So, all these things, not one of them finished. Throw in a lot of hours at the day job, and you have a picture of a slightly frazzled person, dashing from place to place and getting nothing much done.

These are the colours. Yes, it's all grey.  No, it's not fifty shades - it's currently four shades, although I suppose 'dust' is another shade of grey. But I cleaned the windows (it's daylight outside - who knew!) and it's all looking rather lovely (apart from the carpet, which is best described as 'patchy').  And most of the walls have needed at least four coats of paint to look reasonable, which means, in effect, I've painted this whole room four times (excepting the Wall of Shame of course, which needs something done - it currently looks like something out of Sleeping Beauty's castle, what with the cobwebs and the peeling paint and the patchy plaster).

Oh well.  That's the trouble with decorating.  You get it all looking nice, and then fifteen years later you have to do it all again...

Lost in the random squishiness of the blog...

I used to write this post every Sunday.  Well, no, not this post, because that would involve me repeating myself, which, according to my kids I do anyway, so... but a post very like it.

However, lately I have wavered, and sometimes I post on a Sunday, sometimes on a Monday and sometimes, dear reader, like today, I post on a Tuesday.  You see, I used to have a job which was a sensible one, school terms only, mornings only, five days a week, which gave me Saturday and Sunday to lollygag about the place, holding a hand to my forehead and moaning about how haaaaarrrd writing was, and doing blog posts about random subjects like my spare cats (I've only got three real cats.  The other two are accidental acquisitions and therefore don't count as real cats, even though they eat as much as real ones).

But now...now I work for the Co Op.  This involves working any number of hours between 16 and 40 in a week, any time between 6.30 am and 10.15pm, any days of the week between Monday and Pluhday (Pluhday is the little known day which comes after any five day stretch of working when you had been banking on a day off, had arranged your bed to be extra-comfy, asked for no visitors, turned off your phone, made an extra-large cup of tea and picked up your most diverting book only to receive a message asking you to come in and work).

I actually enjoy the chaos of having random hours off during the week.  Today, for example, I am at work at three o clock this afternoon - giving me all morning to do stuff like ramble on at you, walk the dogs, stare at the unpainted walls of the dining room and vow never to do this decorating thing again.  But, for all of you who harbour deep fantasies of all us authors lounging around on sofas, eating peeled grapes and chocolates whilst dictating our latest work to a lithe young man of undoubted attractiveness who, for some inexplicable reason, can't keep his eyes off our honed forms.... well.

...not so much.

Now go. I have a wall to stare at until 3 o clock.

Book Midwifery...what happens when a Critique Baby appears

You know how they say that having a book published is like having a baby?  Well, watching a book that you have helped work on through the critique service published is like being a midwife.  No, I've never been a midwife, but that's what I imagine it's like... - helping someone that you've nurtured through the post-conception stages, through the 'I can't do it', stages, to bring forth something new...

That's exactly what it's like.

So, here's where my book midwifery (or midwiffery, because I'm quite smelly right now, two hot dogs and a day at work would make anyone less than fragrant) has paid off.

Lynda Stacey has her first book released from Choc Lit Publishing on Tuesday.  It's called House of Secrets and it's based around a real place, Wrea Head Hall near Scarborough, which appears on the cover, look,
isn't that lovely?  This books was a winner in Choc Lit and Whole Story Audiobook's 'Search for a Star', and very well deserved the win was too.


You can buy the book  here . Go on, you know you want to...)

It's a fast-paced romantic suspense, and here's the blurb...

A woman on the run, a broken man and a house with a shocking secret …
Madeleine Frost has to get away. Her partner Liam has become increasingly controlling to the point that Maddie fears for her safety, and that of her young daughter Poppy. .
Desperation leads Maddie to the hotel owned by her estranged father – the extraordinarily beautiful Wrea Head Hall in Yorkshire. There, she meets Christopher ‘Bandit’ Lawless, an ex-marine and the gamekeeper of the hall, whose brusque manner conceals a painful past.
After discovering a diary belonging to a previous owner, Maddie and Bandit find themselves immersed in the history of the old house, uncovering its secrets, scandals, tragedies – and, all the while, becoming closer.
But Liam still won’t let go, he wants Maddie back, and when Liam wants something he gets it, no matter who he hurts …

So if you like romantic suspense, big, mysterious old houses, protective heroes, appealing heroines and a bad guy who's BAD, then this is the book for you and you should rush out and buy it immediately.  Hell, it's only £1.99, so even if you don't usually read rom-sus (as it is increasingly called by people who are too busy in their daily lives to actually use whole words, or who-wo, as they would no doubt say) then it's pretty well priced for you to take a chance on.

Now, as midwife, I think I'm entitled to sit back and eat chocolate and be quietly complacent, whilst wishing the new mother all the luck in the world with her offspring.

RNA Conference 2016, the one with the penis-bra discussion.

Right. I'm back.

Now I know you lot just thought I'd got lost in a particularly tasty daydream, in which Tony (sigh) came round and cooked me dinner, during which we sat and chatted in a uniquely chaste way, whilst Tom Hiddleston hoovered the carpet, walked the dogs and then did a truly heroic amount of dusting.  But NO!  Although, if either of these gentlemen would like to pop over - Tony, there's a chicken in the freezer...
You tackle that chicken, Tone...and Tom, I've taken the curtains down for you to wash, the table needs a polish and the hoover has bunged up again so you might have to take it to bits....
Or...you know, just stand there...that's good for me too...anyway.  Pending the arrival of these two, I am free to tell you that I've been doing stuff. Yes, me! Yes, stuff!  And, yes, you at the back, I am free!

I've been to the RNA annual Conference.  Where conferring takes place.  Also discussions about (in no particular order), DEFRA regulations, celebrity Best Friends, cats, penis bras and the necessity of, the difference between Irish and English tea, oh, and we talked about books and writing a bit too.  And there was a Gala Dinner, at which I found out that my story 'Holding Florence' was second placed in the Elizabeth Goudge competition (which was won by the lovely Chrissie Bradshaw), so that was nice too.


This is the dress I wore.  And the body I put inside it and the face I had to take on top.
And here's Kate Allen and Kath McGurl eating dinner and gesticulating wildly to one another, in front of a waiter moving at light speed (or near enough).
And finally, here's Sarah Wendell, of the Smart Bitches, Trashy Books site, who gave a talk on dealing with reviews without mentioning the words 'punch' 'kill' 'drive a knife through their gullet' or 'curl up and cry', which I thought was particularly noteable.  She did mention chocolate a lot though, which was good.

It was all lovely, and I want to go back there now.  But, if I did, I might miss Tom and Tony, and I'm quite hungry and the house is filthy, so I think I'll just wait here for a bit.  You know.  To show them what needs doing.

Released tomorrow! Here! Yes, really!It seems to ha...

Released tomorrow!  Here! Yes, really!

It seems to have crept up on me a bit (that's what going away will do for you...), but Can't Buy Me Love releases as a Choc Lit Lite book available for Kindle tomorrow!  It was previously published as Reversing Over Liberace in the US, but it's been updated and titivated and had the crumbs brushed off and a spat-on hanky wiped over its face, and now becomes available to everyone!

It's about Willow who has..err...issues when it comes to attractive men.  When she literally runs into Luke, who she had a mad (apparently unreciprocated) crush on all through University, and he asks her out..well, would you turn it down?  He's still gorgeous, still sexier than hell, and this time round he wants her.

None of this has ever happened to me, sadly.  Men seem extraordinarily resistant to my charms (except Tony. I'm working on him. And I have high hopes of Tom Hiddleston too, although I may have to work a bit harder there).
Look at his little face, LOOK AT IT! 
Sigh. Oh well, there's always chloroform...So when Willow is swept off her feet by Luke, wined, dined and romanced, well, she's a gonner, obviously.  But then her new friend Cal, a computer geek and all round weirdo, throws some doubt on Luke's intentions...

Tom Hiddleston could take my house, Tony can have my hand in marriage. They can have any kind of ulterior motives. I'm not proud...  But, then again, my house leaks and I've been known to...well, anyway, Willow is more of a catch than I am.

If you want to know what Luke's true motives are, and whether Cal is right or wrong to be suspicious of him, you'll have to read the book!  However, if you just want to ogle Tom and Tony...

...you're welcome.