Jane Lovering's Blog, page 7

Sponsorship requested - for I am going to Abseil!

22 May.  Now, I want you all to hurry off and put that date in your diaries - and no excuses about how that's your third cousin's dog's birthday and you have to be on alert and keep the day reserved in case they have a big family party...

22 May is noteable for a couple of reasons.  Firstly. This is the day I am abseiling down a building.  Oh, it's all right, I'm doing it for charity and everything, it's not a whim.  Actually, if I had whims, and I'd not had them all surgically removed, I don't think I'd go down the side of a building on one.  I'd more...I dunno, sit in a warm bath and eat cake, or go for a walk on a beach and eat cake.  Not jump off a building where no eating of anything is even mentioned, let alone cake!  I know, right?
This is the building in question. 269 feet high, apparently.  Or 'down' as I like to call it.

Now, if you 'd like to sponsor me (because it's in aid of the Red Cross, so very good cause and everything, and anyway, I know you'd pay to see me go backwards off a building), there's a link here.  Please do.  We're abseiling to raise money to combat loneliness (which is slightly odd, it's not like abseiling is a team sport or anything), and we'll be doing it in fancy dress. I'm hoping my fancy dress will include a parachute, but I promise not to make a fuss if it doesn't.

It's billed as a 'Fun, Exciting and Challenging Experience.'  I presume they mean for me, although I can promise them that two of those adjectives will apply to anyone trying to get me over the edge of that building on the day.  There may be biting involved, although I note they don't use that on the cover blurb.
This is abseiling.  Try to imagine it with 100% more screaming and 50% more wee.

So, you know, good cause and everything.  Please sponsor me.

Other noteable thing on 22 May?  Well, it's World Goth day, of course, surprised you didn't know that, why is it not in your diary?  Oh, because you've written in 'Today, Jane falls off that building' in such big letters, obviously.  Anyway.  It's World Goth Day, and an anthology of stories called 'Dare to Shine' is released, to raise money for the Sophie Lancaster Foundation, the charity set up to combat prejudice and intolerance (it's set up in honour of the lovely Sophie Lancaster, the girl killed for 'looking different'). The book is full of stories celebrating individuality and, again, it's in a good cause.  If there's one thing we writers know about, it's being a wee bit 'different', after all...

Happy Easter to everyone - now, come and hide these rubber rings for me, would you?

Well, Easter is now practically over.  There was chocolate, there was food.  There was also rain, lightening, damp washing, wet dogs and housework.

And now it's Easter Monday, when it is, apparently The Law that thou shalt go to the nearest town and shop as if thy life depended upon it.  But, since the nearest actual shop shops (ie not shops that sell purely practical items and/or expensive cards) are a very long way away, the roads are solid with caravans (this is honestly true. I could probably walk to York through them all end-to-end along the A64.  It would keep me dry, but 30 miles of uncut moquette and chemical toilets might strain my constitution) and I've got better things to do with my time than shop (my toenails, for instance, need clipping), I shall break the law with equanimity.  Anyway, I'm in here with the chocolate, and there is nothing else I need, unless Tony fancies popping round for a cuppa.
I have his mug all ready... So, I think I am going to spend a pleasant day attempting to double my bodyweight, catching up on some writing, and generally chilling.  Literally, chilling, because the heating went off an hour ago.  But I have this to keep me warm..
because, obviously, if I'm sitting down I must be desperate to play at pulling a set of rubber rings from the mouth of a terrier.

Sigh. I thought, once I no longer had toddlers, those days of being forced to play a physically demanding game every time my bottom touched sofa were over....

'Coming soon' (I hope), from me...

"So, Jane," I can hear you yelling from outside, because clearly that restraining order hasn't become operative yet, "what are you writing at the moment?"

Well, if I was feeling smartarse, which I'm not because I've still got a nasty cough, I would answer "my blog, obviously, dur..." and then phone the police again, but because I am the least smartarse person you could ever wish to meet (that is literally true, my trousers are covered with mud, the zip is broken and there's one of those tiny splits in the front seam that you think you can ignore until you realise that when you walk the split gapes and everyone can see your pants), I shall tell you what I am writing...

Firstly...

In case that's not clear enough, here's another clue...
No, it's not a book about gardening... It's a book about a haunting. Currently titled Up The Stair, after the little ditty..

As I was going up the stair
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today,
Oh how I wish he'd go away....

And, let me tell you, there's nothing harder (well, there is, but this is particularly grieving me at present), than trying to write about dark, closed rooms and the lights going out unexpectedly, when the sun is shining. Although my lights often go out unexpectedly, because if you turn the outside light on when it's raining it fuses the whole house.

And the other thing I'm writing?  Is a Christmas novella, labouring under the title 'The Boys of Christmas'. And that's all I'm saying about that one.

Up the Stair has a haunted sleeping bag in it. And a main character who suffers from Glosso-Compulsive disorder (a bit like Tourettes). That ghost is not going to know what has hit it....

Still here, still poorly...

Still ill. Still no better at being it.  You'd think, wouldn't you, that after all the practice I've had I'd be good at being ill by now, but I'm not.

Anyway.  I've now perfected the 'hacking cough' element, the 'walking really slowly' is coming along nicely. 'Fuzzy head' is something I've always been good at, so no problem there... I've got qualifications in 'being off my food', 'waking up sweating' and 'random headaches' too.

So, when the Poorly Olympics comes around, as surely they will, I am an absolute shoo-in for all the events that involve creeping around holding one's head and going 'oooh'.  These are not to be confused with the Hangover Olympics of course, where the events are similar but of shorter duration.

But first I am going to try to qualify by entering the 'Fancying a small piece of Toast' games.  They're being held in Helskinki this year...

Is this what it's like to be 100?

I should just like to state here - I am not old. I am edging towards oldER, but I do not consider myself to be even brushing the fringes of old.

So why do things that I used to be able to shrug off with a rueful grin, now make me want to take to my bed for a week, with a lifetime's supply of tea and paracetamol?  I mean, I've got a cold today. Okay, it's a nasty cold, big beefy cough, achy bones, inability to do anything much bar sit on the sofa and watch Tony Robinson...ahem, I mean, cough wanly and hold a hand to my forehead...but, a few years ago I would have popped a couple of pills, shrugged and carried on.  Now I feel as though someone has nailed my feet to the floor.
My teeth hurt, my hair hurts, and I have the feeling that, once I've taken the last paracetamol, I might cry. That or rummage through the kitchen cupboard like a junkie or start taking the dogs' pills. I have turned the corner from managing nicely to being pathetic without even being aware of it!

My mother (who is 85, and therefore official Old, in anyone's language, she's allowed), had trouble with her knees. Knees are not something that run in our family, so I have no problem with my joints, generally speaking - but today? Today my knees are the least of my worries, when my back hurts and my elbows hurt. I should ring her up and sympathise with her knees. And ask her advice on how to pick things up off the floor without bending down (it hurts, and it makes my nose run).

And you know what's worse? I CAN'T EVEN FACE A HOBNOB!

That's it, I'm going back to bed. If anyone wants to come round and rub Vick on any part of me they can reach..feel free. Put the kettle on while you're here too... but don't bother with the biscuits...
We're gonna need a bigger jar...

What a Beta Reader Does. Apart from running and hiding.

Well, it's done, and the Bronze Age book has gone off to my beta reader to be thoroughly scruitinsed.  For anyone out there who doesn't know about beta readers, here is a quick rundown of their very special nature and relationship with An Author.

1.
Firstly, they must live far enough away that they do not have to fear the author (me, in this instance) coming after them with a breadknife or pushing poo through their letterbox, should they find a lot of mistakes.  I know some people who use family members as their beta readers - they are clearly far more stable and accepting of criticism than me, because any of my family would not dare say anything other than 'I really enjoyed it' for fear of spending the rest of their lives under an assumed name in a safe house in Walsall.
Yes, yes I am, thank you for asking

2.
A beta reader should either be another author or someone well grounded in structuring your type of fiction.  There is absolutely no point in having your romance book beta tested by someone who last read a book in 1975 or who only reads books about military aircraft.  They can read your book, but they will only say 'I really enjoyed that', which is not really any help, or they will criticise the fact that there are no Junkers in it.  Unless there are, in which case they will tell you the fusilage is the wrong colour.

3.
They should have a reasonable grasp of spelling, punctuation and grammar and not write things like 'I dont no wot u r on about heer, m8' in the margin.  If they do, you are allowed to kill them, apparently, although I haven't tested this yet, so don't quote me.

4.
Your beta reader should be a critical reader.  That doesn't mean that they go through your book tutting, shaking their heads and making cryptic notes about the colour of Junkers fusilage in every Christmas card you receive from them - it means they should have the ability to flag up mistakes or plot holes.  Some readers just read straight over glitches like this, and it's only when your editor gets their hands on your manuscript and emails you to say 'what happened to the dog in Chapter Ten?  And how come your hero is an IT consultant in Chapter Four, but by Chapter Eleven he doesn't know how to log in to Facebook?' that you realise you never noticed this, and feel a burk.  Your beta reader should already have berated you about these things and enabled you to put them right before Editorial Embarrassment ensued.
Seriously.  Keep track of the dog. Editors hate that sort of thing.5.
They should know how to tactfully tell you that your book is...shall we say, lacking a certain amount of detail.  In other words, they should be able to criticise the words, without the author feeling as though they are ten and the school bully has just told them that they smell of wee.  Unless either of these things are the case, of course, and if you ARE ten and smell of wee then I think you might not be quite ready for a beta reader yet anyway.  This is a knack that some people don't possess, and if YOU feel you have been attacked by your beta reader and need further information, then there is a helpline number coming on screen after this programme...

I love my beta reader....
but I keep the breadknife and poo on standby. Just in case...

Silent Witness Syndrome... otherwise known as 'Why the hell are you there?'

Should any of you find yourselves in the fortunate position of being in my company, never (and I cannot stress this too strongly), NEVER sit next to me whilst watching television.

It has come to my attention recently - through the medium of someone shouting 'WILL YOU SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!' - that I have a slight tendency to yell at the screen.  I am going to call this 'Silent Witness syndome', because, with an excess of irony, I can never silently witness Silent Witness, but must leap to my feet several times during each episode and yell 'why on earth are you going with the police to interview witnesses?  You are a FORENSIC PATHOLOGIST, not a police officer!'
Forensic pathologists need to attend each and every instance of crime. Well known fact.
For someone who writes fiction, I have a complete inability to suspend my disbelief, and will spend large portions of any narrative drama telling anyone who will listen about inconsistency of character behaviour (Endeavour, I am looking at you here, in a squinty-eyed fashion) and unnecessary escalations (Midsomer Murders, it is really not essential to kill every single person in a village to cover up the fact that you once lost a teaspoon down the waste disposal unit).
Midsomer Stretchy - after the genocidal Spoon Murderer wiped out all the inhabitants during a particularly productive twenty minutes
Please agree with me here, everyone....

A Valentine Dialogue...

As a Romance author (not a romantic author, the two are very different...), I have to work out a relationship from both sides, a kind of His and Hers dialogue about the situation.  So here's one for Valentine's Day...

HER:  It's Valentine's Day tomorrow...he's been distracted, asking me odd questions, have I looked under the couch lately... I just KNOW he's planning a surprise!  What could it be, I wonder?


HIM:  I can't find the TV remote. Bugger.



HER:  Yes, he's definitely up to something, when I asked about our plans for tomorrow he was all vague and 'we'll see'...I wonder if he's booked a table at the new restaurant I was raving about?


HIM:  There's a match on.  Wonder if Amazon can send a new remote by tomorrow?


HER:  He left his laptop open on his AMAZON page!  He never goes on Amazon!!!  Tempted to look and see what he ordered... jewellery????


HIM:  They can't.  Well, that's bollocks.  I know, her dad will be watching the match, won't he?


HER:  He's suggested we go to Mum and Dad's!!!  He's going to propose, isn't he?  Wants them to be there to witness our joy!! I am SO EXCITED!!  Better dig out something special to wear, and that nice perfume...

HIM:  Better take some beer.  Her old man can put down the Fosters when there's a match on.

HER:  And now he's gone to the Off Licence... He'll have gone to buy some of that Moet Chandon they do; otherwise he'd just have gone to the supermarket....

HIM:  Bloody lucky the offie has a 'special' on... ten cans for nine quid, bargain!  Hope United put up a better performance than last time, mind you, that ref wants shooting.


HER:  Should I get him a card with 'To My Love' on?  Or 'To My Fiance'?  No, that's a bit previous, better pretend I don't suspect a thing, he'll be disappointed if he realises how transparent he is, bless him!


HIM:  Oh, there's the remote!  Great, can watch the match and drink the Fosters myself, don't have to move all afternoon.  Why does she keep on about tomorrow being special?  She doesn't even SUPPORT United....

Apologies for the sexism, footballism and general cynicism...

(PS, I know it's not always true, some men are romantic, some women aren't, and not all men like football...)

News about the new book - in pictures!

I'd just like to take this opportunity to announce...

I have signed the contract for my eighth Choc Lit book!

It's about this...
and this...

with a bit of this...
and some of these (well, sort of)

I think it's due for release around October, and I can't wait to find out what you all think of it!

Picture- perfect history...duvet covers and horse drawn wagons.

Yesterday I found myself taking a photograph of a duvet cover.  It was perfectly reasonable and all that, but it made me stop and think...

In the 'olden days', (ie when I was young and technology was younger), taking a photograph was something that nobody did without forethought.  For a start, a camera was the size of a breeze block, and taking one around with you in its case was like carrying a small shed.  So we only took cameras to 'destinations'.  Like on holiday, or days out, things like that.  Plus, when you'd taken a picture you had to wind on the film until it clicked (something I was rubbish at, I'd never wind on far enough, I was responsible for some hideous 'double exposures', where my family looked like they were haunting themselves).  Then you had to make sure the film was finished (again, something I wasn't good at, thus often exposing the entire film by accident), get it out of the camera and take it to Boots (other chemsts were also available) to spend a week being developed.

Believe me, in the olden days, you only took pictures of things you really really wanted to remember.

Now most of us have phones on which you can take pictures (my 'olden days' self still boggles at that.  What, phones?  In your pocket?  That you can take pictures on??  What strange, science fiction world is this?).  My children take about a million pictures of everything.  Dogs jumping around?  Take a hundred shots. Night out?  Another hundred pictures of people they don't even know and won't remember come morning. 

I am still old school and take one (maybe two, if I'm feeling daring). I can't get over the feeling that this is all costing me money (see olden days, taking films to Boots).

Remember photo albums?  I've got one that belonged to my Uncle, who was born in 1914.  Look...
In the days when horse and carts were transport, and aeroplanes (that's one, in the bottom picture) were strange war machines.  These pictures are from the late twenties.  Moments so long gone as to be almost historical.  And now, my daughters send me messages with pictures attached of them trying on clothes in changing rooms - what do I think of this dress?  It's just all so....so...instant!

I've got pictures of my uncle's grandmother, which were shot in those studios where you had to sit very, very still for ages to get a decent shot.  And now I've got pictures of a duvet cover.  And cats.  And cake.  What would we have thought of our forebears if we'd opened one of these leather-bound albums of heavy pages carefully screened with tissue paper, to find pictures like this?
 I think we would conclude that they, and their shed-sized cameras, ought to get out more...