Petrina Binney's Blog, page 75

Writing My First Novel

Of course, I wrote as a kid, because… I wasn’t much for drawing and something had to go on the fridge. I wrote stories, all the way through my childhood. I segued into poetry as a teenager, took some terrible advice and stopped writing in my twenties.

“Writing is something you do when you’re retired,” I was told.

And I retreated into the shadows, ashamed of my arrogance, at thinking I knew anything, and that might have been the end of the story…

I started writing my first novel about a year ago.

A year.

It’s shocking, really. And like everything else, it started with something fairly innocuous.

I hadn’t kept a diary in years. I always used to have one, even when I had almost nothing to write about, I’d make doodles of my days. Like everyone else, I got older, I became too busy to write it down, and I just stopped. No more diary.

I missed it. There was something comforting about writing down the contents of my brain on a daily basis.

Thus, about three years after giving up the diary, I took up my pen, and went back to it.

Within seven months, I started blogging. Just – a day in the life – type of thing. I don’t do health, fitness, or advice of any useful sort. If you want a good drinking game, or a decent date movie – I’m your girl; pretty much, I witter on about general embarrassment, typos and actresses.

Within three months of the blog, I had a first line. Now, I’ll point out, this didn’t come from nowhere.

I’d had a dinner party. I’d invited a few mates and cooked for a full day. I might have knocked back a glass or two of vino over the course of the afternoon, so… I was quite drunk by the end of it all. Frankly, I wasn’t exactly sober at the start. On the positive side: I didn’t poison anyone, and they all seemed to get along quite well. When I went to bed later that night, fighting the alcohol which threatened to burn a hole through my stomach, it crossed my mind that it could have gone a lot worse.

They might have hated each other. They might have wished death upon each other. There could have been a fight involving kitchen implements. And that was what started book one – ‘Sex, Death & Canapés’.

Of course, I was afraid of disaster, of failure, of having zero readers OR being pirated all over the internet (either/or, you understand, nothing in between). I was scared of no reviews, dismal reviews, and begging for reviews. I was worried that I wouldn’t have anywhere to go beyond the first book. I had concerns that it wouldn’t matter if I was writing this story for the rest of my life, because nobody would give a damn. In short, it took a lot of time for me to get past me.

True, as my first full-length novel, I laboured on it for months.

It went a lot more smoothly after I was happy with the first line. That happened about a year ago. I felt better about the whole thing once I’d hired an editor. Better still when I saw the cover my designer put together for me.

And here we are today. ‘Sex, Death & Canapés’ came out three months ago. The sequel, ‘Sex, Death & Scallops’ followed six weeks (and a smidge) ago and, fingers crossed, book three should be out in time for Christmas.

On the off-chance this helps anyone at all: in less than two years, I’ve gone from only writing shopping lists with any level of confidence – to two books out on Amazon.

And I’m participating in a terribly exciting blog hop right now, so do feel free to see what other lesfic writers have to say about writing their first novels, starting with…
Chris Zett.

Find out how writing her first novel hurt Chris Zett more than a yoga class and read about the lessons she learned from the process.

Chris Zett is the debut author of the lesbian medical romance Irregular Heartbeat.

https://chris-zett.com/writing-my-first-novel/

Thanks, lovelies x

Some Adult Content

Now, I’ve been doing Movie Night at the Legion for seven years. I love it. I’ve always loved films and, in covering a number of different genres, years, actors, I’ve been lucky to keep my crowd entertained for some time.

I’m about to hit a snag. See, while my Movie Nighters are wonderful, there are some films they just won’t like. This is not really a case of ‘you can’t please all of the people all of the time’. This is more: if there’s strong language, violence or scenes of an adult nature, I know I’m going to lose quite a few of them.

I won’t lose them for long. Most will come back the next week. But, I don’t like to go out of my way to upset them. I may be sharp, dark and sarcastic, but I don’t try to offend.

Here’s the snag. There are two films I really want to show. Both – absolutely brilliant, but there’s some envelope-pushing.

1.

Cloudburst (2011) – an absolute cracker. Starring Olympia Dukakis as Stella and Brenda Fricker as Dot, Cloudburst tells the story of an older lesbian couple, torn apart by growing infirmity. Dot has a fall, and is set to live in an old folks’ home by her family, who fail – quite completely – to understand the depth of her relationship with Stella.

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Stella springs Dot from the old folks’ home in a brilliantly clever ruse – appearing outside the home in a nightdress, pretending to be a resident who’s simply been locked out – and together, they embark on a road trip up to Canada, so they can get married, and Dot’s family won’t be able to make decisions for her anymore.

There are some stunningly moving moments, a powerful storyline and some great jokes along the way. I love this film. That said, there is full-frontal male nudity at one point. I don’t say that my people can’t handle an amount of penis, even on a Monday evening, but once it’s on an eight foot screen, it becomes quite a different animal. So, there’s that.

2.

Irina Palm (2007) – oh, how I love this film. Starring Marianne Faithfull and Miki Manojlovic, Marianne Faithfull plays Maggie, a middle-aged, middle-class widow. Her grandson is very ill and requires a madly-expensive treatment, which his family cannot afford. Maggie is turned down, repeatedly, for loans because she has no collateral and no marketable skills.

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Searching for a job, Maggie finds herself outside a club in Soho which is looking to hire a new ‘hostess’. ‘Hostess’ is a euphemism, however, it transpires that, squeamish as she undoubtedly is, Maggie has quite a skill for working the glory hole. Indeed, there’s a glory hole.

Naturally enough, her family is in the dark about how she gets the money to send her grandson for his treatment. When they find out what she’s been doing, of course, they’re devastated. Some words are exchanged. Maggie’s friends judge her in the Post Office queue. It’s all quite awful. Except that she calls out her neighbour who had an affair with her now-deceased husband. It’s an epic scene. With time, her son begins to understand that, whatever she’s done, she’s done it for her family. And she falls in love with the guy who runs the club in Soho.

All in all, fabulous. There’s no male nudity in the film, but there’s quite a lot of wrist action.

Inevitably, I’ll show them both. They’re brilliant films.

I might be a bit careful, and not show them too close to Christmas. People tend to bring their grown-up children and in-laws around Christmas and there’s nothing more awkward than an inescapable sex scene in the company of family.

Here is my interview with Petrina Binney

My newest interview, a sit down with Fiona Mcvie. Enjoy.

authorsinterviews

Hello and welcome to my blog, Author Interviews. My name is Fiona Mcvie.

 

Let’s get you introduced to everyone, shall we? Tell us your name. What is your age?

Hey there. My name is Petrina Binney, and I’m thirty-something. Thirty-six at the moment, but not without ambition.

Fiona: Where are you from?

Originally, from Croydon, south London, but I’ve been living in the Devonshire countryside for the greater part of my life.

Fiona: A little about yourself (i.e.,  your education, family life, etc.).

After a handful of years in retail and bar-work, I trained to be an electrician. Pretty early on in my electrical career, something in my back got angry, went ping, and sent me into physiotherapy and stretches every morning. Since then, I have built a home between a chair and a laptop. I like it here.

Fiona: Tell us your latest news.

I’m in the process…

View original post 1,876 more words

Sleepyhead

It’s a thing in my family – we all sleep like the dead.

I love my bed. I love my sleep. There is very little in this world that could keep me from either.

Now, I know that people suffer through insomnia, night terrors, panic attacks, all manner of things which tinker with their sleep, and it must be absolutely appalling. I have no wish to gloat. I’ve just been very lucky – sleep has rarely eluded me. I slept through the hurricane in ’87, which basically went passed my front door, closed my school, and tore up my road.

And it’s not just me. My uncle is just as bad. If not, worse.

My uncle went to a party a few years ago. It was on a Friday night, some distance from his house. He drove up, pudding in hand, and had a little drink. He hadn’t intended to have two, but – one thing and another – he wound up having a couple of drinks. Naturally, he couldn’t drive, but thankfully, the people who were hosting the party had a spare room, and so my uncle stayed the night.

The following morning, the homeowners had decided to go shopping. They had thought to go early, to avoid the madness of Saturday traffic, and they went to wake my uncle. Nothing. They tried tapping on the door. Calling his name. Making him a cup of tea.

Not a sausage.

Time was a-ticking and the homeowners were, by now, convinced, they would hit all the traffic and return to the house some time on Wednesday, if they were lucky. With nothing to do but take the bull by the horns, the man of the house knocked on the spare room door, entered and opened the curtains.

There lay my uncle.

Sound asleep.

However, having tried and failed to wake him for the better part of half an hour, he realised something quite terrible might have happened.

My uncle awoke to the sight of two burly paramedics, asking him what day it was and who was prime minister. He had to sign a release, because ‘sleepy’ didn’t feel like a good enough reason to go to hospital.

This is rolling around my head today because I missed a dental appointment this morning because I was asleep.

Writer’s Block

I’ve been quite lucky when it comes to writing.

Okay, not exactly internationally acclaimed as yet, no orange bestseller tag so far, and – strangely – no awards, but I have never had to worry about writer’s block.

Until recently.

And it’s hardly a concern, really. I’m locked into book three of the series. So far, loving it. Cannot overemphasise that. Loving it. It’s much more romantic than the other two, but there’s a sinister side in there which makes me rather happy.

No, the writer’s block hasn’t hit me in terms of the series. Counting my blessings on that one.

However, I made myself a little Goodreads profile and – what can I say? I’m the only person to review me so far. Can’t be a good sign, because, obviously, I have to think I’m great. Anywho, I linked this blog to my page, and I have a quote or two from book one in there. So far, so good. Given that I grew up in a time which required us to choose between languages and computers, I think I’m doing quite well on my technological journey.

The fact is, among the questions which writers can use on Goodreads to introduce themselves to the community is: ‘How do you deal with writer’s block?’

It’s a simple enough question. A good one, in fact. And my mind is blank.

On the plus side, the fact that I have no words for my answer (because I’m terrified) means I am tearing through the fourth draft.

Somebody Wants My Book

Now, and I’m fully aware that this is terribly self-indulgent, so I’ll apologise for that early on: sorry. Here’s the thing. Since Book One came out, I’ve had this idea in my head that someone is missing it.

I don’t pretend to know who it is, or whether they really do want my book, but, whoever it is, I’m sure I know them, and I know I’ll kick myself for forgetting to send them a copy.

It’s like when someone tells you about that guy. You know that guy? He’s in that film. No, not that film, the other film. And then they spend twenty minutes explaining the film until you know everything about it, you even remember when you last saw it, but you can’t remember the title. And you definitely recall the actor, maybe you even like him. But without the title, it’s not as if you can just search Google for the lead in – well, whatever it was called.

We all know what’ll happen. A couple of days later, at three in the morning, you’ll remember the actor’s name. Sleep can come more easily then. There’ll be a sigh. Perhaps a slight forehead pat. And then… you wonder if it was really that important.

Well, it’s like that. Except this has been a couple of months, and I no longer remember if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it is/was, I know they would understand my sense of humour, my darkness, my whole story – if only I could think who they are.

The name is not on the tip of my tongue. I don’t know that it’s anywhere my tongue could even reach. It’s just out there, somewhere. I can’t really focus on it right now because I’m about to rewrite my favourite scene of the whole damn thing so far.

(For the sake of posterity, it’s Chapter Four, Book Three, and I know, even now – it’s amazing.)

The Stars’ Tennis Balls

Now, brace yourselves for a tale of what-in-the-world…

(It takes some explaining, you might want a cup of tea to go with this)

I’m a night owl. It is as it is. I don’t do mornings, I stay up late. When I say ‘late’, I mean five/six in the morning. Yes, I know. I’m wired up backwards.

For those of you who haven’t read my books – no pressure, that’s fine – but I just published book two, and it’s a bit different from book one. Same series, but it’s a lot creepier. My girlfriend described one scene as ‘gruesome’. For those who don’t know her, that’s quite a big deal.

Much as I’m working on book three (which is much more romantic, thankfully), I still have book two in my head. With all its attendant creepiness.

I took Doobie, the Jack Russell, out for his last pee of the night around half-five. It was very dark. There were still stars out. Very pretty, but gloomy, slight breeze, no street-lighting.

Doobie is a hectic little man, and has been known to dart after anything that moves.

Which he did. I assumed it was a frog, something similar. But it wasn’t.

And this is where my heart nearly stopped.

There was something in my driveway.

It was a tennis ball, just rolling to a halt.

Nothing terrifying there.

Except, I have no idea how it got there.

There’s no way the wind was strong enough to push it over the shallow kerbstone. It didn’t come from the house. It didn’t come from the garden. It came from the road.

I realised I might have been overtired, and, with the subject matter in my head, a little bit prickly.

But all I can think is – what if there was someone out there, in the shadows, pushing tennis balls into unsuspecting lady driveways?

I have checked. It’s still there.

(Fair warning: this might turn into a book)

Ships That Pass In The Night

Okay, so this was a tough one.

I had my YouTube interview with my brother, Paul, and much as I was as comfortable as I ever am, I looked like I might be on the run. What I didn’t tell you was what happened afterwards…

I was due to go to the Legion in any case. It was a Wednesday, a perfectly reasonable day of the week, as days go. And, as a member of the Events’ Committee, I was supposed to be around for a tasting session with a view to the Club-Branch Dinner in November.

I promise, this story is about to liven up.

I did my interview with Paul – he was very good, I was excruciating, and I nearly told a joke about a vibrator. I was stopped in my tracks when I caught sight of my former science teacher and realised that, somewhere in my head, I’m still sixteen. After twenty years, it’s hard to know how to begin a conversation with someone who knew you at your worst, but I waved at my former teacher. Because I am made of distilled bravery. Anywho, that was the extent of our interaction.

And then, the caterer arrived. He was great. The chicken was amazing. The salmon was perfection. I had my chairman eat the beef for me. We didn’t have farmers in Croydon, so when the BSE crisis hit in the late eighties, that was the end of beef in the Binney household. I have tried to eat beef since, but I don’t have the palette for it.

By the time the tasting was over, the teachers had all gone home, and I was left with a couple of friends, one of whom used to be a support teacher at the school I went to.

“Did you see Liz?” she asked me.

Now, I know a good couple of dozen Elizabeths. Some of them are Lizzie, some are Beth, some are Betsy. I have no doubt some are known as Liz, just not to me. So, I had no idea whether or not I’d seen whoever this Liz was.

My buddy could probably tell from my eyebrows that I was thinking too much.

She clarified that she meant the Liz who had taught me biology.

Now, it’s enough for me to know she has a first name, but I can’t… I just… In my head, she will almost certainly always be ‘Miss’.

“I saw her,” I explained, “but we didn’t speak.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she replied. “She really wanted to see you.”

Now, all I had going through my head were former science essays with the words ‘Please see me’ written on them.

“She was chuffed to bits when I told her you were here,” she went on. “She saw your flyer for your book in the hallway, and she was really impressed.”

(I’ve written two books. She could be more impressed.)

“There’s no way she could remember me,” I said, blushing.

“No, she did,” she told me, as shades of horror crossed my sight. “You used to write a bit at school, didn’t you? She was telling me.”

Holy Lord. I left school every day of twenty years ago. She must have had hundreds, if not thousands, of students since then, but she remembered me. I was quite touched.

(This is where I nearly lost my mind)

“She reads,” my buddy told me, lightly.

“What?” I asked, probably looking like a maniac.

“Yes, and she likes all that dark, gothic, emotionally turbulent stuff.”

“Point her at me,” I insisted.

“Well, she’s gone home now.” And my heart nearly stopped.

It’s somehow worse than ships that pass in the night. It’s like ships that pass in the night, but they don’t know they’re ships. I may have to join the PTA.

Interview with Cider

Come, watch the world’s most uncomfortable woman, and her selection of chins, talk about a book, in a bar which is about to open…

At one point, my old science teacher walks in, just as I’m just about to tell a joke about vibrators. It’s every bit as odd as it sounds. Hope you enjoy the post. (I’m the crazy-looking one on the right of the thumbnail.)

 

Book Sales

Now, here’s the thing…

It occurs to me there are many battles in writing a novel. I know this because I released my second one on Friday – hence the silence on this blog. Sorry. I’ve been a bit tied.

The main battle is actually writing the thing. I think a lot of people would love to write a book, but they just can’t find the time to sit down and do it. People have their own lives. Mostly, they consist of family, work, socialising, staying alive and sleep. Where does one find the time to write something?

Procrastination is a big problem for the writing mind. I’m not daydreaming, I’m thinking. Perhaps a little fear of failure, even a fear of success, might slip in, and – what do you know – suddenly, there’s a gas bill or the toilet stops flushing, and the novel slips further and further down the list of everything else that needs doing.

But let’s assume you’ve written it, and published, created some kind of online presence through social media, branding, chatting with people in the pub, the wool shop, the post office queue. What then?

And this is the problem: selling it. Marketing is a skill of its own, far too big for my mind to really get to grips with. But the thought, all troubled and tortured, with long, hanging claws – like so many of the best thoughts – comes late at night.

Any book, really any book, might be an important work of literature. It might be precious, it might tap in to the zeitgeist or speak to something deep and powerful within the human mind, but if nobody reads it – what is it, really?

And so – I’m having a sale. It will only last a couple more days, so do have at it. I’ve enrolled Sex, Death & Canapés in Kindle Unlimited, so if you have KU, it’s entirely free to read. I promise, I’m funny, if a bit dark. I’m certainly worth a click.

If, like me, you don’t really get KU, I’ve knocked the price of Sex, Death & Canapés down to only £1. I’m told it’s $1.29 in the States. I don’t really have the maths skills to be certain, but I think that’s a pretty good deal. Now, I’ll warn you: the sale is for a limited time only, so get clicking.

If you find yourself with a few minutes to spare, follow the links. Like anything that comes from within, this means the world to me, and I hope you’ll like it too.

Sex, Death & Canapés, Kindle UK:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07FQDBGDR/ref=cm_sw_r_fm_apa_ccDuBb95D6E1Q

Sex, Death & Canapés, the paperback:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1717903207/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_apa_TWWyBb9015734

And US:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FQDBGDR/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_awdb_t1_37eyBb0C55DC4

AND…

If you fancy having a look at Book Two in the series, it’s here:

Sex, Death & Scallops

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07H5LLB6W/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_apa_aNPKBbBYB6T6Q

Thank you x