Emma Newman's Blog, page 25

Leaving the comfort zone behind

I knew this time was coming, and now I am here, I can report that it is just as scary as I thought it would be. I'm talking about launching a book of course, because this week, From Dark Places is released and I am learning lots of lessons.

Regarding the mechanics of launching a book, the main lesson I have learned so far is to start everything 3 months before you think you need to. Everything is more complicated, and takes longer, than I could have possibly thought. I'll know for when 20 Years Later comes out!

Something I knew would happen…

… sleepless nights. I was lying awake at 3:30 am, fretting about the launch event on Friday in Manchester. I worried that no-one would be there, I worried that I'd lose my voice and not be able to do a reading. I thought all manner of stupid things that only seem plausible in the small hours of the morning when all around you are asleep and the darkness is pressing in.

This morning I felt better, braver, so I tackled several scary tasks regarding the launch, aware the whole time that I am actively managing anxiety. I said on Twitter that I want a badge that says "I am brave" in the same style as birthday card badges which say "I am 4″ which my little man will be wearing on Thursday. But one thing I am starting to learn is disassociating anxiety from a task. That usually seizes me up you see, but sending an email is not scary. All of the imagined disasters I pin to it are scary, but they are not real. I'm hoping this will get easier as the week goes on.

The end of an era

This week is officially the end of one phase of my life. That sounds grand, but it feels grand to me, so it stays. Usually I am better at seeing the end of phases several months or years down the line, this one was sign-posted a long way back.

I have to go out into the world.

My instinct is to just thrust a book that I have written in front of me and say "Here is the best of me" instead of actually putting myself out there. Honestly, I believe I am best consumed in text form. But that isn't enough. I want to make all of my working life about writing fiction, and to do that, I have to tackle these fears and promote my work. It starts this week with From Dark Places, and will continue for the next few months as different formats are launched and 20 Years Later comes out too!

Old tactics, new world

I know why I am pre-disposed to hiding. I know why I want to stay in my little office at home and write and hang out on Twitter and only post here, in my space, where I feel safe. This instinct has served me well in past phases of my life, and has cocooned me whilst I've been healing and figuring out some really difficult stuff.

But now it holds me back. Life is going exactly where I want it to, and I need to let these old patterns go. I need to start thinking of myself, and what I am capable of out there in the world, differently. Otherwise, this safe cocoon will only be a prison.

I went for a run today. It feels odd to type that, as it's at odds with the rigid image I have of myself as someone who will only run in the eventuality of erupting volcanoes, being chased by rabid dogs or the zombie apocalypse. Now I am starting to realise that it's part of who I need to become; someone who is not who I think I am.

Enough of that naval gazing!

Just a tiny reminder that there is the book launch in Manchester on Friday and a great big shout-out for a newly scheduled event happening in Sunderland on Sunday 10th April – here is a poster made by the wonderful Sam (@FutureNostalgic) who has made this possible. I'll be at the Seaburn Leisure Centre, Sunderland (on the seafront) from 11am-1pm during the Maker's Market, doing readings and signing books, so if that is closer for you than Manchester is, please do come along!

And one more lesson I'm learning…

… is that people are really supportive when you are honest and open. I have received offers of help, slots on blogs, reviews, all manner of kind offers to help me make From Dark Places a success. I am blessed. I am brave. I am also in need of a cup of tea…

Friday Flash: Zombie Gloss By Eric J. Krause

Sarah giggled and headed out the door for class. If she stayed, her laughter would only betray her, and Angie would know something was up. Angie was the best roomie in the world, but April Fools' Day meant those nearest and dearest had to get pranked. It was law.

She found a tube of joke lipstick online called Zombie Gloss. She customized it to look like Ang's favorite, Ruby Red, in every way except an hour after application it would make her lips appear rotted. As Sarah reached her nine A.M. econ class, she had to take deep breaths to keep from busting out in laughter and looking like a loon in front of everyone.

Angie didn't meet her for lunch. Crap. Was she mad? But didn't Ang know it was illegal to get pissed about pranks on April Fools' Day? She'd smooth things over tonight by springing for a pizza. It'd take away some of her fun money for the weekend, but she'd just hit a frat party or two to save some cash. Heck, she and Ang might have done that anyway. But when Angie didn't show up to their dorm room later that afternoon, Sarah started to worry. She tried her cell again, but only got voicemail. Even her numerous texts went unanswered. Ang wasn't a big fan of pranks, giving or receiving, but she'd never been this pissed about one. Maybe something was actually wrong. Should she call the campus police? The city police? The hospital?

Before she made a decision, the door to their room jarred. She leapt up and ran to it. "Ang? Is that you?" She threw it open and stumbled backwards. That was Angie, but what the hell was wrong with her? Her lips were the awful rotting color the website promised, but the rest of her skin had the same tinge. Sarah would have attributed it to make-up and a counter-prank if it wasn't for Angie's face. It looked, well, droopy. Unless she'd made sudden friends with a make-up wiz in the drama department, she couldn't have pulled this off.

"What's going on, Ang? What happened to you?"

Angie didn't answer, at least with any intelligible words. She gave some sort of guttural grunt and lurched forward. A hand reached for Sarah's face, and as it did, one of the fingernails dropped to the floor. That did it; Sarah belted out a scream from the depths of her soul.

She turned to dodge Angie's hands, but as she did, her feet entangled, and she went down hard. Angie kept moving toward her and leaned down. Sarah gagged as the nauseating stench of death pouring off Angie assaulted her. She tried to scream again, but it came out in rasps and coughs. Her first, though, had brought movement from the hallway, but before she could hope for salvation, one of Angie's hands latched onto her jaw and pulled, bringing a sickening crack, while the other hand jammed itself down her now-gaping throat.

As her world faded to black, she almost lost herself in a laughing fit despite the blinding pain. After all, Zombie Gloss had come with a disclaimer that proved not to be the joke Sarah thought it was. "Warning: May cause zombieism."

—

April Fools! The story you just read appears here on my blog as a part of the Great April Fool's Day FridayFlash Blog Swap, organized by Tony Noland. You can find my story for today at Eric J Krause's website, http://ejkwritingspot.blogspot.com/2011/04/fridayflash-made-up.html To read all the dozens of stories swapping around as a part of the GAFDFFBS, check out the GAFDFFBS index over at Tony's blog Landless. For hundreds of thousands of words of fantastic flash fiction stories, check out the FridayFlash hashtag on Twitter. It happens every Friday!

Read more: http://www.tonynoland.com/2011/03/great-april-fools-day-fridayflash-blog_9145.html#ixzz1IGIr6bvw

The first book launch event!

On Friday the 8th of April (if the nerves don't kill me first) I'll be having my first ever book launch. It's for From Dark Places and here are the details:

Time: 6 – 8pm 8th April 2011

Location: Cornerhouse Manchester  in one of the upstairs rooms – I'll make sure there are signs up on the day.

Can you come?

My biggest fear is that the shiny room my lovely Dad is hiring for me as a present will be practically empty. I think that fear is universal for authors with impending book launches. So, if you can possibly make it, please do come. Why?

Because I will be selling the first paperback copies hot off the press
I will sign your copy
If you buy a copy as a present, I'll write a lovely note to the person it's for
You'll get to be part of the next anthology – details revealed at the event
You will get to hear two of the stories read live (by me)
Heavy-breasted maidens will sing your name down the ages
You'll help to make a nervous author's dream come true…

Even if you can't make it, please help me to spread the word – online networks are marvellous things and who knows, a friend of yours might be able to come instead.

If you are planning to come, it would be super-duper helpful if you could either say so in the comments or drop me a line through the contact doohickey at the top. Then I'll be able to sleep at night knowing someone will be there.

I also intend to have events in Bath, Oxford, London and of course, the lovely Shepton Mallet. And for all you lovely souls who live a long way away from all of those locations, I am planning to have a virtual launch… details on that to follow soon.

So, Friday 8th April, Manchester Cornerhouse 6-8pm, please come and support From Dark Places!

Em xx

And then the sun came out

From Dark Places

I've just had one of those 'sunlight through clouds' moments.

This morning I had to devote several hours to client work, then moved onto my own stuff, only to find that the provisional date for my first real world book launch may need to be delayed.

As a control freak, being on the brink of several book launches is a sweet torture. There's absolute joy at finally reaching the point where it can actually happen, but also so many things beyond my control – and my publisher's control.

So I stepped back and to wait for other pieces of information to come in before setting the final date. And drank tea.

But that wasn't the sunbeam moment

I moved onto the next task for the day; getting in touch with the lovely people who have posts who are happy to be part of the From Dark Places blog tour I am putting together.

I realised that it would be helpful for them to have a press pack, they could then have the book cover, information about it and the background story behind its route to publication all in one place. "I'll make a press pack then," I thought.

You know who arrived then, don't you?

The anxiety demon. And lots of clouds.

"A press pack?" it scoffed in its rasping voice. "Who do you think you are making a press pack? You'll get it wrong. And why are you even doing this? If you tell people about it you'll annoy them, and anyway, don't do it, because if you start sending that out, people might read it, then they'll hate it. And you."

It whispered those last two words, but I heard them. By that point, I had a raging headache and was literally slumped over my keyboard, the epitome of despair.

Then the sun broke through

I don't know how or why, but at exactly the right moment, a memory of something the lovely Joanna Paterson said on my blog a while ago came back to me. She said that I needed to remember that I am promoting a book – not me – or something along those lines. The key point being that it isn't me the press pack is about, it's my book.

Taking a step back

This press pack is just information. I am not going into people's houses, grabbing them by the lapels and yelling "THIS IS MY BOOK! GO AND BUY IT NOW!" or anything so silly. I am not one of those authors who has an entire Twitter stream of links to my stuff.

It will all be okay.

Stepping out of my skin

I am also remembering that when I hear something one of my friends has been working on for ages has finally come out, I am excited to hear about it. I want to know what it is and where to find it. That's just… helpful.

So, that's what I aiming at now: being helpful. All I'm doing is making the information about From Dark Places easy to find for all the lovely people who are helping me to spread the word.

It's easy to forget

I'm also doing my best to remember not to get angry with myself for repeatedly getting my knickers in a twist about all this. Of course I want it all to go well, of course I want people to love the book and of course I want it to sell. The more books I sell, the closer I get to the ultimate dream: earning enough to only write fiction and not boring commercial stuff. That means more time to devote to the books that I must write before I die. They're all here, in my head, waiting impatiently.

This post was brought to you by sunlight, tea and a lot of excitement

So this is where things are. I've thrown open my office window to air out the sulphurous smell that anxiety demon left behind (I think that was his shortest visit ever) and I'm going back to this press pack. When it's done, I'll post a link to it.

Incidentally, if you have a spare space over at your blog for either a guest post or an interview about the book, I'd love to come and visit. I'm very tidy and I make a good cup of tea. And if you review short story anthologies, I would be absolutely tickled pink if you'd review From Dark Places. Either drop me a line or leave a comment below.

Onwards and upwards!

Friday Flash: His Uncle's Advice

His hand hovered over the doorknob, the dark wooden panelling of the door sucked the light from the hallway. He could hear the creak of his uncle's chair, the clattering of keys. Jamie's mouth was dry.

"Come in for God's sake!" his uncle's voice blasted through the wood.

Jamie opened the door.

"Uncle…"

"Wait."

Jamie stepped inside and closed the door behind him quietly. His uncle was hunched over a keyboard. The huge desk was side-on to the door, so that his uncle could gaze out over the estate's gardens when he chose to look away from his screen. Jamie could see one of his feet twitching under his chair, but not the words on the screen angled away from the door.

A fire chewed its way through logs in the huge fireplace, the room smelt of wood and books and smoke. A comforting, warm smell, as if the study were going out of its way to disassociate itself from his uncle. Jamie scanned the shelves of books, all leather bound, making his fingers twitch with the desire to explore them. But he stayed still, remembering the one and only time he'd been in this room before.

His uncle muttered beneath his breath as he typed and he tried to listen in. "There, you little git," his uncle muttered. "You got your own way, but I bet she won't like it." He swivelled around in his chair to face Jamie.

"Hello uncle."

"Jamie m'boy," his uncle said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers in front of him. "I've heard something from your mother that we need to talk about."

Jamie felt a cramp in his stomach. "She shouldn't have been going through my-"

"I'm not talking about the filth she found under your mattress, you idiot," his uncle cut in. "Perfectly natural if you ask me, I'm just disappointed you didn't find a more creative hiding place. Foolish boy. And don't worry about your mother, she thinks it's her job to make out she's outraged, when in fact she's relieved that you're not batting for the other team and that she's likely to get grandchildren one day. No, I want to talk to you about the thing she saw you doing the other day."

Jamie was still processing the monologue. "You mean," he said finally, "when I was writing?"

"That's the one, yes."

Jamie frowned. "Mum didn't have a problem with that."

"It's not all about your mother boy." His uncle shifted his bulk, frowned. "Actually, you'll find out in therapy that it is all about your mother, but that's not the point. The point is, she told me you were writing a story and it wasn't for homework."

"So what?"

"So I told your mother that if she saw any sign of it in you, she was to send you to me straight away."

"But-"

"Be quiet and listen. This is the only time I will talk to you about this, so pay attention. This house," he waved a hand at the room, "wasn't inherited, as you may have been led to believe. I bought it."

Jamie shrugged. "So?"

"I bought it after my third novel became a bestseller. It sold millions and made me rich. Since then, I've written just over thirty more under my pen name: Henry Hattingsall."

"You're Henry Hattingsall?" Jamie exclaimed. "That's so cool! Will you read my story?"

"No."

Jamie blinked. "Why not?"

"Because it will be crap," his uncle said, not harshly. He hauled himself out of his chair and crossed the room to an antique dresser nestled in the far corner. "The first hundred thousand words I wrote were utter toss," he said as he unlocked one of its cupboards. "The only thing I got right as a beginner was hiding everything I wrote until I knew it was any good."

"How did you know?"

"I could read it three months later without needing to vomit or drink myself into oblivion." He pulled out a large box and carried it to the desk. "Here's everything you need to know about being a writer."

Jamie peeled back the cardboard flaps. He was hoping for a small library of writing advice, or an address book filled with private numbers to the best agents with a stack of personal introduction letters from his uncle.

Instead, he found a cushion.

"No-one, nothing will teach you how to write a book," his uncle said, nodding at the paisley covered foam. "Don't waste your time looking; you're just avoiding the simple, painful truth: to learn how to write a book, sit in front of an empty page and write. That cushion will help your backside."

"But… there has to be something! What about plot structures… or how to write convincing characters?"

His uncle shook his head and pointed at the cushion. "Arse, keyboard, page. That's it. It's hard and most of the time you feel wretched, but it's all good work. Even writing crap is flushing out the pipes for the better stuff to come. Read widely, write a lot, one day you'll churn out something worth reading."

"But won't you help me? Introduce me to someone?"

"Come back after you've written a hundred – no, two hundred thousand words and I'll think about it," his uncle replied, reluctantly. "Now bugger off, I have a scene to finish, and if I don't write it soon I swear this character is going to drive me mad."

"Too late," Jamie muttered, stuffed the cushion under his arm and sloped off towards the door.

"And Jamie," his uncle called, making him stop. "Don't give up. I didn't. That's how I can afford to write all day instead of being a bloody banker, and what gives me the privilege of pissing off young bloods like you. One day you'll thank me."

He turned back to the screen, Jamie scowled at him. "Not today," he whispered, and left his uncle to his muttering.

When giving advice about writing is like chewing gum

Sorry things have been quiet here of late, I've been away on a walking holiday in Wales (last week) and entertaining in-laws (this week), whilst trying to juggle work, writing and audio book recording before, during and in-between these activities. It's busy, but that's just the way I like it. Saying that, I was working 12-14 hour days the week before the walking holiday to clear the decks, and that was a tad too much, even for me.

Something I've been mulling over whilst walking in splendid countryside is a post (probably several) I've wanted to write for a long time, but it's been all tangled up in my head. Extracting what I really want to say has proven to be like trying to get chewing gum out of long hair… tedious, unpleasant and very irritating. Then I thought I'd probably get somewhere if I just sat down and talked about it here. If by the end of it I have that dried up sticky lump of nastiness in the bin and half a head of hair left, I'll be satisfied.

It's all to do with advice, and specifically, advice about writing.

Here are some of strands tangled up in the chewing gum:

1. My extreme aversion to giving advice about writing

2. How damaging reading advice about writing can be

3. Wondering how to help to people asking for advice

Why am I wrestling with this knot? Well, something weird has been happening lately; more people have been asking me for advice on writing.

I have been bemused by this for a few weeks now, but I guess this is what happens when you're about to have books published. For me, however, it's a false assumption that I would know anything worthwhile about writing. Hell, I'm still figuring loads of things out, and what works for me might not work for the next writer.

But it's deeper than that. If I give advice, then I feel I am being false; that I am setting myself up as some sort of expert when I am, quite frankly, far from it.

In the past I have had the urge to share stuff about writing – and I do talk a lot about how I write and what I struggle with here, but always go out of my way to not offer it as advice. That's what the Writer's Rutter category on my site was created for – a way to share my experiences without saying "This is how YOU SHOULD do it" (if you're not sure what a rutter is, the explanation is in this post) but rather "this is what happened to me" with the hope that it's interesting and relevant.

I suspect that what's really going on here is due to my lack of self-confidence. I'm hiding behind rutters instead of being bolder. Openly giving advice is saying I know something, and if I do that, people might start to argue with me. It might bring about conflict… it might *gasp* bring trolls to my site.

Bad experiences…

But I digress. There is another reason for this aversion, which leads neatly onto thread 2: it can be damaging. I have a fear that if I give advice, it will hinder a writer (most of whom are just starting out on the long road) rather than help. This fear stems from personal experience and vivid memories of being at that stage of the journey.

You see, just over two years ago, I was in the doldrums; I had a book but no agent, publisher or, it seemed hope. I had a growing rejection letter pile and I didn't have any kind of online life at all. I had no idea there was all kinds of stuff on the internet about writing. I was lost.

Then I began this blog. Good start. Then I got on Twitter, even better. But then there was a very dodgy patch when I discovered a world of writing advice online, but hadn't yet met all my writer friends.

Cue desperate writer, on the brink of self-publishing, reading post after post of conflicting advice and bolshy tweets from "writing gurus" who seem to be nothing more than bullies. Did any of it help?

No.

All it did was made me confused and depressed. Yes, I was probably reading the wrong stuff and yes, there is good advice out there, but back then, I didn't know enough to tell the difference between them. And the thought that I might contribute to that roiling mass of noise makes me shudder.

But on the flip side, I also want to help filter out some of the crap and offer a gentle alternative, and sometimes just a powerful urge to share a hard-learned lesson. That will go into the writer's rutter for now I guess, but I still feel worried about it.

So what do I do now?

Let's see, I've lost some hair, and most of the gum is out, but there's still a tangle. I don't want to ignore people asking for advice, I want to help. Perhaps the writer's rutter is the only approach I'll ever be comfortable with. Why is this bothering me so much? Oh sod it, there's obviously some scar tissue here and it's too deep for me to see it.

Honestly, writers eh? Neurotic, every last one of us…

Proof of the pudding

The print edition - isn't it pretty?

Look! There it is, From Dark Places in print – at least the proof copy that arrived here a little while ago. Proofing is now complete, (note the empty tea mug) and I just had to tell you (and show you) how gorgeous it's looking.

Back when I was first trying to get 20 Years Later published, many years ago, I fantasised about being able to hold a book in my hands that I had written. I've held the proof copy of 20 Years Later as a paperback, and now its first print run is going to be in hardback, so I'll get double the thrill of holding the first copy in my hands!

It was just as intense when this proof copy arrived of From Dark Places. How can I describe it? Relief, excitement, fear (of course) and a massive surge in adrenalin. So much work, so many hours, so much creativity all poured into one book made a physical reality… a really special feeling. The revised launch date of April 5th is still looking good, of course I'll keep you posted.

The latest story has gone out to the Short Story Club a few minutes ago, and many of the stories in the book you can see in the picture were inspired by prompts sent in by members. Can you guess what's coming next? Yup, a call for new story prompts please!

They can be one word, a snippet of dialogue, a story title or opening line – anything you like. Let's brew a new story!

Friday Flash: Villainy

There was only one thing to do. He called the first speed dial number and rested his head against the wall, trying to ease the pain in his shoulders.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

"I was just thinking about you!"

"How are you?"

"Fine, you?"

He tried to think of something good to say. "I'm fine Nana."

"Settling into that job at the office?"

He picked at a flake of paint.

"Sam?"

"I'm here. It's not that great actually. There's a bloke there, Tommy…"

"What's he been doing?"

He closed his eyes, seeing his desk again, hearing the quiet sniggering as he walked up to it. "Stupid jokes," he said. When she didn't reply immediately, he let out a heavy sigh. "He filled my desk drawers with sand this morning."

"Oh dear."

"Last week he glued all my stuff to the desk and loosened the bolt on my chair so it collapsed when I sat down. And he swapped the sugar for salt in the staff kitchen. He told everyone except me."

He hadn't meant to list it all, but once he started, he couldn't stop.

"He sounds like an unpleasant man."

"He's a dick. Sorry Nana."

He heard the creak of her kitchen chair over the line. The biscuit tin would be on the shelf to her left, the same one he'd loved as a child, with a picture of the Queen on it.

"Men like that," his grandmother said gently, "are very sad, lonely people."

"He seems to have loads of friends at the office."

"They're just scared of him," she replied. "They want to keep on his good side so he doesn't make a fool of them."

"Yeah."

"This is upsetting you, isn't it?"

He grunted as a large chunk of plaster came away and clattered onto the floor, showering the grotty lino with dust.

"The next time he does something childish, just remember how special you are."

He resented the lump in his throat. "I just didn't think it would be like this."

"Don't let a small man ruin your big dream Sam."

"Maybe it was a dumb dream. Maybe I should just come home. Maybe I'm not cut out for this."

"Samuel Hartley," she said, in the same voice as when she'd discovered him stealing Jammy Dodgers from that biscuit tin in the middle of the night. "I have never heard such nonsense in my life. For years you wanted to go to the big city and make a difference. It's just hard, that's all. I told you it would be, didn't I?"

"Yes Nana."

"Are you still wearing your work clothes?"

He tugged at his tie. "Yeah."

"I think you need to get changed and go out and see what the city offers up. A change of scenery will do you good."

He looked at the boot poking out of the wardrobe. "You're right."

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He went to his favourite spot, a fire escape overlooking a nearby alley from where he could see the main street as well as the dingy dustbins and shadowy corners below.

Feeling better now he was out of the tie, he tried to work out what to do about Tommy, but all he could imagine was throwing him out of the window.

A movement below took him from his dark fantasy. Two men were lurking at the end of the alley. He shifted into a crouch, feeling a prickling on the back of his neck.

The one on the left lurched forwards and then dragged a man into the alley. Before Sam had a chance to move, he recognised the red hair of the man being assaulted and a thrill pulsed through him.

Tommy.

He was punched in the stomach and once in the face.

"Where's the wallet?"

"Oh God!" Tommy wailed and got a solid punch in the jaw. A smile spread slowly across Sam's face.

The one on the right frisked him and plucked out his wallet and keys. Tommy managed to kick him, his adrenalin surging, knocking the wallet from his hand.

Swearing, scuffling, then a flash of streetlight amber on metal.

Sam launched himself from the fire escape, cape snapping in the wind behind him as he flew at the mugger's knife hand. The impact of boot on wrist knocked the man to the ground and sent the knife skittering into the shadows.

"It's him!" the one holding Tommy yelled, shoving him aside and running off. Sam punched the mugger he'd already struck into unconsciousness but let the other one go, knowing the place he was likely to hide.

"Thank you!" Tommy sobbed.

Sam lifted him into the air until his face was level with his own, light as a rag doll.

"How does it feel to be the victim?" he hissed through his mask.

Tommy just snivelled, blood and snot running out of his nose.

Sam dropped him like a bag of groceries at his feet. He felt sick, panicky. "I'll be watching you," he pointed his gloved hand at Tommy, and then flew up, the alley shrinking away below him.

The wind whistled at the edges of his mask. He landed on the roof of a nearby building, frightened for the second time in his whole life.

He pulled his mobile from his pocket, dialled the number.

"Hello?"

"Nana, I… I watched a guy get beaten up before I helped him. Does that make me a villain?"

Waiting for her to speak took him back to that night, his fear as the light switched on and she found him mid-crime and mid-air, his hand in the biscuit tin as he floated above the table.

"Why didn't you jump straight in?"

"It was Tommy, from the office," he said. "I wanted him to be hurt."

"That doesn't make you a villain darling," she soothed. "I put over two hundred behind bars, so I should know. Fly over, I'll brew a pot of tea."

"Got any biscuits?"

"Jammy Dodgers, darling. Come home."

A loving farewell

I spent three days of last week under a blanket on the sofa with a cold. I'm not very good at being ill, I get grumpy and miserable at not being able to do all of the stuff I should be doing (and the stuff I actually want to be doing). I'm in the middle of a demanding audio book project too, so getting a cold is the last thing I wanted. I suppose it was some kind of karmic balance in return for having such an ace time in London.

Anyway, moan over, I am almost fully well, the voice is almost back and I am at the computer again. And whilst the cold did stop me last week, it did let me watch more TV than usual, and discover the joy that is Batman Arkham Asylum on the Xbox 360 (only over a year late).

One of the gems waiting for me was the recording of the last ever Midsomer Murders with John Nettles playing Barnaby. Oh my. Reader, I confess, I cried.

That's not really saying much

I cry at everything, I really do. I think the peak was when I was heavily pregnant and just an oven chips advert with people singing like in a bizarre musical reduced me to a sobbing wreck. For heaven's sake, an oven chips advert! And it wasn't even a tear-jerker, it just set me off. Actually, it doesn't take much to do that in late pregnancy…

I suppose I empathise too much. And I fall in love with characters, so that when they're upset, I'm upset. But the biggest trigger is death or some other kind of ending.

Back to Midsomer

Luckily, there was only an ending and not a death when it came to Barnaby (or "my Barnaby" as he is called in my house) and I was so very relieved. My husband was tinkering on the computer as I watched, I could see his glances across the room as the end of the programme approached. With a heavy cold there'd been a lot of tissue use, but there was a significant rise at the end of that programme, I can tell you.

Wondering what Midsomer Murders is?

If you have no idea what Midsomer Murders is, bear with me. It's a TV show that has been running for many years (but I've only watched it for four years) and features the usual detective-solves-murder genre characteristics. But the reason I love it (and I don't watch any other crime dramas) is because it is so very quirky. The characters are lovingly drawn examples of distilled British eccentricity. Those characters, its gentle humour and Barnaby's brilliance have brought me through dark times indeed.

I discovered Midsomer Murders when I was heavily pregnant and already suffering from a mild depression that went onto to full-blown post-natal depression. When I was so broken I could barely speak, Midsomer Murders comforted me in a way that's hard to explain. It's not deep, it's not challenging and it won't change the world. But you know, sometimes that's just what we need, right?

Farewell to my Barnaby

You know, even writing this is making me well up. Tragic, isn't it? I just get attached to characters. I cried at the end of Shogun (the book) because I wanted to stay with Blackthorne just a little longer. I feel the same way about Barnaby.

The joy of characters

What power these characters have, these fictional people that we all love and root for! Or should I say, what power these writers have? You know, that's what I aspire to be; a writer who can make a person miss their tube stop because they are *there* with my characters, or gasp out loud in a park when one of my protagonists does something thrilling. What simple bliss to write something that reaches out and grasps a human heart.

So to Barnaby, I wish you a happy retirement in that little crevasse of my brain in which you will continue to live, and to John Nettles I say thank you for bring such warmth to the character, I will miss you. And to the person who created Barnaby, and Troy and Cully and all the others, I salute you.

Old friends and imaginary places

On Saturday I was very brave. There, I said it. I ignored the anxiety demon when it said "stay at home, it's safe here" and baked a cake, got in my car and drove it across the country.

By late afternoon, I was standing in Miri's garden. Miri is the mother of Zane, one of the main characters in 20 Years Later and her garden is where the trilogy starts.

It was so good to be back there again. Miri's garden is, of course, a fictional place, but it's set in a real life one, as are all of the places in the books. The real garden is in Queen Square, and really does contain a statue of a forgotten queen and a bronze bust of a mother and child as described in book one. The hospital where Zane first sees the giant, where the world starts to penetrate the safe bubble his mother has created in post-apocalyptic London, really does exist, right in the corner of the square. I walked past it on Saturday.

I then walked down the street connecting Miri's square to Jay's patch, Russell Square, heart of the Bloomsbury Boy's territory. I passed his gang headquarters (Hotel Russell) and strolled over to the British Museum to do a spot of research for one of the key scenes in book three.

Even just travelling in on the train, despite it being a different route to the one at the time, reminded me of when the first draft poured out of me in 26 days. How could I not write a dystopian novel set in post-apocalyptic London after sitting for hours on trains in and out of the city? Backs of dingy buildings, graffiti, litter, all create such a sense of urban decay even though the city is teeming with life.

Constantly imagining the dead city of my novels overlaid across everything I saw does make for a strange tourist experience. I also found it hard to believe I used to commute into central London everyday to teach. It's so noisy! And so busy, and the air is almost… chewy. How did I do it?

But where does the cake come into it?

Well, the research was not the only reason for the trip; a dear friend of mine was having his 40th birthday party at one of London's little gem-like museums. It was the thought of all of the hard work that was undoubtedly being put into organising it, and the prospect of being able to see friends, some of whom I hadn't seen for 5 years, that enabled me to finally kick the anxiety demon in the nuts and get out of the house. The last thing I wanted was to let him down because I was having a wobble.

It was a wonderful evening, for so many reasons. Seeing my friends was the first, and making new ones. Dancing without caring what I looked like for the first time in years. Getting tiddly enough to have a fabulous time and fall over when dancing and not be sick afterwards.

But more than that, I realised how blessed I am to know such splendid people. They're funny, interesting, clever, sparkly, kind and are still willing to know me despite the fact they met me at university when I was really crazy and did some stupid things.

There's a song I've always loved, (here's a link to it on YouTube) and a part came to me at one point in the evening:

"Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on to. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young."

Oh that is so true. So, anxiety demon, the next time you grasp me in your claws, I'll remember Graham's birthday party. I'll remember that moment I leant against the wall, gasping for breath after hours of dancing, looked at my friends and was so very, grateful that you didn't steal another drop of life out of me.

And here's to the fine, fine people who picked me up (literally) off the dance floor and made me forget myself and my fear. We may all dance like our Dad's now (sorry Dad) but at least we still know how to have a damn good time. I love you.