Ruby Soames's Blog, page 2

Finally a finalist!

So in two days, Wednesday 30th May, I go to London for the People's Book Prize Award Ceremony. The founder is Beryl Bainbridge, the Patron Frederick Forsyth. The competition is about giving books from independent or small publishers a chance to showcase their work. It's democratic in that readers get to chose and vote for the book they want to win. My novel 'Seven Days to Tell You' is one of the sixteen finalists for best book 2012.

I'm expected at 3.30pm for a video interview before we all get ready for the black-tie gala dinner. I've been sent the instructions for when to stand up, sit down and which camera to look into and an acceptance speech has to be prepared beforehand that can't be longer than one minute.

I have watched so many award ceremonies but I've never been to one. And never in my wildest imaginings did I think I could possibly have a trophy on my mantelpiece.

I'm nervous, yes. Why am I nervous?

First, I'm shy. And when I'm shy I speak very fast and talk nonsense. Only two days ago I ran into my boss who terrifies me and I said, 'Goodnight' - it was eleven o'clock in the morning. People like me shouldn't ever be put in front of cameras or in the CIA.

Then, I've put on a lot of weight recently and although I gave up chocolates for New Year I still can't get into the dress I want to wear. My editor consoled me by saying that diets are 'SO 2011' and that now girls buy these corset/panties that pull everything in so tight you go straight down to a size 6. But where does all the fat go? To my earlobes? My toes? Could I get into my shoes or would that risk a nose bleed while I'm looking at Camera B? Any tips for directing it to my chest?

And the acceptance speech.

It never occurred to me - and it seems obvious now - that every nominee has to write a speech regardless. And have I? No. I just don't dare because it feels (a) kind of presumptuous, and (b) tempting fate (c) What do I say? (d) how bad will I feel when I see it in my purse on my way home after losing?

I'm afraid of the unknown. It's so hard to predict how one will react to losing...or winning? When another name is announced, will I be able to smile graciously and congratulate the best author? Or will I let out a blood-curdling scream, rip off my bodice and thump them? But if I were to win, would I be able to keep it together and thank all those kind readers who voted for me - or would I do a Kate Winslet and go on and on and on through mascara-colored tears thanking everyone I'd ever met or read about in history.

Lastly, need I say more than 'six-inch wedge Louboutins' to strike anxiety into the heart of anyone walking across an empty stage?

In 48 hours, we will find out.

So, If you'd like a thank you, please vote for 'Seven Days to Tell You' if you haven't already. Those who voted in the first round are already counted, but if you haven't - find out how far Ruby Soames goes to make a complete tit of herself on Wednesday night! I promise to put up the video for comedy moments!

http://www.peoplesbookprize.com/final...

So in advance and from the heart, thank you readers!

Seven Days, a winner!

Thank you so much to all the readers who voted and supported Seven Days to Tell You in the run up for the People's Book Prize. I'm thrilled to announce that it won the prize for the Winter Collection 2011.

Seven Days to Tell You is now a finalist for the overall People's Book Prize 2012 and also for the Beryl Bainbridge new novelist prize.

Results come out in May.

It couldn't have been done without all your help, thank you!

Seven Days to Tell You

The up-at-dawn, pride swallowing, ever-humiliating task of self-promotion

The last three months have been very up and down for me since my novel, Seven Days to Tell You, was nominated for the People's Book Prize 2011. This is a prize awarded to the most popular book published in the UK by independent publishers. The winning book is the one with the most readers' votes. The only way to win, is to have the public vote for your book. There's no money given or book deals, but to have my book recognized by the public is enough for me!

So when I first heard about competition, I approached friends and readers who said they liked to the book to vote. I was really touched how willing people are about doing something to support a novel they enjoyed. I love having the opportunity to help others - so I don't know why it makes me cringe so much to ask others to help me. I guess I needed the lesson in humility.

But I'm learning! After close friends voted, we needed more people to go online, register and vote. This meant widening the net. My publisher, Hookline Books, did a book giveaway in order to get readers reading and if they liked it, voting. I felt a little funny about that - I spent seven years writing my novel and it was being handed on to anyone who asked - but I was told by marketing gurus that 'Giveaways' was the new way of promoting novels, known as 'platform building'. My publisher said that you shouldn't use social networks to ask for something unless you're offering something of equal or better value. A few readers wrote to me having received the book and said how much they loved it and were very happy to vote. Up again.

Down again when I sent emails to all the people I knew - even school friends I'd not seen for years - my face was red while writing it! Oh, the embarrassment! Why? I should be proud - but I felt like a worm! (Is this why we disrespect politicians so much?)

We are now in the last week. I've approached people at work and distant relatives. I even asked the man who'd installed our alarm system if he'd like to vote for me!

Since I was a child I wanted to be a writer - I thought I had the character for it - shy, sensitive, observant, socially retiring - but these qualities don't mean anything in the world of cold-calling, book give-aways, meeting the public and pestering your friends...and, I'll admit it, even getting my husband to ring round his ex-girlfriends and asking!

And now for the fun part: if you, dear reader, would like to make your voice heard, your vote would be so enormously appreciated. The link is: http://www.peoplesbookprize.com/book.php... Voting ends Wednesday 29th February.

Thank you!Seven Days to Tell You

Hey, you!

I wanted to write about the sudden rise of the second-person narrative. Have you noticed it or am I imagining things?
‘We Need to Talk about Kevin’ was the first book that I was really conscious of as having been written in the second person narrative. The novel is presented as a letter from a mother to her husband after the horrifying event of their son’s high-school killing spree. 'We Need to Talk About Kevin’ had such a polemic, shocking and emotive subject matter that the story overtook the book itself – and that’s not bad – Lionel Shriver is now a household name and the book is a film – but I believe this book marked a new way of writing.
Shriver’s writing makes implicit the evolving relationship between the reader and the writer. The modern reader is no longer able to swallow the idea of an omniscient narrator, even a first person narrative can get tiresome, and now telling the story is demanding more sophisticated literary devices.
Over the books I’ve read this year, so many have been 'told' in the second person – as letters, diaries, confessions. One can’t ignore the author’s awareness and need to hold the attention of its audience, so much so, the actual stories are addressed ‘you’.
Last year, ‘Sister’ by Rosamund Lupton, a psychological thriller which did eerily well, about a ‘dead’ sister whose murder is investigated by the living sister. The story is told in the first person and is written to ‘you’. Rosamund Lupton’s disappointing follow up, ‘Afterwards’ was also written to ‘you’ – the main character is in limbo having been through a fatal fire – accidental or on purpose and by whom? is the question of the story. The book is written from the POV of the wife to her living husband – the ‘you’. (Yes, she’s a ghost and if you haven’t read it, don’t bother.)
I’ve just finished Snowdrops by A D Miller which I really enjoyed but couldn’t help notice that this too, was written to a ‘you’. The ‘You’ is not really explained but inferred to be the woman the protagonist later married. He is finally telling her/you the story so that she can understand his past, and him. It’s a completely unnecessary device, neither adding or taking away from the story. So why’d he do it?
Of course, I’m interested in the ‘You’ because my novel was also written to a ‘you’. ‘Seven Days to Tell You’ is written to Kate’s husband who returns after three years of being ‘missing’.
Kate had married a wild, sexy Frenchman and thought she had the perfect marriage until he went out one day and didn’t come back. Three years later, she wakes with him in her bed - he asks for her forgiveness and gives her a week to decide if she still loves him. During that week, she describes her love for him directly to him.
And isn’t that the way one thinks when one’s in love? The other person is a ‘you’ and everything we do relates to the lovers’ personal narrative. So for me, a story about love could only be written directly to the beloved. Like most love songs.
I'd like to put forward the theory that in novels today, the standard genres are breaking down so much that there’s a place for the second-person narrative, the ‘you’. It’s almost like the book won’t work anymore, it has to feel like a personal letter, a journal, a piece of reality TV.
It’s just a thought, how about you?

Seven Days to Tell YouWe Need to Talk About Kevin

Chance of a break...

Yay! Seven Days to Tell You has been nominated for the People's Book Prize 2011. This is a prize given to the most popular book published by independent publishers. The winning book is the one with the most readers' votes. The only way to win, is to have the public vote for your book.

Though I'm thrilled to finally have some kind of break for my novel, I'm shy and I hate asking people for favors. However, it's great that this is open to the public and not always the same closed world of so many book prizes. So if you want to make your voice heard your vote would be so enormously appreciated. The link is: http://www.peoplesbookprize.com/book....

You can only imagine the joy and change this prize could make to a writer's life. It's in your hands, dear reader.

Somehow that novel has to get written...

‘We’re all going to die twice,’ Martin Amis said in a recent interview in the Telegraph. ‘We’re going to die as everyone dies, but before that our talent is going to die. There are no exceptions…’
Whether enough exceptions can discredit Amis’ pronouncement, it certainly put the s*** up me. Just like the other day when a friend of mine who's been Head of Art at a school for many years told me he was retiring this summer. ‘Great! You can finally get back to your painting!’ This has been the running theme of our friendship – my desire to write novels, his dream of an exhibition and all the crap we do for money which gets in the way. But he hung his head. ‘It’s a nice idea, but no,’ he said, ‘it’s too late. I should’ve done it when I was young but then we married, we had to buy a home, then came the kids, more responsibilities at work and now? Maybe.But as a hobby.’
Whenever I talk at book groups, do readings/signings, the question that so many people ask me isn't about my book but about the writing of it: ‘How do you find the time?’ and ‘Where do you get the discipline from?’ The answer to the first is: I use the time when I should be sleeping, and for the other: Fear.
I have a two jobs, two kids, two animals - thankfully only one husband - however, he works mostly at home. Adding to this, now that I’ve published a novel, I spend a significant amount of time marketing, promoting and keeping track of it. And I need a calm, tidy and ordered environment in which to work.
There’s only one solution for me. I have to get up at 5h00 in the morning.
This is the only way I get an hour, maybe an hour and a half, writing before leaving for the school run at 7h30 and off to work. Sometimes at night if I'm still conscious and not weighed down by admin, I can steal some more time.
It’s no way long enough or ideal, but that’s the reality.
I'm grumpy and tired all day, when others are waking up and having a coffee I'm starving for lunch and a siesta. I'm a lousy friend and an irascible mother - and an 'unpleasant wife' - adds my husband reading this over my shoulder - but the fear of never doing it and that Time Is Running Out keeps me going. This is really what I want to do and the novel won’t get written if I don’t write it.
There's been a lot of dispute about whether or not the author dies twice, but we can be sure the other half of Amis' statement is undeniably true.

A memory in September

A lot worse things can happen to an eight-year old than going to a girls' boarding school in the English countryside with two tennis courts, an oak-panelled hall, ballet three times a week and two Exeats a term. I had no idea why my mother cried in the taxi on our way there. 'Courage', she said. 'It's just this divorce and everyone says it'll be great, great fun'. I wouldn’t miss the whisky on her breath or how she leant too closely in.

We were shown the dorm by Mrs Patterson, Head matron. She said the first few weeks were tricky but easiest for everybody if there was as little contact with home as possible. She told my mother that she'd vomited every morning for five years after her husband had been killed in action - and we lay out my clothes in the two drawers appointed me. Three months’ full. Aertex shirts, vests, navy blue cardigan and socks, four pairs in white, four pairs in grey. We hung up Dress Code 1 for Sunday Evensong, lined up the Wellington boots, slippers, everyday shoes, dress shoes and the heavy, wool, winter coat. Mufti wear was for Saturday afternoons after Prep. and the supervised hour for writing letters home. The bedside locker was for the Holy Bible and matching Psalm book, leather bound with initials, the five-year diary with a lock and key, Smithson’s writing case and plenty of stamps. Mrs Patterson checked that the Cash’s name tapes were firmly sewn on and carried away the sheets, two sets of pillow cases, towels and face flannels, while making sure no one saw the little something for the Tuck Shop.

I hadn’t connected our day out shopping a few weeks ago - laughing in the sunlight at the mystifying school list while mum tried to light a ciggie and catch a cab - with this place, this moment, the smell of it. My stuffed Koala bear looked grim on the iron bed which had had most of the layers of paint laboriously scratched off over the decades.

The other girls were very interested. Mum was touched how carefully they handled all my things. Asking her questions, telling her their names, searching inside my washbag, stealing my time with her alone.

The ten-minute warning bell before supper. Mrs Patterson came in. Mum picked up her bag to leave. I tightened my fist around the straps. Older girls came out of nowhere offering to show me a rabbit in the pet shed while mum went to the visitor’s loo by the front door. It was a speedy operation, they knew all the tricks. When I got back, the dinner bell had been rung, the girls were standing in the hall, I wasn’t in the right line and mum and the taxi were gone.

By Christmas I was someone else, someone who had entirely different words for things, someone who talked in many different voices but all of them scathing and way-past bored, someone who’d never care again if anyone left her and fit in really, really well. Someone who every September, still looks at the sky and thinks, ‘how could you?’

Chirp-chirp

Who calls women chicks?
What kind of men?
What do they mean by it?

There are books which I understand as ‘chick lit’ – usually concerned with the men who call women ‘chicks’, finding the right shoes to attract them and then talking about them with their chick friends. Funny, often wise, happy endings, bikini waxes and handbags.

So am I alone in minding when any book written by a woman who isn’t Iris Murdoch or JK Rowling is described as ‘chick lit’?

Just a Kindle in the wind...

This year I’ve been visiting a lot of bookshops to organise readings/signings for my novel and I’ve found each as fearful and defeated as the next in their efforts to ward off extinction. They are fast becoming as quaint as loose-leaf tea leaves in china pots, but it wasn't until I was standing in Union Square, San Francisco, looking up at the big, empty, boarded-up building that used to be Borders, that I realised we were way past the turning point of how publishing was, to what reading is now.

The demise of books is no reflection on whether people are reading or not. Everywhere I look, heads are down in iPads, Nooks, Kindles – (some gadgets I don't even know the names of and won’t bother learning as it’s all changing so fast). E-readers converted those who already read books and sucked in others who took up reading as an excuse to get the latest toy. Reading, as I knew it, is definitely out, but reading, as it will be, is definitely the new thing.

Never someone to be left behind, I was even on a waiting list for one of the first Kindles in Europe. And this trip was my first without lugging around a case full of books; I could download whatever took my fancy in under 3 seconds, devour it late into the night without having my husband scowling at me, and! nor did I need to take my reading glasses - the print just gets bigger and bigger as I get older and older!

Did I enjoy the books as much as ever? I skim read more, my boredom threshold has sunk to a pretty intolerant low and I missed passing books on. No paperbacks greased with coconut oil, no phone numbers of new friends scribbled on the back, no receipts from restaurants marking pages, all the signs of great beach reads. I always used to take along one ‘Classic’ novel every summer but that’s been replaced with a Mystery/Thriller, the type I would have passed up before. Bookstores are gone, taking with them, patience, time and a certain amount of emotional commitment to the novel. How we read has definitely and irrevocably changed, but I wonder how much of what we read?

And it's out there...

Two weeks ago I went to a local bookshop to leave some 'signed' copies of my book for them to sell. The owner stopped me half way through and said, "Don't write the place name - you're probably gonna have to take them back because I don't want old, unsold stock hanging around!" I was like, 'Oh, OK.' I'm thrilled to say she called two days ago in a mad panic because they were completely sold out and needed more urgently for customers who were waiting! Yeah!

And thank you readers, for the reviews on Amazon, Goodreads and other forums. Whether positive or negative or just marked 'to-read' or 'read', the feedback is essential for any writer. I've only just started reviewing books, hotels, music etc. and I know however short or thought-out, it takes time, effort and courage to commit to one's opinions. It really is a priviledge to have my book read at all after writing for so many years and only receiving 'rejection' letters. So thank you!

I welcome this new age where the people's opinions are becoming more respected and viewed than the 'professionals' responses which, I suspect, we have all became a little sceptical of.

Keep 'em coming!