Lucy Roth's Blog, page 2

I can’t write to a Substack timetable…but is that actually a bad thing?

When I first started writing on this platform I was haphazard and inconsistent but highly active…there was a flurry of posts when I first joined, believing this was going to be *the* platform that I fell - and stayed - in love with - after many false starts with the likes of TikTok, Threads and Mastodon. Of course as book projects happened, there were more flurries of excitement, and then, when that died down, there were promises made to subscribers (all free - I’m not ripping anyone off. Promise) that I would post weekly, then fortnightly then….

I had the best of intentions. I even created a spreadsheet from which to inspire and plan creative posts, thoughts, ideas…linked to things that were happening in my world and the world around me.

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Didn’t work.

Then today, I wrote a LinkedIn post. Not the best time to write a LinkedIn post (a Sunday morning), but I just kind of blurted out what I was doing. There was no rhyme or reason to posting it at that moment. It was just that I found myself writing a psychopathic murder scene from my new work-in-progress novel, then picking up on some of my corporate copywriting work and realising that I was in some kind of creative zone. And I felt compelled to tell LinkedIn - because it made me realise something…

To do my best work I have to do it my way…

Photo by Robbie Noble on Unsplash

The two subjects and styles I was writing this morning are about as far removed from each other as they can be. But, for whatever reason - whether it was the bizarre nature of the fictional murder scene freeing up my creativity, or the fact that I was just in the mood to write at that moment in time - it got me thinking.

I simply cannot write to a timetable. I cannot post to LinkedIn at prescribed times either.

Don’t get me wrong, I always hit my deadlines (I’m a swot like that - just ask my agent) but the way I use my time in between those deadlines is never as planned.

I simply write when I feel like it.

This means that I work when I feel like it, too.

As a freelancer, I can. But I’m no slacker. I work at least full time hours. It’s just that, as I said on my LinkedIn post today, I might work a Sunday morning or late into a Friday evening, but on a Tuesday afternoon I might ditch the iPad for back to back EastEnders with a Mars ice-cream and a Diet Coke.

Sometimes, I just randomly fall asleep on the sofa with my three cats on a weekday afternoon.

I feel incredibly lucky that I can do this - work my time to suit my energy levels and creative bursts. But imagine if all workplaces enabled this kind of working?

I think since Covid many do, but if you heard that one of your team had a nap mid afternoon how would you feel about it? And if it was you - would you feel compelled to send a thousand emails at 3.17am to prove to your co-workers and boss that you were absolutely more than making up for it? It might be something that we try to practice more of, but I still think we’re stuck in the Mon-Fri, 9-5 realm much of the time.

Anyway, it’s 22.12 and that’s me done for today. I haven’t worked all day. Just when I’ve felt like it - with some sci-fi and crime drama in between, and a walk up a hill with another Lisa Jewell audiobook. But I’ve got a lot done. And I’ll probably lie in until 9:30 tomorrow - because I feel like doing that too.

As for my next Substack post - I honestly can’t say when that’ll land.

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My 2024 writing adventures

Happy new year to everyone!!

I’m really starting to look forward to 2024 now - despite the fact that my garden has turned into a muddy swamp (precisely how long has it rained for now?) coupled with the fact that my husband has been struck with Covid (again). BUT STILL, there are so many bookish things due to come to fruition in 2024 so I thought I’d share a few highlights with subscribers.

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Northern Bookshelf

I’m so excited to have been selected as one of ten Northern writers to take part in New Writing North’s inaugural Northern Bookshelf Live programme. This new scheme aims to connect the best writers with libraries and readers across the North of England - and I’m currently plotting dates in my diary for visits, talks and workshops at libraries in the NE, Yorkshire and beyond! The image below shows the 10 authors and their selected books.

For more about the scheme, click here. I’ll update subscribers with events as they get confirmed…

No me llames ofendidito

My book on mental health stigma and stereotypes, Snowflake, has been translated into Spanish and is being published by Libros Cupula in February - so keep your eyes peeled for No me llames ofendidito: Rompiendo con los estereotipos y el estigma en torno a la salud mental!

I’m not going to pretend to be cool about this because, while my books have been selling limited numbers in other countries, this is the first translation any of my books has enjoyed. So I’m seriously proud of it!

To find out more about the Spanish version click here.

To order an English version, visit Amazon, Waterstones or, my personal favourite indy, Forum Books. (NB: Forum deliver nationally and also stock copies of my fiction books No Worries if Not and The Twenty Seven Club).

Bookbub deals

If you’re an e-book reader who loves a bargain, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve got two featured deals running internationally with BookBub! In January, there will be a special offer on No Worries if Not and then, in February, The Twenty Seven Club e-book will be on offer for just 99p! These offers will be available in the UK, Canada and Australia.

So if you want to get your hands on bargain e-copies you can use this referral link to sign up for all Bookbub’s deals (you can check your favourite genres, etc) and please do give me a follow on there (as I am only just growing my Bookbub profile and it’s a little lonely at present…!)

New writing project

Of course, every writer has some kind of work in progress bubbling away…and while I have a few ongoing, I am mainly focusing my efforts on a new psych thriller with music themes (of course!)

I’m not going to give too much away, but thanks to funding from Arts Council’s Develop Your Creative Practice fund I am LOVING being able to spend quality time researching and being mentored by thriller and crime writers, including Nikki Smith and former detective-turned-author Graham Bartlett. I’m also working with psychology experts, a musician and a charity on the research side of things.

It’s a more ambitious project for me and so far I’m loving it (I was planning to start writing it in January - it’s now the 2nd and I am 5k words in and already feeling immersed in the world). Let’s just hope I write something decent!

Here’s to 2024 and hopefully many more books, events and musings!

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

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Farage in the jungle reminds us why creating panto baddies out of MPs is never a good idea

From Boris Johnson’s unruly hair to Donald Trump’s unblended perma-tan, we’ve had so much fun turning kitchen mops and wotsits into images of our infamous political villains.

There’s been plenty of comment previously about how this can, unfortunately, replace our disgust and justified fear with laughter and pity - almost diminishing the real harm that they do. And there’s definitely something in that - creating panto baddies and cartoon villains out of powerful figures somehow makes them seem fluffy.

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I think it’s a similar matter with people we come across in our day to day lives too. I remember a school that made pupils who had bullied other children sit on display in the corridor to do their work. They called it ‘exclusion’. I felt it was more akin to giving them a stage to platform their notoriety. They were probably being high-fived by their mates as they walked past.

And on that note…Nigel Farage and Matt Hancock in I’m a Celebrity goes further still. Not only does it give them a stage to ham up their panto baddie characters like never before, its boosts their bank balance by significant sums of money (the reported £1.5m being paid to Farage is truly sickening).

Panto baddies work in panto because they’re not real. I mean, if we were to put Cruella de Vil on stage after she had *actually* skinned some puppies in real life I very much doubt any parents would be taking their children along to hiss and boo. And yet we think it’s acceptable to do that with political villains - powerful people who have influenced and encouraged hatred and intolerance, who have harmed and risked people’s lives, and who have, through political decisions often based on personal gain, taken lives.

People end up in prison for far, far less, and often the public are outraged about giving them a TV in their cell. Yet these powerful people, who cause widespread harm, are actually placed upon our TV, their worst punishment being booed and hissed at while they attempt to eat some poor wriggling creature in the jungle. And to make their ‘ordeal’ more comfortable, they get given millions of pounds in return.

The injustice is undeniable. Yet while we tune in and watch these shows, broadcasters and producers will keep inviting these in-real-life bad ‘personalities’ to soak up the attention and the cash. In turn creating even more opportunities for them to progress their despicable careers.

This is why I will not be watching I’m a Celebrity. And why I certainly didn’t watch the season with Hancock in either. Sometimes, the only power we have is to switch off. But if enough of us do it, it can be an incredibly powerful message.

I don’t imagine for a second me writing this post from my sofa will make a huge difference. But if we all felt disempowered about the role we can play in the environment, for example, nothing would change. So I’m going to share my angry thoughts on Substack in the hope that it might encourage even just one more individual to boycott the show. I know I’m not the only one making a fuss about this, I just hope enough of us vote with our remote controls to shut these grotesque people up and encourage them to hide their toxicity under a stone instead.

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Why are there no perfume ads with models eating Hula Hoops and wearing Dr Martens?

It’s almost Christmas (give over - it’s mid November, I’m allowed to say it now) and many of us will be looking at our almost-empty perfume or aftershave bottles and wondering who to ask for a re-fill to land expectantly in our Christmas stockings.

Sometimes, we might even feel like being adventurous and trying something new - testing out a new fragrance to see if it suits us. But where do we get our inspiration from? Do the TV ads really inspire anyone to try out a new scent?

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Personally, I scour the shops, spray the bottles onto those tiny little pieces of cardboard and desperately hope that I can remember which is which. Because, really, all those TV ads are offering me is a sense of ‘nope, not you. Not ever.’ And it’s not even a case of feeling unfairly excluded from this make-believe world of perfume-wearing models with very serious issues to contend with (have you seen the look on their faces? It doesn’t exactly look like fun does it?). To be honest, I’m not sure I want to be dripping in gold and walking on fluffy clouds in high heels or whatever. And I’m also not sure I want to see my husband playing his electric guitar in a desert with a gazillion black wristbands tied to his arms while an eagle circles overhead, licking its lips. Or its beak. But actually it could have lips because, hey, it’s a ridiculous perfume ad after all.

And it’s not even that these ads are tribal in any sense. They’re not about picking pop over alternative, or glam over punk rock. They’re not choosing sides. They are just all, frankly, fucking ridiculous.

What are they trying to sell us? The fear of being eaten alive by a bird of prey while we’re too busy trying to look cool in far too many layers of leather and denim under a red hot mid-day desert sun? (And why is Johnny Depp the face of Dior aftershave anyway??) Or are they telling us that if we wear their perfume we will become so simultaneously popular and tragic in equal measures that we’ll find ourselves running down a rainy city street chased by paparazzi while wearing high heels and a 50 foot feathery train, almost losing our life to an oncoming yellow cab as we pant, gloriously wet faced and beautiful while staring at a rolling camera?

No thanks.

If you can, however, make me smell so good that even the lingering waft of cheese n onion hula hoops are overwhelmed by a sexy fragrance then I’ll probably bite your hand off. Or perhaps I’ve been out running and I’m sweating like a person whose been out running but my husband still wants me RIGHT NOW because my fragrance is simply irresistible.

These concepts are what I aspire to. This is what I want perfume to do for me.

When I inhale the sample paper that a friendly sales assistant has sprayed with a new scent from my favourite perfume brand, I don’t imagine myself dancing on a velvety chocolate fountain in 5 inch heels to a new breathy version of some rock ballad (I don’t think the chocolate fountain concept has been done yet but give it time). I imagine myself getting out the shower, giving myself a spritz and immediately turning my husband’s attention away from the NUFC game on the telly box because I smell so bloody gawgeous. Why aren’t they selling me that? It’s SMART, after all - and that’s what we’re all told we should be aiming for in marketing (specific, measurable, achievable, realistic and timely). You might be able to measure how many times you’ve been rocking out in a desert (probably 0), but is it achievable and realistic? Nope. And come Christmas, it’s certainly not timely - not in the UK anyway.

And OK, OK, I get that Christmas is a time for make believe and magic. And maybe I’m losing sight of that. But give me tinsel any day and let’s happily pretend Santa Claus exists and bask in our nostalgic childhood memories - I’m all for that. Just stop trying to encourage everyone to be ultra glam and endlessly cool. It will undoubtedly have the opposite affect and we’ll all just end up hating each other.

Measure that, Chanel.

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Exclamation perfume, focus points and Sun-In hair bleach

Nostalgia is like chicken soup for the soul to me. I don’t really know why, because, frankly, re-living those horrifically awkward teenage years is definitely not on my bucket list. Getting through them once was bad enough.

But when you can take a step back, don a pair of rose-tinted shades and pretend that social anxiety never happened, it can be kind of sweet. Which is probably why I set two of my novels in the mid 90s. Well, it was either that or my midlife crisis, anyway.

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I’ve since made so many TikToks and reels exploring nights out in the 90s, getting ready in the 90s, what we listened to in the 90s, what we had in our bedrooms in the 90s (post-Balthazar Getty crush when I replaced posters of Hollywood heart throbs and cute pics of dolphins with posters of Courtney Love and Sonic Youth).

But the 90s were special weren’t they? I mean, let’s pretend that Urban Outfitters hasn’t bothered revisiting any other decade’s fashion statements and that spaghetti strap dresses and baggy jeans are the *only* nostalgic trends they’ve stocked.

We like to think that our era was more transformative, more out there and more unique than those that came before - or after - us. But in all honesty, my 90s wardrobe was packed with 70s clothes from vintage shops and car boot sales.

Still, there are some unique 90s products and styles that are worth a mention. Not all of them deserve a place in today’s wardrobes/lives, but they all deserve a special place in my middle-aged, fondly-looking-back-on-it-all heart. Here’s why.

Perfumes made a statement without saying a word

I adored Exclamation perfume. I also stocked up on Charlie Red body spray, Tribe and LouLou, and at one point I think I had some Tommy Girl and Cool Water too. Smells are unbelievably powerful when it comes to triggering memories, so I’m quite tempted to jump on eBay and see if I can find some old unopened bottles of these. Not sure how well cheap perfume from the 90s will have fared, mind…It was the early 2000s when I found my actual favourite though. Pack Rabanne’s Pour Elle. A bus driver in New Zealand literally stopped the bus, came marching down the aisle and asked me what I was wearing cos he wanted to buy it for his girlfriend.

Hair spray that bleached your hair from the comfort of your own bedroom

Of course, wanting to get the Courtney Love/Kat Bjelland look demanded some serious hair styling products. And there was nothing better than the instant effects of the worst thing to happen to our hair - but the best thing to happen to our short-lived happiness: Sun-In hair spray. I seem to remember it was less straw-coloured and more straw-textured after a good old spray of this stuff.

Cigarettes that gave us more than cancer…kind of

We all saw the warnings on the back of cigarette packets, but we didn’t have to look at the pictures. So it was easier to pretend lung cancer would never happen to us. Besides, it completed the desired look (see above). Also, if you bought Embassy or Regal you could save up for a free hairdryer. Granted, you’d have to puff away on A LOT of ciggies in order to get your coveted hairdryer. In fact, you’d probably have smoked enough to buy said hairdryer 100 times over and become a prime candidate for an urgent chest x-ray.

Stacker systems that made a statement

We didn’t want gadgets back in the 90s. We wanted huge stacker statement hi-fis. The bigger the better. More often than not, they were tinny, rubbish things incorporating a crap record player and double tape deck. Unless you were some kind of aspiring superstar DJ with a Technics system in your bedroom. Remember balancing pennies on the back of the needle to stop if jumping? Because changing the stylus was such a ball ache - even worse than filling the car up as an adult. I remember two of my friends, sisters who shared a bedroom, both getting one for Christmas one year. No idea how that worked but at that point in time it was still the 80s and they both loved Toni Basil so I think they probably managed OK. Mine was an important piece of my youth though. Especially when I got into the 90s and spent all my spare pennies heading out to record fairs and second hand vinyl shops and the pre-Discogs days. Had to save some of those pennies to prolong the use of the stylus though.

If you miss the 90s my novels The Twenty Seven Club and Parklife will take you back to 1994 and 1996 respectively. Alternatively, just head to Urban Outfitters and spend a small fortune on an updated, shiny new version of your youth. You might need to take out a mortgage first though…

L x

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Oranges and Lemons: A horrible short story for Halloween

With Halloween coming up, and a GIGANTIC pumpkin on my kitchen table ready to be carved into something grotesque, I thought it might be a good time to share my short story, Oranges and Lemons, putting a twist on a historical crime.

I don’t usually write historical fiction (those of you who do will no doubt spot some inaccuracies!), or indeed horror, but I thought I would give it a go. I actually wrote this a few years ago now, but it’s not currently available to read anywhere else online.

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Hope you enjoy it - if that’s the right word for it. But just a note to all the women reading - the world is a better place when we lift each other up. X

Photo by Tom Rogers on UnsplashOranges and Lemons

Come flock to me and forget your woes for the streets are much too dangerous for sobriety! Only when our chest puffs out and our legs stoop low do we brave the dark, torrid cobbles of Whitechapel. Pass through my free house, and you will find abundant peace and certain delirium courtesy of Old Tom Gin, I promise you that.

My palace gaslights twinkle, enticing you in from the bloody streets where entrails once lay and screams echo nightly. The warmth of my fire and the merriment of my gin wink at you - a perfect recipe to still your fearful heart.

Aha! But let it not be stilled like poor Mary Ann’s! For many a heart stopped beating since that dreadful night!

Speculation is rife and men are threatened by this grotesque power much darker and greater than they. A doctor, a baker, a candlestick maker? Come now, how could familiar men such as they slay our vulnerable creatures of the night?

But a noiseless man with features unique to strangers? Of course – it must be this man! Only a stranger could dance with the devil.

You utter fools! It could be anyone of you. Any man who pursues the women down Commercial Road. Any man who sings along with the music hall crowd. Any man you rub shoulders with and play bagatelle.

A man who we know so very, very well…

Perhaps it’s you, dear fellow? My regular, coming daily to drink away the reality of a wife walking the blackest of streets.

Or perhaps the doctor, so desperate to leave this squalid place he seeks oblivion by drowning his sanity in gin.

Whoever this ‘Jack’ reveals himself to be he’s most certainly accountable, they say. Be it this man or that man but certainly some man round these parts.

Ha! They’re at it again, as is my fame-hungry ghost writer, trying hard to win controversy. A little game to keep a small mind busy. What fool seeks such notoriety? Notoriety that can stop a deathly passion in its tracks.

And then there’s our dear, hard-working detective – now he’s a prize twerp! He'd be no more blind if he were running around with his head in a goose and his brain pickled in India’s finest pale ale. But carry on, detective, by all means. Allow me to keep my passion raging a while longer…

The humour certainly isn’t lost on me, serving my clientele with a smile and a flash of bosom. Good evening, Sir, name your most delectable poison. And what might Madam desire on this dark night? A tipple of this? A dash of that? Something to warm your cockles, my love?

London is gravely intoxicated. Intoxicated by my gin. Intoxicated by the mystery of Jack the Ripper. Oh Whitechapel, your toxins have removed your senses entirely! You’re guarding the wrong ideas while the fire rages out of hand.

As a woman in the business of intoxication perhaps poison should be my weapon? This presumption is precisely why it is not. For if they ever dare dream of a woman killer, she must only be a quiet killer. History tells us women are toxic to their prey.

A drink, kind Sir?

A frenzied attack need not be impassioned. It needn’t be borne of the physical strength of a man and his love - or hate - for woman. We can stage frenzy. My passion is my palace, and I am not ready to let it lie. Those women are competition, sapping my potential day by day, cutting off my takings while the night is still young with their looks of false lust and promises of a quick ‘ow’s yer father.

But I, Nancy Johnson, am a successful businesswoman, and I will not tolerate such opposition! My smile will not betray my anger, nor will my heart - which beats no faster as I tug at well-worn bowels and slice dirty flesh. I’ll put an end to this nonsense, and the most educated of men, thus far, do not suspect a single thing. Education, you see, is so much more than pencils on slate. The finest education can be discovered by keeping your eyes open and never expecting the expected.

I’m not used to being ignored and for the most part I’m not. The charm I exude sees to that. The charm I use to hide my dark soul from daylight. My light and cheeky aura shines above the darkness in these dark times. I may be ignored, but my actions are not. I can sit back and enjoy the show as these foolish people run ragged around a myth.

Jack the bleedin’ Ripper.

When did murder become a man’s world? A world requiring only physical strength. Cunning and constitution are the traits most required. How to make it look like a man? Make it sloppy and pay no mind to the mess…

And yet those men who wince at the screaming bloody mass of wriggling flesh emerging from woman - do they not know we deal in blood and gore day in, day out?

‘Oh, protect your delicate little ears, m’dear, these words are not fit for a precious lady.’

You’ve no idea what I’m hiding in my skirts. You’ve no idea of the ease in which I float through Whitechapel. You look at me, but you don’t see me. Go ahead - assume women feeble and strangers a menace. Your eyes see only what you tell them to see.

But I see you. And I let you continue in this foolish game of cat and mouse. Meanwhile, my wink says so much more than you’ll ever know.

What shall your poison be today, my dear?

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