What do dentists and the current WIP have in common? The answer is pain...
Stayed upuntil nearly 3 in the morning drafting the third novel. Have now well and truly passed the half-way mark on the sequel toStockings and Cellulite. Thanks to the lovelyemails received begging to know what happens next, Cass, Morag and Nell arereunited and this time they have a brood of babies. Yes, Cass was most definitely pregnant at theend of Stockings. What happensnext? Well Morag might now be a yummymummy but she's still a sexual predator; Nell has also popped a sprog and is strugglingto get back into both her jeans and a routine, while Cass is jugglingweaning and getting her head around the reappearance of Selina, the glamorous Nemesiswho did her best to split Cass and hubby Jamie up last time around. And if Selina has her way, this time she'lldo it permanently. Yes, we're talkingmurder.
It is anuisance that when in the midst of thinking up murderous plots, real life getsin the way. The telephone interruptedone particularly drug-induced chapter (the character being under the influence,not me) with my son calling from university. 'Hello darling,' I trilled, 'how lovely tohear from you. How are the dentalstudies going?' 'Stressfully,' barked Robbie. 'My uniform is too big. I look like a shepherd in a nativityplay. Clinic is in tenminutes. What can I do?' Mothers are meant to solve these problemsinstantly. Even from the other end of atelephone. My son didn't appreciatebeing told to put a tea towel on his head and laugh it off. Ten minutes later he'd bashed my credit cardand bought a smaller uniform.
Andtalking of dental matters, I had to visit the dentist this week. Fifty quid to spend five minutes in a recliningchair that goes up and down and have a little mirror whizz around themouth. 'All looking super Mrs Viggiano,'twinkled the dentist. Naturally his ownpearlies were whiter than white and one could almost see the accompanying littlestar bounce off an incisor. Actually Idon't begrudge my dentist a penny. He'shad a terrible time with me over the years thanks to an in-built fear of thedreaded drill and a low pain-threshold where root canal work is concerned. That and overdosing on Marathon Man. Utter torture.
Whichbrings me full-circle back to the writing. Because the insufferable Selina is about to dish out a bit of tortureherself...
It is anuisance that when in the midst of thinking up murderous plots, real life getsin the way. The telephone interruptedone particularly drug-induced chapter (the character being under the influence,not me) with my son calling from university. 'Hello darling,' I trilled, 'how lovely tohear from you. How are the dentalstudies going?' 'Stressfully,' barked Robbie. 'My uniform is too big. I look like a shepherd in a nativityplay. Clinic is in tenminutes. What can I do?' Mothers are meant to solve these problemsinstantly. Even from the other end of atelephone. My son didn't appreciatebeing told to put a tea towel on his head and laugh it off. Ten minutes later he'd bashed my credit cardand bought a smaller uniform.
Andtalking of dental matters, I had to visit the dentist this week. Fifty quid to spend five minutes in a recliningchair that goes up and down and have a little mirror whizz around themouth. 'All looking super Mrs Viggiano,'twinkled the dentist. Naturally his ownpearlies were whiter than white and one could almost see the accompanying littlestar bounce off an incisor. Actually Idon't begrudge my dentist a penny. He'shad a terrible time with me over the years thanks to an in-built fear of thedreaded drill and a low pain-threshold where root canal work is concerned. That and overdosing on Marathon Man. Utter torture.
Whichbrings me full-circle back to the writing. Because the insufferable Selina is about to dish out a bit of tortureherself...
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