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A Blog About Writing a Blog!

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So, here I am writing a blog about writing a blog! My first thought about beginning this online journey, my soul and thoughts bared to the world, was why on Earth would anyone want to read this? The thought of pulling in traffic to my site, gathering a following and regular views and so on… it just felt so alien to me.

Then someone put a little seed of thought into my head – imagine if you could read this for another author you admire. The more I considered this point, the more I realised how much I would cherish the opportunity to delve into the mind of an already successful author.

Can you imagine if JK Rowling published and online, real-time, blow by blow account of her thoughts and feelings to accompany each chapter of Harry Potter? I would be riveted, captivated even. But it would also be inspiring, I know she is an advocate for ‘just keep going’ and the voice of reason, reminding us of the odds when getting rejections from literary agents.

I am only at the beginning of this process, I have yet to deal with the feeling, which I imagine equates to drowning, when your inbox is chocked full of rejections from agents and the temptation to delete the file is so strong your index finger practically twitches by itself. My three rejections to date, whilst disappointing, were absorbed almost by sheer osmosis as I remind myself that I while I may get many rejections I will only ever need one acceptance.

The tiny voice inside of me that says ‘you CAN do this’ keeps me going, at ten o’clock at night when I’m exhausted from working all day then the daily battle to get my toddler to bed almost finishes me off but I NEED to write or process my ideas before they fall out my butt and are lost forever.

I’ve turned into a crazed person who carries around two notebooks and a set of 42 multi-coloured Staedtler triplus fineliners in my bag everywhere I go. At times this is no mean feat considering I am usually also sporting a very attractive My Little Pony bag stuffed full of toddler essentials, a deceptively heavy Moana doll and usually my little toddler herself will either be stuffed in my arms as cargo or be sitting on the floor refusing to go in any direction that she thinks I might approve of. I am unsure when I am going to get this sudden rush of unexpected inspiration, but even more self-eluding is the thought that I will ever have the opportunity to write it down if the moment does strike. And if it ever did, I certainly can’t imagine having the time to use my beautiful assortment of fineliners to create a rainbow of thoughts all colour coordinated.

This idea is more fantasy than any of my books.

Yet, here I sit with my little Dune handbag bulging from the notebooks and pens crammed in beside my purse, diary, phone and Paw Patrol tissues. Hoping, praying that my stories, my thoughts and my hard work will be enough to make my dreams come true.

I’m going to blog my journey, step by nervous step, and hopefully I will look back on this and smile at my cautious journey from the safety of success. I hope you will come along for the ride with me.

Xoedinburgh skyline

The First of Many Book Reviews
Author · blogging · Book Review · Imagine · Uncategorized · Writing

The First of Many Book Reviews

ajkingwriterLeave a comment

 

Hi all!

 

So, I figured as well as my witty writing journey, I could also expose you all to my opinions of books.

You can stop reading now.

Seriously, this is your last chance.

I won’t be held accountable for any disagreements you have with my opinions. In fact, opinions are kind of like arses. Every has one, and the majority of them stink. Mines may well be included in that pile.

Back to the review! As one of my ongoing projects is a humorous, chick-lit piece named The Inflatable Husband, I wanted to read other titles which are similar to get a feel for the market.

Smart, huh?

My reading of choice this week was Thirty-Two Going on Spinster by Becky Monson.

For some perspective, this book has a pretty good 4.3 out of 5 stars overall on Kindle with over 100 reviews plus a grand total of 626 views on Amazon. Pretty darn good I’d say. Glowing feedback, which included quotes like “This is true Chick Lit… relatable, quirky, and downright hilarious” and “Once you start reading you won’t be able to put it down!”

Well, luckily for my toddler and pups who were hungry and required attention throughout the day, I was able to pry it from my hands. But, overall, I did enjoy the book. It was a nice read.

Very nice.

Good.

Sweet, romantic.

Bit placid for my taste perhaps?

Anyone who has read my What is it With Fifty Shades? blog will know that I did a bit of digging in that genre, and I think it may have warped my mind.

Nice, sweet, happy books just aren’t it for me anymore. I had similar feelings after finishing one of the top selling Kindle books called The Keeper of Lost Things recently as well – it was nice.

But where’s the grit?

The action, the plot twists, the sex… all missing! It was all very ‘then they kissed intensely and the curtain came down…’, am I now programmed to respond only to smut?

Lord help me.

I liked the protagonist in the book, Julia. She was an incredibly relatable woman with lots of issues, namely self-esteem and motivation and her brain went through thought processes not in an entirely dissimilar way from my own. Her stagnant life needed a shake up, and it came in the form of a hunky man of course.

Not because women need men to save them, before the feminists begin their hate campaign, but because it is a romance novel. It’s chick lit. It’s candy floss literature for anyone over the age of about twenty.

Hey, I like candy floss, it’s nice, and I like the book.

But the big, dramatic twist I saw coming at least twelve chapters before poor Julia did, and I found that some parts became a little safe and predictable. But still, very nice.

I feel like me saying the book was nice is now becoming an insult.

Here’s what it showed me: I like the way I am writing The Inflatable Husband. It is definitely chick lit, there are definitely similarities between my character, Emma and Monson’s Julia, but I like the extra dirt I have. I enjoy the rude humour, the sexy bits, the extra grit that I am trying to get in my novel – it’s what I like to read.

Now, all I have to hope is that all you fabulous people will love it too. Cause I don’t know if I can do candy floss. I could try… but I reckon a sweet first kiss on a picnic blanket would accidentally escalate to steaminess under said blanket if I was left to work my create genius…

So, to summarise. If you enjoy books like Bridget Jones, Chocolate Kisses, The Devil Wears Prada or just anything by Sophie Kinsella, read it. I bet you’ll quite like it.

But read my book too, when it’s out!

 

Xo

 

Adulting
Author · blogging · Imagine · Uncategorized · Writing

Adulting

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If you read the post, the weird photo of my dog and my leg makes sense.

Okay. Today I want to have a bit of a chat to you all about being a grown up. Not necessarily being ‘grown up’, but at least being of the age where you are generally considered by passers-by who do not know you, to be an adult.

Has anyone ever been in a situation, where something happens and you find yourself looking around for a grown up to help or deal with it, only to realise that you are in fact, the adult, and you better get on with this shit right now? God, I hope that doesn’t just happen to me.

And how exactly do these adulting people do it?

I ask this, as I sit here in my pants and top writing this (because it’s too hot for the jeans I stupidly put on and if I go upstairs the puppy will come with me and piss or shit in some hidden location. Only discovered days from now, by which time the smell is unbearable) so here I am. In my frigging pants. And the dog seems to have made some sort of nest on me, I’ll post a pic.

I should think, a proper adult, would manage to be fully dressed in the middle of the day. Don’t get me wrong, I was fully dressed when I emptied and filled the dishwasher, let the dog out, got Poppy ready then went to soft play, got her first haircut, had lunch and a walk in the oriental gardens before getting her to nap and dropping a still-sleeping toddler off at nursery.

And now? I’m exhausted!

But this evil, leering list is staring at me from the kitchen bunker.

Hoover living room, cut the front lawn, hang up washing and re load, re-organise units in the dining room, post a blog, post on Instagram, write 2000 words, try not to lose your shit…

Okay, so the last one isn’t on there, but the rest are. And the hilarious thing? Poppy’s only at nursery for four hours. FOUR HOURS – when do I think I’m going to do all this when I write my stupid lists?  

And this is me on holiday from work, this should be the easy time, but it’s not.

I see some of my friends (but mostly I see acquaintances do this because I struggle to befriend these people due to their apparent perfection) who are beautifully dressed, hair done and bodies back to pre-child glory, holding their well-behaved, also beautifully dressed child in their glorious, spotless home. I’m talking about people who work, often have more than one child and do not pay for a cleaner.

How is this accomplished?

Someone once told me coke is the key – keeps you thin and gives you the buzz required for housework. This was a theory people, not a description of their own methods before you all have visions of coked up mother’s racing round the Lothians in four by fours. I think I’ll try to find another way. Although, it was tempting. *she jokes* Kind of.

As I type I’m ramming last night’s carbonara in my mouth like I bought it from the reduced section; I had the willpower to resist it last night, but sadly not today. So there goes the diet. Add that to my ‘failing to adult properly’ list, it’s a long one too. I like lists.

Some days I’m desperate for the husband to be home so that I can stop worrying about what goes on in a room every time I turn my back, whether the puppy is using the toddler as a chew toy or busy having a shit on my cream carpet in the corner, or maybe Poppy has taken to feeding him crayons like gravy bones as she did yesterday (his poops are now like rainbows, when they grace my carpets) or maybe she has decided to drink from his water bowl and try to lick the peanut butter from his kong toy again. This is life. This is the things I am constantly on the lookout for. But by the time he comes home from work, funnily enough he is less than enthused at the prospect of starting occupation number two.

And in between all this excitement? Keep a clean, tidy house, keep a tidy garden, plan lessons, mark, blog, grow a social media empire, did I mention finish my current novel?

Oops, I forgot the food shop. How on Earth could I forget that? Anyone else with children will understand why the weekly food shop strikes fear into the hearts of any confident parent. Throw in a toddler and it’s like taking a day trip to hell. Anyone else relate to the partner who rarely participates in creating the list or the shop itself but has the cheek to grumble about something they wanted not being there? Those people are lucky if they still have both eyes in their sockets. That’s all I’m saying.

Then some genius goes and says, ‘you need to make time to relax’.

Oh really? Thanks for that brand-new insight into my life. I need to relax? Who the fuck knew!

Here’s the thing though. I can’t.

I can’t because I want things. I want the things that everyone else does – happy, healthy family; nice house and tidy garden; good career; feel organised for my work; visit family and friends… but I want other things too.

I want to write.

I want to be an author.

I want to be published.

And I want these things badly enough that I am willing to work myself to the bone to get them, because to maintain my life and get what I want, my hard work is the only option. It is the currency required to pay for these things. And luck, lots of luck. If anyone has some spare I’d love it.

So…my assessment.

Adulting is difficult. Sitting on the floor, in your pants, difficult.

I love my life, but it’s not easy.

Everyone probably has their own challenges going on. I mean, that’s why the show Desperate Housewives was even started, right?

So, to all of you out there, bravely trying to ‘adult’, I salute you and wish you the best of luck.

Xo

Writing About a Writing Course
Author · blogging · Imagine · Uncategorized · Writing

Writing About a Writing Course

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Be proud of me readers – I signed up for a writing course! Not a big, strenuous one, just a little six-weeker, online by Curtis Brown Creative.

I was quite nervous about this new adventure, having been scared away from most writing forums by my own feelings of inadequacy. Now I was suddenly plunged into the world of peer reviews when only one person had ever actually read what I have been working on.

Terrifying? Yes.

Exhilarating? Yes!

My emotions were on the Pepsi Max – one minute I was drowning in the treacle of my own insecurities and everyone else’s work looked like something even Wilbur Smith could only dream of. The next, I had received amazing feedback and I was on top of the world, ready to quit my job and become a full-time author. Cause it’s only a matter of time until I’m published and rolling in it, right?

Luckily, I didn’t. Instead I think of it as a valuable lesson and I want to share what it was really like with all you wonderful people.

The tasks set each week were invigorating, it was like being back at school and I loved every minute of it. The tasks were insightful, forcing me to look at my writing closer than ever before with a particular focus each week. After just one online task I had stripped almost a thousand words out of my first chapter and I can honeslty say I did not miss them. My writing was already better.

As the weeks passed I received excellent feedback, my confidence grew and I was bolstered and inspired to continue my book because I can do this.

Week five is my personal favourite, I was selected to receive feedback and author Anna Davis liked my writing. She actually commented that I (as in ME!) write nicely, and she wanted to read more. I was ecstatic.

Then came week six, the grand finale. We were sharing more to do with our books, being a sci-fi fantasy novel mines didn’t have much company in the genre on the course, but this had never been an issue in previous weeks.

Cue self-esteem disaster.

If I had a book deal for every person that wrote ‘I don’t really like this genre…’ Gutted. I had one glowing review which said, despite not liking the genre, this writer would love to read more and really enjoyed it. However, it was followed by a chain of dissatisfied readers.

The fundamental elements of my book were questioned – did it work as first person narrative? Is it definitely supposed to be for adults? Do I write well enough to make it feel like the reader is experiencing the character’s emotions first hand?

Urgh, it was painful. There were almost tears.

But, this is what I signed up for. I guess I forgot at some point during the course, because I had only ever received positive praise and not an ounce of criticism. I forgot I was putting myself out there for criticism, that was the point.

My writing is precious to me, not quite like having a child but definitely still important. My stories are living things, they grow and change with me, as my writing ability develops and takes on new skill and ideas. Having someone be critical is hard, almost physically painful at times, but it made me better. It made my writing better.

I took the other points of view and analysed them. I decided what was genuine feedback, meant to encourage my story and improve my writing and I focused on that. Some comments were irrelevant because I knew I thought the opposite, and I had to be confident in my style. It was such a tricky tight rope to walk – balancing other’s comments and using them for change whilst staying true to my own thoughts and style of writing.

At times I felt big-headed, that I was ignoring comments of other writers because I knew better when I wasn’t any more qualified than they were.

But here’s the thing, I was and am more qualified.

This is my book. These are my characters. I have to own that, if I don’t believe in my work, why should anyone ever pay to read it?

So here is my summary of my writing course people, it was amazing.

Fun for almost every second, educational and eye opening to the end. Take on people’s feedback, some have a great insight or fresh new eyes.

But always be true to your book.

Xo

Ever Imagine You’re a Doorbell?
Author · blogging · Imagine · Writing

Ever Imagine You’re a Doorbell?

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Ever Imagined You’re a Doorbell? Nope? Just me?

 

Sometimes my mind wanders a bit. Okay, so truthfully that should read ‘my mind wanders a lot, all the time’. I have always been able to imagine personalities, families or histories and stories for people I don’t know. Someone opposite me on a train, walking past my garden gate, another dog walker, all innocently grazing my life with the barest of contact but within seconds I’ve given them a name, colourful history and decided that they are in fact on their way to a very dangerous reunion with a jilted lover or that their dog is really an alien.

I think that’s why I love airports so much. It’s like the unofficial meeting place for PAWP. People Addicted to Watching People. See, right there. Now I’ve created an imaginary society, with badges and a secret handshake and everything.

To get back to my title, I can make up stories for anything. I often do. Completely miscellaneous and inanimate objects. I like to give them feelings, back stories and often a temper (some psychologist somewhere will have something to say about that no doubt.) I often find myself saying things to the kids at school like “Don’t do that to your chair, he doesn’t like it when you swing. He’s got a bad back.” Or maybe “Take that pen out your mouth, in Pendonia marking a pen with your teeth means you are mated for life. Think about it carefully.”

Now, apart from making the kids think I’m a total nutter, it also catches them a little off guard. They usually stop whatever small misdemeanour they had begun to engage with just from the power of sheer surprise. And I like doing it. I always have.

Tell me if anyone else does this, as a little girl I loved cuddly toys. Particularly, TY Beanie Babies and I have a rather generous collection that now live in my daughter’s room (yes, I know apparently some of them are worth a fortune but it’s just not true. Otherwise I’d be blogging to you from Mauritius while my permanently employed Butler in the Buff served me Blackcurrant Affair cocktails.) When choosing said beanies, I would look at their faces. Their wee expressions. Some looked angry cause they’d sewn the eyes too close together, some had their noses put on squint, others had a jaunty-angled smile probably due to the small Vietnamese lady stitching needing a break. Now, I tried hard to find the best-looking beanies; the perkiest ears, most symmetrical face and best lying pattern. However, I always ended up with the beanie I’d picked up first. Why, you ask?

Simple. Guilt.

I felt guilty that I had picked that toy up and wouldn’t take it home. Guilty that I’d gotten their wee hopes up, their dreams of finally finding a home and owner who’d love, cherish and play with them, ripped away in an instant due to a slightly lopsided grin.

This was more guilt than my tender little heart could bear.

So go ahead, look through my collection of poorly sewn, imperfect little monsters with whiskers and stitching askew. My overly empathetic little heart gave me the wild imagination I have today and I am grateful for it. I have included a little snippet below from my book where the main character, Emma, has a date arrive at the door.

Because, let’s face it, sometimes you have to imagine you’re a doorbell.

xo

 

The ding my bell makes has to be the same as always, but for some reason, tonight it sounds different. Pingier, as though even the door is excited. I imagine, if I were the doorbell, it would be rather exhilarating having some tall, dark, chunk of hunk pressing his manicured finger up against me. Be a pleasant change from the sweaty index of Gerry the Yodel delivery man, smashing into me at speed but still managing a good transference of germs collected from his latest bathroom trip, where he couldn’t be bothered to rinse those infection riddled digits.

Why the fuck am I imagining I’m the door bell?

What is it with Fifty Shades?
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What is it with Fifty Shades?

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What is it with 50 Shades of Grey?

Okay, so I took a brave step and tentatively fessed-up to writing my novel to a few people at work. The first reaction of everyone? “Oh, so is it like 50 Shades of Grey?”

Um… no?

This is literally the reaction I get whenever I speak about writing, I can’t be alone in this, surely? But now I’m interested in the nation’s captivation by this now socially-acceptable erotic novel.

After reading rather extensively in this genre, I feel I am now able to comment and be relatively qualified doing so.

So… my first question… what is with all these sexually deviant people? Are there actually that many of them out there? If so I guess I have been unfortunate (or lucky?) not to have happened across one of the masses by now. Being happily married I suppose I now never will, unless after six years, husband suddenly comes home wearing a gimp mask and brandishing some knarly nipple clamps.

Another issue I’ve had with this – women don’t seem to have their time of the month? I don’t remember reading in the Twist Me trilogy, ‘Nora just wasn’t in the mood tonight. She was on her period and was so bloated that the thought of anal sex made her want to vomit in her mouth.’ Nope, just lots of ‘hardening instantly’, ‘slick and wet already’ and other various wording of sexual readiness. Now, don’t get me wrong, I quite enjoyed the books, but where is the reality element? It’s not a GOT fantasy novel, people!

Virgins and their orgasms the first time they are having sex? I can’t make up my mind what is less realistic – the unusually high numbers of nineteen-year-old virgins these books seem to find or the concept that their first time would really consist of orgasmic bliss from an alpha CEO or biker. Much more likely, it would take place somewhere closer to seventeen and the result would be an embarrassing, fumbling mess lead by a horny teenage boy still unembarrassed by his shameful poster of Billie Piper.

Does my book have sex scenes? Yes. Are they realistic? Well after this borderline bitchy post, I had better hope so!

Xo

Uncategorized

A Blog About Writing a Blog!

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So, here I am writing a blog about writing a blog! My first thought about beginning this online journey, my soul and thoughts bared to the world, was why on Earth would anyone want to read this? The thought of pulling in traffic to my site, gathering a following and regular views and so on… it just felt so alien to me.

Then someone put a little seed of thought into my head – imagine if you could read this for another author you admire. The more I considered this point, the more I realised how much I would cherish the opportunity to delve into the mind of an already successful author.

Can you imagine if JK Rowling published and online, real-time, blow by blow account of her thoughts and feelings to accompany each chapter of Harry Potter? I would be riveted, captivated even. But it would also be inspiring, I know she is an advocate for ‘just keep going’ and the voice of reason, reminding us of the odds when getting rejections from literary agents.

I am only at the beginning of this process, I have yet to deal with the feeling, which I imagine equates to drowning, when your inbox is chocked full of rejections from agents and the temptation to delete the file is so strong your index finger practically twitches by itself. My three rejections to date, whilst disappointing, were absorbed almost by sheer osmosis as I remind myself that I while I may get many rejections I will only ever need one acceptance.

The tiny voice inside of me that says ‘you CAN do this’ keeps me going, at ten o’clock at night when I’m exhausted from working all day then the daily battle to get my toddler to bed almost finishes me off but I NEED to write or process my ideas before they fall out my butt and are lost forever.

I’ve turned into a crazed person who carries around two notebooks and a set of 42 multi-coloured Staedtler triplus fineliners in my bag everywhere I go. At times this is no mean feat considering I am usually also sporting a very attractive My Little Pony bag stuffed full of toddler essentials, a deceptively heavy Moana doll and usually my little toddler herself will either be stuffed in my arms as cargo or be sitting on the floor refusing to go in any direction that she thinks I might approve of. I am unsure when I am going to get this sudden rush of unexpected inspiration, but even more self-eluding is the thought that I will ever have the opportunity to write it down if the moment does strike. And if it ever did, I certainly can’t imagine having the time to use my beautiful assortment of fineliners to create a rainbow of thoughts all colour coordinated.

This idea is more fantasy than any of my books.

Yet, here I sit with my little Dune handbag bulging from the notebooks and pens crammed in beside my purse, diary, phone and Paw Patrol tissues. Hoping, praying that my stories, my thoughts and my hard work will be enough to make my dreams come true.

I’m going to blog my journey, step by nervous step, and hopefully I will look back on this and smile at my cautious journey from the safety of success. I hope you will come along for the ride with me.

Xo