The Fall and Rise of Lucy Charlton ( And the Nineteen Rewrites )

Yes, my new book is coming out on February 13th so get your kindles ready to download, dash down to your supermarkets!

I've been thinking lately about how to explain how hard writing is. Sorry to all those of you who are groaning, thinking we have real jobs, she sits at home all day in her pyjamas - I have to say this is true -and thinks up stories and writes them on a lovely Apple Mac. This also is true, I adore my computer.
Many of my writing friends say something like this -

Beginning a book is a bit like looking at the top of Everest and thinking, well, I might as well have a go. The gas bill needs paying and if I don't cover the mortgage I'll be living in a cardboard on the nearest roundabout, so you start off and you get so far and sit down and think, it'll be okay and then you cover about a fifth of it and you start to sweat and think gosh, this is difficult but I have to get there, so you toil endlessly and finally with a burst of energy you get to the top.

Now this where amateurs think it finishes. Kids, this is just the start. Then you look proudly down and you trundle off, thinking you might have a glass of wine when you get to the bottom and then you get there, take the wine out the fridge and then you think I don't think I've quite got it right so you look at Everest again and you think damn it, I'll have to do it again so that's what you do and you trundle all the way to the top and this time it seems easier, you think you're getting somewhere and you reach the top and then you think, well, this is it ,so you trundle back down and open the fridge and this time you don't even get as far as pouring the wine because you realise what a load of unmitigated crap you've just written.
So, well, you know what happens now.You do the ascent again and you're swearing and wishing you had done something easier and by the time you get to the top you know that you're going to have to do this again and again until it begins to feel right.
So, not wanting to bore you, you go up and down maybe ten times and then you think well, this is it so this time you get the bottle out of the fridge and you have a glass of wine in celebration.

And then you send the book to your agent and you wait and wait and every second is like an hour and every time the phone rings you can hardly bear it and only when you go out does she ring so that you have to gird up your loins and ring back and guess what?  Yes you have to make the ascent again. She wants a rewrite.

So, then you send it back to her and she is happy about it and she sends it to your publisher where your lovely editor thinks, my God this is dreadful and she very politely tells you that you have do the ascent again. You do by this time, it's like walking the dog, it's become so ordinary so that although you are permanently exhausted you really don't care.

With a bit of luck your editor might like this version but the chances are that she will want more work doing and then she'll send it off to the other editor who sorts all the problems out and points out that your historical detail is inaccurate, your heroine has been pregnant for two years and your minor characters are completely left out of some chapters.

On top of which every time you alter a detail the whole 130,000 words falls apart and you go through the book again and again to try to tie the threads together and this time when the book goes off you open the fridge and drink every bloody bottle of wine in it because you know that sooner or later the call will come and yes, you'll have do the proofs and by then there will be a whole load of new mistakes which somebody didn't find.

One of my books got to audio before somebody realised that one of the characters had died twice. Get me to the fridge quickly, I need a glass of wine.

The Latin Class

I'm dreaming about being back at school. I wake up covered in sweat and lie there, thankful that I don't have to find my panama hat, my green and yellow uniform or the lovely briefcase which had my initials on it in gold letters. I remember saying to a writing friend once that under pressure I felt like I was back in the Latin class and that's how I feel now, I have a book due soon, I don't feel as if I've done enough and the whole thing looks like an impossibility. It's no use telling myself it will be all right, myself knows damned fine that if I don't get off my ample backside and work the worst will happen.
I always say that I hated school and it's a grossly unfair statement though huge chunks of my rather patchy education were stingingly humiliating because I have very little memory and no understanding whatsoever of how language works or maths., I hate games of any type and I would rather die now than be in a room all day with other people.
My education has been of huge help to me throughout my writing career. I went to the village school in Tow Law and never fitted in there because I was the boss's daughter.  I came top of the class with excruciating regularity and learned a good many lessons which had nothing to do with with reading, writing or arithmetic.
At ten I went to private school, my father had loved boarding school and educated four of us. We were as unacademic as we could possibly be. We were wild children from a wild place and couldn't sit down all day and do as we were told. I sat at the back and wrote poetry, my sister adored her horse and longed for it and my brothers liked being in Tow Law and the freedom of the fells.
There were a lot of bright children at Durham High School and I couldn't remember what the Romans or the Greeks did, where Istanbul was - or whatever it was called then - I couldn't do Geometry and the very last thing I wanted was to spend my Thursday afternoons making an apron or putting paint on to paper.
I tried to leave school as soon as I could, being offered work on a local newspaper but my father had other ideas and I stayed on to do A levels. I managed to wangle myself a year off at a boarding school in upstate New York. I didn't fit in there either but it didn't matter, that was more or less the point of it, one of the best schools in the world. Then I came home and took my A levels so in the end I did more schooling than most people and hated about seventy per cent of it.
My education has been hugely important to me in my writing career, the very diversity of it has been so useful. I write often of the lovely building where I went to Durham High School which had gardens down to the river and looked out at the cathedral. I wrote a short story for Christmas based on my experience there and also on a book I had read which gave me the idea. I read far and wide, that and an ear for rhythm of language have done me good service.
I just wish I didn't dream that I was late for school, that we were doing gym, that I was wearing my aertex top and my huge green knickers. Thank God for waking up and being a writer.

A lettuce leaf and a tomato

Does anybody else get that Christmas feeling?  You know, round about now when you think if you have to queue again to get a space in Sainsbury's car park, watch another Christmas advert or have to listen to another set of people singing Hark the Bloody Heralds Sing or whatever they're called, that you may throw up?
Christmas has become obscene. And yes there is a fine argument which all the supermarkets make that people have had a very bad year and deserve a blow out and I know it's true for a great many people but there again if you look coolly at it almost everyone I know has grieved over a loved one at Christmas, a lot of us wish we were kids again so we didn't have to write the cards, shop forever and take the full responsibility of Christmas without it even being called Mother Christmas and most people are just glad of a rest, if they get a chance. If you work in any essential service your chances of this are slight. If you work for a jeweller, a toy shop or you are selling any kind of foodstuff let us stop now for cynical laughter from the back.
People are more bad tempered at Christmas, there are more family rows at Christmas. A and E is littered with sick and blood because the alcohol intake is damaging not just livers but whole lives. Alcohol poisoning, lovely.
We're all fat. The last thing we need is days and days of more food. This has been relevant in the past but dear God, the majority of us do okay for food most of the time. Did you know that the average Christmas Dinner has 7,000 calories?
So what are you going to do, stuff yourself solid for a week and then diet making January darker and bleaker than before?
I came home on the bus yesterday and there were big signs up already saying would you like a dry January?  Well, no actually, I bloody wouldn't, any more than I intend to stuff my face with cake, mince pies, Christmas puddings and discover that my new swanky green dress doesn't seem to fit me so that in January I rid myself of what little pleasure there is when its freezing cold and dark and all I want to do is put a decent pork chop and an apple and a few potatoes in the oven and enjoy the smell.
My mother, who would never do a thing because it was polite or fashionable or because it was the done thing ate a lot of salad at Christmas and lowered her intake of alcohol because the excitement was all gone when it was offered freely.
The other argument about Christmas if you like is that people give to charity now. Well, hello, most decent people give all year round and damn it they wouldn't stop giving to child cancer, guide dogs for the blind, war heroes, the life boats and a hundred other absolutely brilliant charities. I give to musicians in the town because they make my day, especially the lovely old guy who plays classical stuff on a penny whistle and the chap in the market place who sings hymns. I love all that. I love living here and being a part of it and trying to help.
Also I do understand that here in Britain many people are relying on food banks more and more. There are a lot of people in need and we are all out there helping but all year round.
I do think that the government and the energy companies and the banks should be ashamed of themselves. How much is enough but I didn't intend this to be a political rant. We all do our best. So just remember, people who have had a bad year financially, be they old or young need your help all the time, not just now. Like a puppy or a kitten is for life so are the rest of us so if you want to do something nice for Christmas go and see your elderly neighbours, clean the snow from someone's drive, smile at the poor buggers at the checkouts in the supermarkets who are paid low wages and have to be nice to you. And sing. For God's sake, anything but more bloody carols.

Gentleman John, the master at work

Last night I went to listen to John Williams with two friends. People of the same kind tend to hang together and my three dearest friends are all widowed. The best thing of all is that unlike a lot of people we can get out, we make merry when we do and there is nothing like a decent play or some lovely music to make my night.
The people on my right were holding hands, the people in front were holding hands too and the couples kept looking at one another and I thought I hope they've been married for a long time.
We started off at the Champagne Bar, Ann and me, but Jack was coming late so we left there and went to the Fat Buddha which is just across Millenium Square in Durham City where I have my home. We ordered a bottle of wine and three glasses and then I went to the Champagne bar John had also a bottle of wine but this one was opened.
Now I'm partly deaf and so is Ann. I had to make a quick decision and the champagne bar is hell when its full, I can't hear anything. So I took the bottle and the bloke and headed out, much to the amusement of the bar staff. I never do subtle and I was wearing a pink coat and a hat with feathers. Anyway we went back to the Fat Buddha, sat down and sank the open bottle, amidst much laughter.
The manager appeared and told us that we shouldn't bring wine into his restaurant, they would charge us corkage. I smoothed the man's feathers, I don't want to be barred from there. I haven't been thrown out of anywhere for four years, so I was terribly nice to him and we took the other bottle to the gala and I kept it in my bag.
We had ice cream and I forgot about the incident. The music was soothing but I thought afterwards how strange, that I have been going to the Fat Buddha regularly for five years, at one time I was drinking there three nights a week, I go and eat there six or seven times a year and yet the only time I have seen a manager was when he had something nasty to say.
This is what is wrong with part of our society today. It's the letter of the law which counts and in very small matters. I should have known that manager, he should have been aware that I spend a great deal of time in his restaurant and at his bar. I did tell him of course and it is a very good restaurant and yes, we were in the wrong but he should have been more sensible, he should have said nothing. And that is what management does today, it carps. Among all my hates one of the top ones is small mindedness. I shall continue to go to the Fat Buddha, where the young staff are lovely and they know me. Places like the Fat Buddha and the Champagne bar are the few places where I get to talk to people the same age as my kids and I love them.
The opposite of small mindedness is a man like John Williams, sitting there on the stage, dressed like he would be at home, the guitar caressed against him, he is a gentleman. Genius is a combination of talent and work and people who work at that level are the best of us all. He has a lovely sculpted face, a shock of white receding hair, a mouth all smiles. He has knowledge and manners and when you have worked all your life and are the best you become humble, the sort of humility which gives everything to other people and yet your heart sings.
So thanks, Gentleman John, you gave me joy.

Women Driving Or Surviving?

I know there have always been many jokes made about women drivers but seeing the news this morning that women in Saudi Arabia are not allowed to drive, well okay, so it isn't the biggest problem women have had but every day we learn of women like the one in Kenya who was sixteen, raped by six men and left unconscious and the police made the men mow the lawn outside the police station and she is in a wheelchair. Yeah, it's different but it's the same. It's a power game.
I remember Germaine Greer saying thirty years ago  that women have no idea how much men hate them. It's a great generalisation of course but it's no surprise to me that a lot of the clever out going, out spoken and independent women in our society live alone.
I'm tempted when I hear about women being persecuted in other countries to say that they should be armed. I don't think it is going too far and I can't stand the way that people forgive one another for atrocities. How could you not hate somebody who despised you so obviously? I'm not a great believer in forgiveness. I think it damages the person I am. I'm sure it ought not to. It  should make me stronger but it doesn't. I feed my anger because it keeps me going. Hate is so useful, it can be turned into energy and directed constructively.
There is of course another side to all these things and one of my early memories was of my mother learning to drive when I was very small. My father had never bought a car, he drove his parents around in their enormous Austin Shiline - what a car that was. As children all four of us could sit on the floor in the back and feel the bumps in the road. He was so pleased about the Austin A30 which he bought for my mother - she didn't work outside the home so it had to be his money. No worse for that.  The little car was green and it was hers entirely. Nobody else ever drove it. I even remember the bloke who taught her to drive. He was called Donald and what a nice chap he was.
My husband used to mend cars in secret and then give them to me. I had a dark blue MG Midget and then a Scirroco - is that the right term?  He painted it bright yellow and it was an automatic and to quote his words 'it went like shit off a stick'. I had a summer car and a winter car, the summer car was a bright yellow MGB GT and the winter one was deep red and four wheel drive.
That's love. That's when men really love women, making them cars, being proud to give them cars but most of all respecting them enough to let them buy their own. I remember after my husband died one car salesman asking if I would like to bring my husband along to help.
When my daughter buys new cars we go together and woe betide any salesman who tries to do my kid down so you see some of us have come on a long way but spare a thought for those women who are driving in Saudi Arabia in defiance of the law and for all those in countries where women are still abused. And it's not just far away places. Two women a week here are killed by their partners. But also I keep in mind the lovely men like my dad and my husband, Richard. I wish they were still here, they would both have been so proud of my daughter and the woman she has become and all the others of her generation, out there, driving, loving, getting on with their lives.

Cads, blighters and bounders!

 In my favourite Georgette Heyer book, Cotillion, there is a lovely hero, a burbling not very bright man called Freddie.  He is aristocratic, impeccably dressed but most of all he has the best manners of anyone in the world. Manners maketh the man so they say, or woman of course and at one point in the story Freddie is being critical of someone and he says 'kind of fellow who behaves scaly to waiters' and that is the point.
I have just been to Athens and stayed in two five star hotels. It being the close of the seasons these places are cheaper than when the season is in full throttle during July and August. It's my birthday and it has become customary for my lovely daughter and me to spend the days around it doing something wonderful.
The only blot on these things is rude people and hush, dare we say it?  Some of them are British.
Why do people leave their manners at home when they go on holiday? I'm presuming they don't behave like this at home but then maybe they do, maybe they are just so full of themselves that they are rude all the time. I don't think this is to do with culture or customs. I addressed several English people and was ignored. I'm not easily ignored. My daughter tells me I can be very loud so perhaps they don't care for my bouncing Tigger impression or perhaps to be put crudely they are so far up their own backsides that they don't notice other people.
By October the people who work in the hotels are finished, knackered. They've put in many hard hours early and late and they don't need the hassle.
Standing in the foyer of the wonderful Grand Bretagne hotel in Athens, waiting to be checked in, people pushed past us, told us they were more important than we are, that they had less time than we did and their designer clothes presumably were there to show how very much they mattered.
Nobody speaks unless it's to get themselves somewhere. I'm embarrassed for them.
The thing about manners is that it's all about making things easier. The reason you're supposed to spoon your soup away from you is so that it doesn't end up in your lap. You can put a napkin on your lap too and that stops you needing a dry cleaner. You wait in line because it means everybody gets a turn. You can even think of it as better for you. Unless somebody's rude to you first you don't do it to them and most importantly of all you never ever humiliate anyone who is hard working and doing his best. You don't start eating before other people because it means you're finished when they are halfway through and it mucks things up if you're having three courses and in any case why would you want to?  The best dinners of course are those you share.
So remember, folks, do unto others as you would have them do to you and as Bertie Wooster might say, What ho, old bean.'

Oh, my hat!

I bought a new hat in Stanhope the other day at a lovely shop, which you must visit if you go there, because they have exquisite things to buy, gorgeous handbags in different colours of suede and leather, jewellery, scarves, those lovely smelling candles and the kind of clothes which make women of my age look better than they are, good materials, pretty colours.
It was a winter hat that I wanted. I lose hats.The first one I lost was a lovely black cloche hat which my daughter, Katy, gave to me. They have to be the same style, it's the only one I suit.
Well, I went to the opera at Castle in the big hall which incidentally has no pictures of women on the walls, which makes me want to spit anyway but I think I left it there. They said they didn't have it and I went to the other places I had visited that evening and nobody had found it.
So, as you do when you're in Milan, the last outing I had for my birthday, I spent 45 Euros on an exquisite black cloche hat but when Malcolm was so damned ill at the beginning of the year I was distracted and left it somewhere. I was going to go back to the restaurant where I thought it was but they seemed always to be closed and Malcolm was dying and Joan was nearly out of her mind with worry so I didn't get it back.
However, this spring I acquired another hat from TKMaxx. Purple straw. Katy says that  I must not go out in it, it's too bad. Too late, I wore it constantly when I went to Marjorca and it comes with me to the caravan at Stanhope all the time. But yes, I lost it.
I left it at the Gala theatre and this time I managed to get back for it the following day. They said they didn't think they had it and I said,
'Nobody's going to steal it,' and I was right. My daughter may have wished it a long way from us but to her chagrin it's now back at home.
So, considering the winter is coming I needed a new black cloche hat and I bought it the other day in Stanhope. It fits me perfectly - I have a very small head would you believe -  and has little black and white feathers to one side. Delightful. And only £14.95.  It will go with my two winter coats, one of which I have had for fifteen years, bought it at Next for a hundred pounds, well worth the investment, full length and it goes in the washer, the other is my pretend purple fur which my kids bought me for my sixtieth birthday. ( I get to hug a lot of men because they like my coat! Very good. )
I look forward to a lovely autumn and winter, three nights at the opera, good concerts at St Oswald's with the university orchestras and good meals and drinks with my friends. I shall try not to lose my new  hat but when I said to the lovely woman who sold it to me that it could not expect a long life with me she said,
'Stuff it in your handbag when you take it off.'
She was right. Better a rather dented hat than no hat at all.