The Edit Cave

by Mindy McGinnis

I've heard a lot of people talk about the Edit Cave, as if it were some secret hideout that writers can go to with fancy butlers who bring us our soup and neat gadgets to distract us with when we need it.

I wish.

Well, besides the fancy gadgets (can you hear me, Twitter?) I totally want a dark cave I can crawl into, dragging my edit letter and brick of an ms with me. It'd be lit only by my laptop screen, and I'd have lidless eyes and extra appendages when I crawled back out. But I'd have my solitude, I'd hit my deadline, and there would be nothing from reality to slide into my time and demand my attention.

But... just try going to Google Maps and typing in "Edit Cave." It doesn't exist. Unfortunately there isn't anyplace we can go for this magical dark place of alone time where our brains are free to exist only in the worlds we've created. Reality is a bitch, and a really high-maintenance one that demands a lot of face-time.

If I had my way I'd eat MRE's and not bathe while in the metaphorical edit cave, but that's not the case. The real world needs me to be responsible and be a good citizen, go to the pool and the ice cream festival, the student graduations and family birthday parties. Instead of the blank "I left the stove on" stare, I tend to have the "I left that character mid-scene" look. It's pretty hard to spot unless you're another writer.

So what do I do? My edit cave is only open during the hours of 10 PM to However-Long-I-Choose-To-Punish-Myself AM. In a way, it really is a dark fortress of solitude, as you tend to loose daylight during that time. While at first I thought I would hate only allowing myself these stolen hours, I soon figured out it's what works for me, and my brain has adjusted.

Yes, I'm sleep deprived. Yes, I'm not the earliest riser. Yes, I tend to be a bit grumpy anytime before noon on the days following Edit-Cave-Isolation. But the revision is going well - ahead of schedule, in fact - and I'm well on my way to becoming one of those people who thanks their editor for making their story stronger in the acknowledgements.

I still wouldn't mind a butler.

Mindy McGinnis is the author of NOT A DROP TO DRINK, a YA dystopian coming from Katherine Tegen / Harper Collins Fall, 2013. You can find her at her blog, Writer, Writer, Pants on Fire, Twitter and Facebook.

A Little Sale...

Books for Sale!

I'm going away for a long weekend (conference down near home, so making the most of it) and thought I'd try something... I've been having a sort-out, and have quite a few books I don't need any more.  I'm also somewhat in need of monies at the moment, what with an unfunded DPhil and all, so I thought I'd copy an idea Rachel had a while ago, and put up my old books for sale.  I think some of them might appeal.  Hope you don't mind this swerve away from normal blog posts - but I think it could be win-win for us both.

Because of postage costs, this is just for people in the UK - but if you see something you really like, then email me and we can try to work something out!

To make things simple, they're £4 each, 3 for £10, including postage.  Pick the one(s) you want, and email me at simondavidthomas[at]yahoo.co.uk (and maybe stake your claim in the comments) - payment would have to be by cheque, or bank transfer, or Paypal.

With every order, if you like, I'll include one of my sketches.  Just say 'yes please, sketch!' with your email.  (Feel free to pick one from the archives - links in the left column - or I'll pick one.)

I don't know if this is going to be wildly successful or a complete dud, but I thought it would be worth a shot!  There are pictures of them all below, and a list at the bottom (I'll delete them from the list as they go... pictures might not be updated).  I wish I could just post them all off for free, but it would leave me very skint!

Normal service will resume next Tuesday :)

The Upright Piano Player - David Abbott
A Long, Long Way - Sebastian Barry
Discipline - Mary Brunton
Cloud 9 - Caryl Churchill
Youth and other stories - Joseph Conrad
Under Western Eyes - Josephn Conrad
Old Men Forget - Duff Cooper
The New House - Lettice Cooper
The Ridleys - Richmal Crompton
Weatherley Parade - Richmal Crompton
Mariana - Monica Dickens
The Bookshop - Penelope Fitzgerald
The Battle of the Villa Fiorita - Rumer Godden
Island Magic - Elizabeth Goudge
The Ivory Tower - Henry James
The Gingerbread Woman - Jennifer Johnson
Kim - Rudyard Kipling
The Village - Marghanita Laski
Little Boy Lost - Marghanita Laski
Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town - Stephen Leacock
Babbit - Sinclair Lewis
The World My Wilderness - Rose Macaulay
Greenery Street - Denis Mackail
If I May - A.A. Milne
Once on a Time - A.A. Milne
The Tao of Pooh and the Te of Piglet - Benjamin Hoff
The Empty Room - Charles Morgan
White Boots - Noel Streatfeild
Love Letters - Leonard Woolf and Trekkie Ritchie Parsons
A Haunted House - Virginia Woolf
A Book of One's Own: People and their Diaries - Thomas Mallon

Still a writer

Photo credit: Dori Young Photography

By Julie Kibler

As Calling Me Home pushes its way through the birth canal of the publishing process, I'm finding that certain things never change. In fact, I just remembered I referred to this phenomenon in my last post, but I'll go into a little more depth this time. 

Even with the pregnancy test in hand, the plus sign glowing, the book contract that says I have a book, I've noticed that four things in particular are still burrs under my saddle—in addition to the compulsion to use really goofy literary devices and mixed metaphors. (In blog posts, I often allow them to stand, just for kicks.)  

1. I'm afraid nobody will like what I wrote.

Just because one editor, or in fact, many more, liked my manuscript—enough to pay actual, spendable money for it!—I still quake at the thought of someone flipping to the first page, reading a few paragraphs, then tossing it away as dreck. Rejection, in fact, still hurts. And there are plenty of opportunities for rejection even after your beloved appears for pre-order on Amazon. The somewhat humiliating quest to convince published authors to read and blurb the book comes to mind. It reminds me to be gentle when I am in that position. Or, not that I'm there yet, but the inevitable bad review looms like a B1-bomber on the horizon, ready to plunge from the sky and obliterate me with one little push of a button. I'm already practicing in my mind, visualizing swatting it away like an annoying little gnat. 

2. Procrastination is the best way to get things done.

I have always worked better under pressure. I assigned myself deadlines before I answered to anyone else on this writing stuff. Then, even with my own deadlines, I waited until the last possible moment, then rushed in and gave it my everything. I'm trying to change my stripes a bit—after all, I'm not the only one I would disappoint now if I missed an important deadline—but I still find this to be true. This week, my first pass pages, sometimes called page proofs, wait in a nice stack on my table for me to begin reading through them, checking for errors I missed or mistakes created inadvertently in the typesetting stage. Okay, that's not completely true. I already began working through them because I have a vacation to attend to in a few weeks and I don't want to be spending the week proofreading while the rest of my family cavorts on the sandy shores of the Outer Banks. Yet, every day, I search for any task I can logically claim as a higher priority before I get started on the day's chapters . 

Why? I'm not sure. Perhaps it could be referenced back to number one. Perhaps I'm terrified I'm the one who won't like it. Perhaps I will be forced to admit I'm not the writer I hoped to be. Perhaps, even, it feels like a real job now, and wasn't I always great at procrastinating, even when I sat in an office and yawned at the orders that emerged from the fax machine like baby rabbits? 

Or perhaps … I work best under pressure. Maybe we're back to that. I am one of the crazy souls who actually enjoys participating in NaNoWriMo and other schemes to get massive portions of the crappy first draft written in a month. The last thirty thousand words of Calling Me Home were the product of one marathon. The first thirty thousand words appeared during another. They may not look exactly the same, but the essence of what I wrote under pressure is most definitely there. And I sold the book.

3. I'm convinced I'll never be able to do it again.

So I've written three full manuscripts, two now under the bed. So I've sold a book. So what? Just like a few years ago, I'm not convinced I'll ever be able to take the plot fragments, the voices of half-formed characters, the setting notes that drift in my mind like memories of things that haven't happened yet, and set them down on paper in a coherent story, with proper conflicts and character arcs, three acts and probably a poem. Those other three manuscripts? They were flukes. I don't have the skills (refer to number one), the discipline (refer to number two), or … maybe even the desire to do it again. 

For now, I'm just trying to go with this, and surprisingly, the process is coming back to me little by little. I have a semi-decent synopsis going, from which I believe I might be able to conjure an outline, from which I might just write another book. I tell myself, Peace, be still. It will happen. Then  I panic.

Image credit: Peter Vidrine's Flickr photostream

4. I'm still trying to be someone else some days.

I read some books and fling them away in disgust because I feel like the author wasted my time—and I'm one of those people who is compelled to finish reading things. 

But more often, I drop my head in shame, comparing myself and my writing to someone else's masterpiece. I think, I should be more gritty, or edgy, or lyrical, or detailed, or succinct, or serious, or funny, or luminous, or blunt, or … whatever I happen to think I'm not that particular day. 

I try to change from an owl to a lark. I try to visualize myself as a booster parent and not a slacker parent. I try to incorporate whole wheat flour and fresh peppers into homemade things instead of buying frozen prepared meals to heat up and serve to my family. Okay, some of these things are good things, and I should strive to do them and will, but some of them … are just not me. (I'll leave you to figure out which ones.) But it boils down to this: The approval of a domestic editor and fourteen foreign editors has still not convinced me that just being ME is enough. One day, it's going to click. But probably not today.

But there's one thing that's still the same. There is one thing that is not a burr under my saddle:

5. I still love this life.

In spite of my fear of rejection, in spite of my procrastinating, night owl, never-good-enough ways, I still love this life. I can't think of anything else I'd rather do or be. I am a writer.

Julie's first novel, Calling Me Home, will be published by St. Martin's Press February 19, 2013, only five days late for Valentine's Day. You may find her on Facebook, Twitter, or her website.

Five From the Archive (no.4)

Didn't we all get excited over the past couple of days?  Mum and I have very much enjoyed the debates we've been having - your comments have been hilarious.  Some of you I'll never look at in quite the same light again.

Anyway, on with the show - and another trip down memory lane for Five From The Archive.  This week...

Five... Books About Death

A quick note.  I am definitely not intending to be glib about death or grief - but I think it is fascinating to see the many and varied ways in which death is treated in fiction and non-fiction.  Obviously 'death' is a huge topic, but it's thought-provoking to see how it has influenced such different books - some treating death with reverence and mourning; some as a matter of historical interest; some as merely a plot point.

I had the delight of seeing Karen/Cornflower on Sunday, and she laughed nervously when I asked her whether or not she thought it would be a good idea... but I'm going to go ahead, trusting that you know I wouldn't intend to be flippant about grief.  Ok?  Ok.

1.) Death and the Maidens (2007) by Janet Todd

In short: Todd uses the suicide of little-known Fanny Wollstonecraft as the starting point for exploring the strange and fascinating, intertwining lives of the Shelleys, Wollstonecrafts, and Godwins.

From the review: "According to Hogg (and also quoted by Todd), Shelley was 'altogether incapable of rendering an account of any transaction whatsoever, according to the strict and precise truth, and the bare naked realities of actual life'. It is to Todd's great credit that the reverse is true for her - what could have become sensationalised or hand-wringing is, in fact, told with a caring honesty. Death and the Maidens does not fall into the other trap, which much literary biography does, of dryness and dullness - though the research is doubtless impeccable, Todd does not write this work in an overly-scholarly manner."

2.) In the Springtime of the Year (1974) by Susan Hill

In short: A young woman comes to terms with the sudden death of her husband.

From the review: "Some of my favourite writers are those who can weave an involving narrative without huge set pieces or plot turns. The biggest event having happened in the first few pages, this novel is more a study of grief than a rollercoaster of events. From the immediate aftermath; the funeral; Ruth's difficult relations with Ben's family; closer kinship with Ben's younger brother; dealing with Ben's possessions; moving onwards to the future without him - each stage is subtly and intimately shown - never too much introspection, and always writing of so high a standard that it doesn't feel like cliché."

3.) Let Not The Waves of the Sea (2011) by Simon Stephenson

In short: Easily the most moving book on this list.  Stephenson's brother was killed in the new year tsunami, and this beautiful book traces past and future - a biography, autobiography, travelogue, and even a philosophy.

From the review: "It is often said that first-time authors put everything into their book - with novels, this is meant is a criticism.  Every idea is thrown in, to the detriment of the structure and unity required of fiction.  With non-fiction, with Let Not The Waves of the Sea, putting everything in is what makes Stephenson's book so special. [...] This book is as full and varied and complex as the life it commemorates, and I consider it a privilege to have been able to read it."

4.) The Driver's Seat (1970) by Muriel Spark

In short: My third Spark, and the one which made me love her - we learn early on that eccentric tourist Lise has been killed, and this short novel traces the curious events leading up to her death.

From the review: "The novel [is] some sort of waiting game, the reader never being quite sure where they stand. Spark's prose is deliberately - and deliciously - disorientating. We move in and out of Lise's thoughts, never quite grasping hold of her perspective, nor yet letting it slip entirely out of reach."

5.) Murder at the Vicarage (1930) by Agatha Christie

In short: You know the score with Agatha Christie... it's interesting how death has become emotionless for the reader in murder mysteries, isn't it?  All the usual red herrings and impossibilities in typical Christie fare.

From the review: "What I wasn't expecting, what I had somehow either forgotten or never noticed, was how funny Christie is. The problems the vicar and his wife have with their servant are written so amusingly, I laughed out loud a few times. She also has the drifting 'oh gosh how we simply shrieked' type down pat too."

This is probably the vastest topic yet in Five From the Archive, but which great books (fiction or non-fiction) would you recommend under the theme of death?   Over to you!  Hope you're enjoying this series - I'm really loving a trawl back through the archives - and it's fun to be thinking up sketches again.

In Defence of Jean-Benoit (by Anne aka Our Vicar's Wife)

As promised yesterday, my Mum (aka Anne aka Our Vicar's Wife) has written a response to my review of Frenchman's Creek by Daphne du Maurier... over to you, Mum!  (Plenty of spoilers ahead...)

Of course, Simon has it all wrong!  This book is not about infidelity and selfishness, or greed and violence – it is about the human condition, the cages which surround us, a bid to escape into an unchained world and the difficult moral choices which drag the protagonists back into the world they hoped to escape (with acceptance of their lot).

Dona was born into the nobility in the Restoration world with its dissolute Royal Court, its nation newly released from the constraints of the Puritan Commonwealth and the privileged few with time and money on their hands.  As a gently born woman her prospects were good – but her choices were few.  She married Harry St Columb because he ‘was amusing’ and she ‘liked his eyes’.  She was 23 – an age when it was high time she settled down.  Married life had begun as a series of journeys, travelling from house to house, merry-making with Harry’s friends – a ‘fast set’.  Soon pregnant, Dona had been forced into acting a part – in ‘an atmosphere strained and artificial’ in which Harry treated her with ‘a hearty boisterousness, a forced jollity, a making of noise in an endeavour to cheer her up, and on top of it all great lavish caresses that helped her not at all.’

Simon defends Harry – and it is true that he loved Dona – but his attentions to her are mirrored in his fawning dogs.  He is clumsy and crass and clearly not her intellectual equal – possibly a common enough figure in the English shires of the time, but his desire to be part of the ‘in crowd’ draws him to London, where his heavy drinking make him even more doltish and unacceptable as a husband.  It is there that Dona begins to look around her for distraction.

London at that time was filthy, loud, stinking and claustrophobic.  The Court encouraged licentiousness and their ‘set’ – or at least the men in it - entered into every new escapade without conscience or moderation.  As long as Harry had his pleasures he joined in with the rest, but he was not the equal of Rockingham – a dangerous man, who formed part of the group.  Dona, desperately locked into an unfulfilling marriage became increasingly reckless, encouraged by the predatory Rockingham and failing to see him as the dangerous man he was.  The court revelled in extreme behaviour, but Dona excelled and shocked even the most cynical amongst them – in being wild and outrageous, she knew herself to be alive.  But, eventually she took part in one escapade too many and the sight of the Countess, whom she and Rockingham had held up in her coach (in the guise of highwaymen) begging for her life with the words “For God’s sake spare me, I am very old, and very tired” brought Dona to her senses : ‘Dona, swept in an instant by a wave of shame and degradation, had handed back the purse, and turned her horse’s head, and ridden back to town, hot with self-loathing, blinded by tears of abasement, while Rockingham pursued her with shouts and cries of “What the devil now, and what has happened?” and Harry, who had been told the adventure would be nothing but a ride to Hampton Court by moonlight, walked home to bed, not too certain of his direction, to be confronted by his wife on the doorstep dressed up in his best friend’s breeches.’

This is the turning point for Dona, who can think of nothing but escape.  She seizes her children, hastily packs her trunks and leaves for the country estate (and Simon, Harry had more than one estate – Navron, far away in Cornwall, was a neglected and forgotten part of his childhood – he didn’t rate it highly, so Dona’s arrival there was a gift to it!)  Yes, the children hate the upheaval, the frantic journey on atrocious roads, and Prue is put-upon; but in fact the life to which Dona takes them is idyllic for the children, who quickly lose their town ways and delight in the soft country air and the simple pleasures of childhood – putting on weight and gaining in strength, health and happiness.

Dona revels in the new life.  She shuns local society and lives simply – but she is aware her escape is only for a time.  Then Fate takes charge with her ‘inevitable’ meeting with the French pirate.  Led into world beyond her experience and imagining, Dona is fascinated by the enigmatic Frenchman, who challenges all her preconceptions about men.  His mysterious origins fascinate her - in his own way, he too has sought to escape from a world he can no longer tolerate.  He says:

“Once there was a man called Jean-Benoit Aubery, who had estates in Brittany, money, friends, responsibilities…. (he) became weary of Jean-Benoit Aubery, so he turned into a pirate, and built La Mouette.”

“And is it really possible to become someone else?”

“I have found it so.”  

But of course this is far too simple.  This is perhaps the Frenchman’s Achilles heel – he convinces Dona that escape is possible and that he has found it – but perhaps, by sharing it with her, he will lose it himself, forever.  Perhaps he too will remember it only as a dream.

The discussion goes on to describe the difference between contentment and happiness:

“Contentment is a state of mind and body when the two work in harmony, and there is no friction….Happiness is elusive – coming perhaps once in a lifetime – approaching ecstasy.”

For a few brief weeks, in the height of summer, romance blossoms between the like-minded runaways.  Their mutual attraction is animal – physical, mental, emotional and pure (or impure) romance – but it is a ‘midsummer night’s dream’ and from the dream they are forced to waken.

The pirating interlude is full of drama and danger, revealing both Dona’s and Jean-Benoit’s reckless zest for life and risk-taking.  With it comes the full expression of their love – but even as they seem to vanquish the perceived foe, their real and deadly enemies are closing in upon them.  Dona walks back into a trap.  Harry, egged on by the suspicious Rockingham, has arrived unannounced.  The last chapters of the book, with their highly charged atmosphere and dramatic denouement keep the reader turning the pages late into a sultry summer’s night.

Dona’s bid for freedom and escape cannot be like Jean-Benoit’s – she is a woman, and a mother – she can only escape for a season.  The inevitable ‘prison door’ clangs shut behind her – but the choice is one she makes for herself, eyes wide open, having tasted her one moment of true happiness.  I do not defend her actions – or those of any of the characters – but I recognise what it cost her to return to Harry and the humdrum life he offered, and I can admire the mind which invented her.

I could write of the descriptions of the countryside, the odious, pompous Godolphin and his pedestrian neighbours, the vile Rockingham, the delightful William – all is there – Daphne du Maurier excelled at painting portraits of places, people and moods.  But the main thread of the story is what appealed to me, reading it for the first time as an adolescent.   It was the perfect attempt at escape – and who, sitting their exams at the age of 16, has not thought of dropping everything and going in search of adventure?  And I would maintain that 16 is probably about the right age to read this – for the struggles which Dona and Jean-Benoit encounter are on a par with those of Romeo and Juliet – for all that they are mature adults, Dona and Jean-Benoit display a curious immaturity.  It is a ‘coming of age’ book, a rite of passage, nothing serious!

I refuse to enter into a dialogue with my son about my so called ‘pirate fixation’ (wherever did he get that from???) but I will write in support of the Frenchman – he was beautifully drawn by du Maurier as a hero with a heart, a mind and immense talent – and if he had killed, it was only in the heat of battle and in self-defence.  He, and perhaps William too, took the trouble to get to know Dona – and I sense that no-one else in her life had ever done that before.  Small wonder she loved them!

I claim this book as perfect escapist reading for anyone who needs to go on a journey away from their own particular humdrum existence – just for a little while – and paddle in the shallows of the Helford river, hopeful of catching the cry of the oyster catcher and the laughter of a long-lost summer’s afternoon.

After all, we willingly return to our true lives – glad to be part of the real and less than perfect world – in our place, loved and needed – and content.  For where there is a Dona and a French pirate, there is also a home and a hearth and toasted muffins for tea!

And I almost hesitate to say it – but here goes – it’s a girl’s book, Simon, a girl’s book!

Frenchman's Creek - Daphne du Maurier

You may remember from my first series of My Life in Books (links to both series are here) that my mother picked Daphne du Maurier's Frenchman's Creek as one of her choices.  Indeed, she was rather dizzied by her love of one Jean-Benoit Aubrey, the Frenchman (and pirate) of the title.  Tomorrow she will be guest-posting In Defence of Jean-Benoit because, dear reader, I have reservations about him, which I will disclose in time.  What I have fewer reservations about is Frenchman's Creek (1941) as a whole - I thought it wonderful, silly, fun.

Dona St. Columb is bored with her marriage to foolish, affable Harry, and as the novel opens she is haring off in the middle of the night to their Cornish estate, along with her two children and their nurse Prue.  Dona is impetuous, a little wild, and wholly unsuited to the Restoration Court society in which she has found herself - although she also has gained something of a reputation, by drinking with the lower orders and generally acting in a manner which doesn't befit the wife of Harry St. Columb.

At which point, all those boxes in our heads are being ticked - independent woman, check; impulsive and sassy, check.  And yet... it's also the first signs of the selfishness which Dona exhibits throughout the novel.  Onto that later.

Well, Dona sets up home in her Cornish mansion (wouldn't it be nice to have a spare mansion or two, dotted around the country?)  Only the butler William is there, having fired all the staff (did I mention that the house is supposed to be fully staffed, even when they aren't living there?  All my spare mansions will be the same, of course.)  Dona enjoys being away from London, but finds high society in Cornwall no less enervating than that in London.

But we know what's coming.  Let's cut to the chase.  A French pirate has been terrorising the local dignitaries - carrying out sophisticated robberies on the rich, and apparently distressing the local woman (although, as is pointed out by more than one person, they don't seem that distressed...)  Dona decides to investigate... and is captured, taken aboard the pirate ship, and brought before the pirate chief himself, Jean-Benoit Aubrey.  But he isn't in the Captain Hook line of pirates - indeed, he utterly ignores her, and continues drawing...

How remote he was, how detached, like some student in college studying for an examination; he had not even bothered to raise his head when she came into his presence, and what was he scribbling there anyway that was so important?  She ventured to step forward closer to the table, so that she culd see, and now she realised he was not writing at all, he was drawing, he was sketching, finely, with great care, a heron standing on the mud-flats, as she had seen a heron stand, ten minutes before.

Then she was baffled, then she was at a loss for words, for thought even, for pirates were not like this, at least not the pirates of her imagination, and why could he not play the part she had assigned to him, become an evil, leering fellow, full of strange oaths, dirty, greasy-handed, not this grave figure seated at the polished table, holding her in contempt?

Well, I shan't continue to give away the plot, but guess what?  They fall in love.  Surprise!

My favourite character, though, is William the butler.  He, it turns out (er, spoilers) is actually also from the crew - and only stays on land because he gets seasick (and thus is the character most similar to the man my mother eventually married, leaving her pirate fantasies behind her.)  William is a little like Jeeves, especially in the first half of the novel, in that he manages to convey a great deal of impertinence while still seeming obedient and non-committal.

"I have a wager with your master that I shall not succumb.  Do you think I shall win?"

"It depends upon what your ladyship is alluding to."

"That I shall not succumb to the motion of the ship, of course.  What did you think I meant?"

"Forgive me, my lady.  My mind, for the moment, had strayed to other things.  Yes, I think you will win that wager,"

"It is the only wager we have, William."

"Indeed, my lady."

"You sound doubtful."

"When two people make a voyage, my lady, and one of them a man like my master, and the other a woman like my mistress, the situation strikes me as being pregnant with possibilities."

"William, you are very presumptuous."

"I am sorry, my lady."

"And - French in your ideas."

"You must blame my mother, my lady."

"You are forgetting that I have been married to Sir Harry for six years, and am the mother of two children, and that next month I shall be thirty."

"On the contrary, my lady, it was these things that I was most remembering."

"Then I am inexpressibly shocked at you.  Open the door at once, and let me into the garden."

"Yes, my lady."

Before I go onto my main problem with Frenchman's Creek, I will assure you that I love the novel.  It isn't in the same league as Rebecca in terms of neat, clever plotting.  It's an unashamedly silly historical romance - everything is improbable and over the top, but Daphne du Maurier never stumbles into improbable or over the top writing, and that's the most important thing.  Her style remains measured and unhysterical.  It's even an historical novel that I enjoyed, which is rarer than hen's teeth.  But...

I have a problem with Jean-Benoit as a romantic hero.  That doesn't stop me enjoying the novel a great deal, but it does prevent me putting J-B on a pedestal.  He is, after all, a pirate.  There is some suggestion that he has murdered people - he has certainly stolen from and humiliated them.  A brief mention that he gives to the poor isn't enough to make him a-ok, to my mind.  Yes, it's an historical romp, and he shouldn't be held to the same moral standards as real life people today, but... it makes me question my mother's taste a little...

But more than that, I came away from Frenchman's Creek feeling desperately sorry for Harry.  Yes, he is a buffoon.  No, he will never be able to provide Dona with the intellectual, adventurous companionship she craves - but she never tries to make their marriage work, and he tries so, so hard.  Read these lines, and see if you don't feel sorry for him...

"I want to see you well," he [husband] repeated.  "That's all I care about, damn it, to see you well and happy."  And he stared down at her, his blue eyes humble with adoration, and he reached clumsily for her hand.

Frenchman's Creek probably shouldn't be given this sort of scrutiny, but I just wanted to shake Dona for being an appalling mother and a cruel wife, and I can't help wish that Harry had married some other woman, and that Dona and Jean-Benoit had sunk on their ship together...

Tomorrow my mother, Our Vicar's Wife, will leap to Jean-Benoit's defence!

Songs for a Sunday

I didn't choose the songs for this post - Beryl did.  To round off a very successful Beryl Bainbridge Reading Week (thanks once again, Annabel!) I listened to Bainbridge on Desert Island Discs from 2008.  She wasn't at all what I expected.  You can listen too, and hear her somewhat unexpected song choices, by clicking here.  She appeared twice - I have yet to listen to the first one, from 1986, but you can here.

Something Happened Yesterday - Beryl Bainbridge

The Beryl Bainbridge Fest ain't over yet, folks, and here's my final review of the week - Something Happened Yesterday.  It isn't a novel, it's a selection of columns which Bainbridge contributed to the Evening Standard in the 1980s and '90s, with short (often quite bizarre) introductory paragraphs to each column, written when the book was published (1993).

Well, although it takes a different format, Something Happened Yesterday has the same disjointed, playfully subversive tone that I have come to expect from Bainbridge.  Each column involves some event which has recently befallen Bainbridge, or recently come to her mind, suggested by something else.  It's a whole mix - from visiting the village of her youth to a zoo trip to her time on a BBC children's radio programme.  The occasion scarcely matters, for it is the eccentric musings on life which Bainbridge incorporates that make this book so distinctive.  The dark humour of her novels is definitely present.  Here's a representative sample of her style:

It did however remind me of the cautionary tale of my son's nursery school teacher, a lady named Miss Smith, referred to as Mith Mith by her lisping charges.  It's a true story, albeit tragic.  A group of infants on a Tuesday morning just before Christmas in a house in Ullet Road, Liverpool, were discovered at home-time marching up and down swigging bottles of milk in an abandoned manner while Mith Mith lay slumped across the piano.  She had been dead for a quarter of an hour and had apparently passed on in the middle of The Grand Old Duke of York.  This shocking incident has remained fresh as a daisy in my memory because I hadn't got round to paying the fees, whereas the rest of the mothers had stumped up the three guineas a term in advance.

Most amusing, probably, is the way in which Bainbridge can end up at the most curious of statements.  'A knowledge of sex and moths is no substitute for Latin, science and maths', for instance, or, as an aside, '(I once knew a countess, an ex-theatre sister from Liverpool, who messed up my kitchen while trying to decapitate her husband, the Earl.)'  These statements are equally startling in context - not completely incongruous, because Bainbridge has more or less built up to them, but then takes a leap to something extraordinary.

Those introductory passages I mentioned - it's a little odd to read them before reading the column in question, but often they feel no more normal afterwards.  They go off at tangents; they reveal less than they appear to, and add new questions rather than answers.  Sweet William could have written them.  Here's one which prefixes a column which is mostly about Snow White:

I'm not going to enlarge on the events recounted here: they are too painful.  The moment he set eyes on me my ex said I looked very withered.  The last night he was here the cleaner confronted him.  How could he have walked out on his children all those years ago?  His response was pretty predictable, given the guilt we all feel.  He said, "This is all very boring", and caught a taxi to the airport.

Which brings me onto another point.  Bainbridge makes pretty free with her relatives and friends.  Often her daughters and grandchildren are mentioned, but also talks about neighbours and acquaintances - surely they then read the Evening Standard, and recognised themselves?  But, but... sometimes Bainbridge's introductory paragraphs make it clear that the anecdote she's relating is not, in fact, wholly true... or is true in essentials, but happened with other people, in a different way...

Like some of Bainbridge's characters, and like her own quirky narrative style, nothing can quite be trusted in her journalism.  I'm very glad that her style and tone didn't get diluted by the demands of a newspaper column - it really is just an extension of the qualities I enjoy in her fiction, with a personal twist and a drier, acerbic view on life.  Great fun, very unusual, and a lovely way to finish off my first dive into Beryl Bainbridge territory.

You’ve sold your novel and don’t have ESP? Ten things you should do ASAP.

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

On August 10^th2011, at precisely 3:10 pm, I was sitting on the examining table at my doctor’s office, waiting impatiently for him to come in and prescribe antibiotics for my stubborn bout of sinusitis. One minute I thought I was having the worst sinus headache ever, the next I felt like John Travolta in the movie “Phenomenon” where he suddenly develops special powers after seeing a bright light in the sky. In a flash of what felt a lot like ESP, I was given a sign that my novel had sold. 

Crazy, right?

But before you decide that I should have been seeing a psychiatrist instead of a general practitioner, let me explain what happened.

Minutes earlier, after taking my vitals, the nurse had left the examination room door partway open. Out in the hall, someone was holding the latest book by Fern Michaels, a NYT best-selling author with Kensington Publishing Corp. All I could see was a woman’s tan, jewelry-adorned hand, holding the hardcover against her ample chest, right side up and title facing out, the white and pink cover like a neon sign against her navy shirt. The woman talked excitedly for several minutes, her entire body shaking, the novel bouncing up and down as if saying, “Look at me! Look at me!” I told myself I was imagining things. Seeing the newest novel by a best-selling author from one of the two publishing houses who’d requested my novel three weeks earlier did NOT mean my novel had sold and I'd soon see my name on a Kensington cover. It was a coincidence, nothing more. People read books at the doctor's office all the time. Maybe I had a fever. Maybe I needed a nap. By the time I left the doctor’s office, I’d come to my senses and forgotten all about it. 

Then, when I got home, my husband said my agent had called at 3:10, the exact same time Fern Michael’s book had been playing peek-a boo with me through a crack in the examining room door. My agent wanted me to email him as soon as I returned. Shaking, I emailed my agent, took the phone in the den, and waited. Finally, the phone rang. My agent said we had an offer from the editor-in-chief at Kensington for a two-book deal. For the first time in my life, I was speechless. “Yeah?” I managed. “You don’t sound very excited,” my agent said. Finally, I found my voice. “Are you kidding?” I said. “My heart is pounding out of my chest!”

Once I could speak again, my agent and I talked for over a half an hour. My husband and daughter kept opening the door and looking in at me with wide, questioning eyes. I smiled, gave a ‘thumbs up’, and shooed them away. Finally, I hung up and shared the news. I sold my novel! Wiping away tears of joy, I tried to remember everything my agent said. After hugs and congratulations, a rush of adrenaline raged through my body. It was like a hundred Redbulls mixed with shots of espresso coursing through my veins. I was wired, all thoughts of ESP and sinus headaches miraculously disappeared. I remember talking a hundred miles an hour and pacing the driveway in my bare feet, my husband sitting in the open door of the garage, nodding and smiling. This was huge! This was what I’d been working towards for years! This was like winning American Idol! Well, okay. Maybe not. But at that moment, that’s what it felt like (minus the million dollar contract). We decided to drive to my parents’ to tell them in person, (my mother cried) and we called close friends. It was a great day! And call me crazy, but I still wonder if someone or something was trying to give me a sign that day.

Next came the questions. What happens now? What do I do next? What's going to be expected of me? Unfortunately, that day in the doctor’s office I really did have a sinus headache and had NOT developed special powers. Bummer, I know. 

We didn’t have a party, or go out to dinner to celebrate. Looking back, I wish we had. After all, how many times do you sell your first novel?  Yeah. Once. Lesson learned.  

There are a lot of other things I wish I’d known back then. And a whole lot of things I still have to learn. With that being said, here are some insights I've gained since then that may help others who have sold a novel and can't rely on ESP.

Let me start by saying this; if you’ve just sold your first novel, you’re going to be busier than you can imagine. If you have a two-book deal with a deadline, along with a hundred other things you never thought you'd have to do, you’re going to find yourself doing edits, copy edits, and promotion for the first novel, all while outlining and writing the second. That’s why I came up with this list. Some publishers may ask for the things on this list, some may not. Either way, you’ll be glad to have some of this busy work done ahead of time. 

1) Celebrate every step! (Okay, it’s not required, and your publisher isn’t going to care one way or the other, but it’s a good idea) It doesn’t matter if celebrating means going out to dinner, buying yourself something nice, eating bread dumplings and drinking beer with your best buds, or lounging on the couch with your cats. If it’s something that makes you happy and feels like a reward, do it! You’ll be glad you did. (Did I mention you’re going to be busy?)

2) If you have a two-book deal, start writing down your ideas. Now. If you’ve already started another book or have three complete manuscripts stashed under your bed, good for you. But find out how soon your editor is willing to look at your ideas and synopses because the book you want to write, or have already written, might not be what your editor has in mind. If you have to start from scratch, it's best to know ASAP.

3) Write an Author Bio. Have several, in various word counts.

4) Write your dedication and acknowledgements. I know, I know. That’s the easy part and you'll have lots and lots of time! Trust me, it’s not, and you won’t. Look at other acknowledgements to get different ideas. Writing an acknowledgment is harder than you think.You can always add people later, but at least you’ll have a basic draft and you won’t be rushed when your editor suddenly asks for it in two days.

5) You may decide not to blog, but write a few blog posts anyway. I wasn’t going to blog and yet, here I am. The posts will come in handy if your publisher has you doing guest posts closer to publication, or you might decide to do a blog tour to get the word out about your book. You’ll be glad to have some posts ready. (And here I need to take my own advice)

6) Come up with 5-10 questions and answers for an Author Q & A. You know all those nice questionnaires in the back of your favorite books? Chances are, the author wrote it. Do yours now.

7) Write a positioning statement for your book. A positioning statement is like a pitch/byline for a movie. Here’s the positioning statement I wrote for The Plum Tree. It’s a little long, but I figured my publisher could edit it if necessary. They did.  

“Told from one of the best vantage points for witnessing the first cruelties and final ruin of the Third Reich—the German home front—THE PLUM TREE is an epic story of human resilience and enduring hope that follows a young German woman through WWII as she struggles to survive poverty and Allied bombs, finds the courage to outwit SS officers, and tries to save the love of her life, a Jewish man. Think Cold Mountain meets Schindler’s List!”

8) Write a Reader’s Guide. Again, not all Reader’s Guides are the same, but look in other novels for different examples and ideas. My editor asked for 15 questions. I came up with 25. He kept 20.

9) Write an Author’s Note. My Author’s note consisted of the inspiration behind The Plum Tree, paragraphs describing how and why I used certain non-fiction books in my research, another paragraph about novels I’d read and enjoyed that also helped guide me through WWII, plus any historical liberties taken by me to further the plot.

10) Remember to enjoy LIFE. The life of a working author is literally non-stop. Non-stop writing, non-stop editing, non-stop networking, non-stop promotion, non-stop work. If you’re already a little OCD like I am, you have my sympathy. I’m a list person. I like to cross things off my to-do list by the end of the day. Having a never-ending to-do list is tough. You have to know when to take a break. Sometimes, even when you’ve got copy edits due and a hundred emails waiting, you’ve got to step away from the computer. Go for a walk, watch the Housewives of NYC, play with the dog, invite friends over. It will make you feel like a real, live person again. I love to cook, garden, clean, spend time with family and friends, and do yard work. Those things make me feel normal. It’s easy to put in 12-18 hour days doing everything a writer needs to do. If you have a full-time job and a family to raise, things are going to be monumentally harder. And remember, whenever you feel overwhelmed, see number one on this list. Celebrate! You sold a novel!!! And that, my friend, is almost as amazing as having ESP!!

Sweet William - Beryl Bainbridge

Sweet William is my second Bainbridge novel, published in 1975 - so, a couple years before Injury Time, which I reviewed earlier this week.  I've read both as part of Gaskella's Beryl Bainbridge Reading Week - and I'm very grateful that she prompted me in this direction.  Although I've only read two, I feel like I'm getting a greater sense of Bainbridge's range.

Unlike Injury Time, Sweet William isn't an out-and-out comedy.  There is a certainly a lot of humour in it, but it's a darker humour - where the darkness isn't merely incidental, but brings with it tones of genuine hurt and despair.  But it's far from bleak - Bainbridge throws in enough of the surreal and unexpected to prevent this being a Hardyesque paean to misery.

Ann is a BBC secretary, recently - impulsively - engaged to Gerald, who is heading off to America as the novel begins.  She has rather a fiery relationship with her mother, who invariably cows or embarrasses her, and is equally sick of putting up with her cousin Pamela.  She is attending a children's performance on behalf of her landlady (as you do) when she first encounters William...

Her first impression was that she had been mistaken for someone else.  She looked behind her but there was no one in the open doorway.  The stranger was beckoning and indicating the empty chair beside his own.  His eyes held such an expression of certainty and recognition that she began to smile apologetically.  It was as if he had been watching the door for a long time and Ann had kept him waiting.  She did notice, as she excused herself along the row of seated mothers, that he had yellow curls and a flattish nose like a prize fighter.  He was dressed appallingly in some sort of sweater with writing on the chest.  On his feet he wore very soiled tennis pumps without laces.

Not entirely the most beguiling of portraits, is it?  But William definitely has a way with women, and it isn't long at all before Ann and William have, er, become better acquainted - all thoughts of Gerald apparently banished.

Only William isn't the world's most faithful of men.

It gets a bit dizzying, trying to work out how many women - and, Bainbridge hints but never states explicitly, men - are besotted with William - and he certainly isn't slow to reciprocate.  Sweet William is only 160 pages long, but in that space Bainbridge manages to wind and weave quite a complex tangle of relationships - in fact, the complexity is mostly due to the fact that William is far from honest.  He says he's going to certain places; he's actually elsewhere.  He doesn't even mention some of the people he's having dalliances with, until much later.  It's a little confusing for the reader, but that helps get us in Ann's frame of mind - and Bainbridge's style is never confusing.  It's a very organised, precise confusion, if you understand what I mean.

William reminded me quite a bit of Dougal Douglas in Muriel Spark's The Ballad of Peckham Rye (which I read for Muriel Spark Reading Week, and reviewed here) - and not just because he's Scottish.  They're both deceptively charming men who appear suddenly and create havoc, never telling much of the truth.  We see Sweet William from the woman's point of view, and so it does have some of the frustration and heartbreak woven in.  Me and my sensitive heart, ahem, I callously preferred the conversations between Ann and her mother - who is strident and occasionally rather hysterical.  (Spoiler ahead, by the way.)

Voice beginning to rise in pitch, her mother said, "His wife should be told."

"She has been," Ann said.  "She thinks William's a beautiful person."

"Shooting's too good for him," said her mother shrilly.  It was as if she'd promised herself, or someone else, that she would not shout recriminations at Ann and was now relieved that there were others on whom she could vent her feelings.

All in all, I didn't love this as much as Injury Time, because I thought Bainbridge managed farce so beautifully there.  Sweet William is a different kettle of fish, and it's not fair to fault Bainbridge for not achieving something she didn't set out to achieve - indeed, I imagine a lot of people would prefer the subtler narrative in Sweet William where actions matter and feelings can get hurt, unlike the surreal hostage-situation in Injury Time.  Whichever one comes out on top, they're both fantastic novels.  I can definitely see why Bainbridge is mentioned in the same breath as Spark, and I'm intrigued to read more.

And now I'm wondering whether or not Bainbridge wrote any novels without mistresses in them?

Five From The Archive (no.3)

In honour of Beryl Bainbridge Reading Week - and being a bit teasing about the morose face she seems to have in every photo...

Beryl Bainbridge was famously nominated for the Booker Prize five times but never won - and so, also in my honour, this week's five from the archive are...

Five... Shortlisted Booker Titles (which didn't win)

1.) Loitering With Intent (shortlisted 1981) by Muriel Spark

In short: My favourite Spark novel, as I'm sure you all heard during Muriel Spark Reading Week, it concerns Fleur's somewhat mad involvement with arrogant Sir Quentin, his Autobiographical Association, and the world of publishing.

From the review: "This becomes the crux of the novel - where does Fleur's imagination end, and where does plagiarism begin? Similarities between the Autobiographical Association's activities and the manuscript of Warrender Chase grow ever greater - how much is coincidence, how much does Fleur absorb, and how much does she write before it happens? "

2.) The Bookshop (shortlisted 1978) by Penelope Fitzgerald

In short: A woman tries to open a bookshop in a small town, but finds that the town takes against her.

From the review:  "Between Christine and Florence a rather touching, but unsentimental, friendship develops. If that sounds remotely mawkish, trust me, it isn't. Penelope Fitzgerald doesn't do mawkish. Her writing is spare, very spare, and there isn't room for emotions - we simply see the people interact, and can quite easily understand the emotions they must be experiencing."

3.) A Month in the Country (shortlisted 1980) by J.L. Carr

In short: Tom has been hired to uncover a medieval mural in a northern village church - this gentle novel shows his relationships with the other villagers, and quiet absorption in his work.  (I'm afraid the 'review' is hardly that... one of my scatterbrain days.)

From the review: "The most interesting scene is that when Tom visits the vicar and his amiable wife, Alice, only to discover their monstrous and secluded vicarage seems to alter both their personalities. Like the rest of the novel, this is shown subtly and calmly, but is a fascinating glimpse into one facet of the village."

4.) The Little Stranger (shortlisted 2009) by Sarah Waters

In short: Creepy events start to happen in an old mansion in the post-war 1940s.  Visiting Dr. Faraday narrates them, but is uncertain whether or not the supernatural is to blame...

From the review: "It's something of a truism to say that 'the house is itself a character', but you have to take your hat off to Waters' ability to invest Hundreds Hall with this power without it becoming a caricature of Gothic literature. The house remains comfort and terror; mystery and simplicity; homely and unhomely."

5.) Black Dogs (shortlisted 1992) by Ian McEwan

In short: Something happens on a couple's honeymoon, involving two black dogs.  We see the impact of this event without, for a long time, knowing precisely what took place...

From the review:  "It certainly battles out with Atonement for being my favourite McEwan - people have recommended 'early McEwan' to me, and I can see why. The writing here is compact, tense - so often I'd finish reading paragraphs or phrases and think "wow" - quite the opposite of Saturday."

As always, I want to know - which would you suggest?  To give you a hand, here is a link to all the shortlisted titles.

Writing on the Clock

by Anne Clinard Barnhill     

The story of the completion of AT THE MERCY OF THE QUEEN is one I hope you'll find of interest.  It begins in 2007, when I started writing about my ancestor, Lady Margaret Shelton, for the sheer fun of it.  I'd read the Jean Plaidy books, along with several other Renaissance novels and decided I needed to tell Margaret's story for my own amusement.  I never dreamed the book would sell.

     In June, 2007, we had a family tragedy and I found myself caring for a newborn and a 5-year-old.  There was no time for writing.  Fast-forward to October, 2008, when I was on the faculty of the South Carolina Writers Workshop at Myrtle Beach.  While there, I met an agent, Irene Goodman.  We began chatting and she asked me what I was working on.  I mentioned my historical novel, telling her it was far from finished, etc.  As we talked, I realized she knew a great deal about the period and discovered she loved historical fiction.  By the end of our conversation, she'd given me her card and asked to see what I had written thus far.

     By that time, I had thirteen chapters.  I sent her the first three.  She was very interested and wanted to know when I expected to finish the book.  For some ridiculous reason, I told her I'd have it all completed by the following June.  Mind you, I still had care of the children--if you've ever had a toddler, you know how much time you have for writing---especially if you are the grandmother!  There is a reason young women have the babies!

     In May, she emailed me, asking how the book was progressing.  I sent her the remaining ten chapters from the original thirteen.  She loved it and wanted to know when I could be completely finished.  Of course, I had not written a word since I'd seen her.

     I'll never know why I said August.  But it popped out before I had sense enough to stop it.  She wanted around 400 pages; I had around 125.  I arranged to take three weeks away to complete the manuscript.  My  husband and son would take care of things at home.

     I headed down to my parents' house near Holden Beach, figuring out how many pages I'd have to write each and every day to  make my deadline.  Sixteen.  Sixteen pages a day including weekends.  I was determined to do it.  I knew I wouldn't get another chance.

     I set up my computer and got to work.  I'd write for a while in the mornings, take a nap in the early afternoon, then write until around midnight.  I got my sixteen pages every day for the full three weeks.  It was the most intense experience of my writing life--I both loved and hated it.  I was able to immerse myself fully in the work, coming up for food and air every so often.  I had my reference books scattered on the floor, the table, the bed, even on the bathroom sink.  I thought if I could, somehow, sleep with the texts, the world of Henry VIII might seep into my pores by osmosis.  At times, it was as though I was possessed, talking to myself, pacing the room.  Other moments would be filled with gloom--I could never write this much so quickly and if I did, it would all be trash.  But I kept writing.

     Bottom line--I did it!  After my three weeks were over, I went home and polished what I'd written, had my husband read through and make suggestions, then sent it off to Irene.  She, too, had some suggestions.  By Thanksgiving, she had the final draft and by January, the manuscript was sold.  I'm not sure I could write so intensely again but wow!  what a rush it was!

Word Verification

I'm afraid I've had to reactivate word verification.  I know it's a pain, but I've been getting so many spam comments recently that I'm having to bring it back.  Sorry!  To give you a smile, I was amused by one of the spam comments I got today.  Usually they give a link to their website after a vaguely positive comment about 'your site'.  This innovative spammer went with something a bit different...  They still had their link, but before that:

The very next time I read a blog, Hopefully it won't disappoint me as much as this particular one. After all, I know it was my choice to read through, but I genuinely thought you'd have something interesting to talk about. All I hear is a bunch of moaning about something you could fix if you weren't too busy searching for attention.

UPDATE: Well, I've had two spam comments in the not-very-long since I posted this, so apparently Word Verification doesn't make any difference.  I've turned it back off for now.

Injury Time - Beryl Bainbridge

It's Beryl Bainbridge Reading Week with Annabel/Gaskella... hope you're joining in!

Can you imagine what would happen if the casts of Abigail's Party and Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? were held hostage in a siege?  Well, if you can't, then read Injury Time and it'll give you a pretty good idea.  The sexual bewilderment of George and Martha is combined with the 1970s would-you-like-an-olive stylings of Beverley et al in Bainbridge's 1977 novel, somewhere in the middle of her writing career.

Edward is a somewhat hapless chap, working in dull job and in a marriage with Helen which, if not loveless, is hardly passionate.  And he has a mistress - albeit one with three unruly children at home, and no intention of staying submissively in the shadows.  His mistress rejoices in the absurd name Binny.

Binny was a wonderful mother, but she didn't seem to realise he was a very busy man and his time was limited. They could never do anything until her ten-year-old had settled down for the night.  They could usually start doing something at about five to eleven, and then they had to do it very quickly because Edward had to leave at quarter past eleven.  He was always whispering frantically into Binny's ear what he might do if only they had a whole evening together, and she grew quite pale and breathless and hugged him fearfully tightly in the hall, mostly when seeing him out.

Binny is tired of fitting in around Helen's schedule (although Helen supposedly does not know of Binny) and demands that Edward ceases to treat her as a dirty little secret.  In order to pacify Binny, Edward agrees to invite his colleague Simpson, and Simpson's wife Muriel, to a dinner party at Binny's house.  What could possibly go wrong?

Bainbridge is great at showing the awkwardness of this dinner party and all its shades of morality: Simpson has overstated his wife's approval of the night, for example, and Binny's attempts to maintain a presentable dinner party in bizarre circumstances are drawn wonderfully.  My favourite character, though, is Binny's neighbour Alma, who turns up mid-way through the party, rather the worse for wear.  I don't know what I find so amusing about characters who incongruously pepper their conversation with 'darling' and 'dear', but it always makes me chuckle.  Indeed, the whole novel is very funny - mostly a humour which comes from dialogue, clashes of characters, and surreal turns of events.

"Drunken driving is a crime," said Simpson stiffly.  "It should carry the harshest penalties."

"What are you worried about, darling?  I lost my licence, didn't I?"  All at once Alma's face crumpled.  Tears spilled out of her ludicrous eyes.

"You can talk, George," Muriel said coldly.  "You're only wearing one shoe."

The most bizarre twist, as I mentioned at the beginning and as the cover suggests, is that these characters find their evening's festivities interrupted when two men and a woman come running through the front door (complete with a pram holding a doll) and hold them all hostage.  The house is chosen more or less at random, and they are simply a bargaining tool against the police.

What makes Injury Time so hilarious is that Beryl Bainbridge chooses not to change the tone when the hostage situation takes place.  The characters - especially irrepressible Alma - don't alter the way they talk, and the dynamics between man, mistress, colleague, and wife all remain fraught, uncomfortable and very funny.  It helps that Ginger and Harry, the main two hostage-takers, are not your normal criminals.  Some fairly disturbing events occur in Injury Time, but they are described with such lightness, and focus upon social awkwardness rather than anything more traumatic, that this remains decidedly a comic novel.  As my first foray into the world of Bainbridge, I'm off to a fantastic start, and I look forward to seeing what else the week brings.

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes - Anita Loos

Amongst my towering pile of current (but not very active) reads, I mentioned Gentlemen Prefer Blondes by Anita Loos.  One or two of you encouraged me to return to it, and I am never one to turn down the call to read a short novel from the 1920s.

Lorelei is the blonde in question, going around America and Europe bewitching rich men and thinking deep thoughts.  These thoughts she has been encouraged to note down in her diary... she is admirably determined to educate herself, but rather more determined to secure diamond tiaras etc. from the gentlemen she encounters.  She is not aided by her unrefined friend Dorothy, whom I absolutely love - Lorelei attempts to refine her, but Dorothy's slang and insults ("Lady, if we hurt your dignity like you hurt our eyesight I hope for your sake, you are a Christian science") are thankfully unfettered by decorum - they're hilarious.

The joy of the novel is the voice Loos creates for her blonde.  Almost every sentence begins 'So' or 'I mean', and her deep thoughts are about as perceptive as her spelling is correct.  Typos today are, for once, not my own work.

I am going to stay in bed this morning as I am quite upset as I saw a gentleman who quite upset me.  I am not really sure it was the gentleman, as I saw him a quite a distants in the bar, but if it really is the gentleman it shows that when a girl has a lot of fate in her life it is sure to keep on happening.

I haven't seen the film musical, with Marilyn Monroe, but I think I'm going to now.  At the time of publication, it was hugely successful - the second best selling title of 1926 (although published in 1925), and Edith Wharton called it 'The great American novel.'  I wonder how tongue-in-cheek she was being?

As the beauty of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is in the style, I'll give you another excerpt - one which gets across quite how beguiling the young woman is:

So Mr. Jennings helped me quite a lot and I stayed in his office about a year when I stayed in his office about a year when I found out he was not the kind of gentleman that a young girl is safe with.  I mean one evening when I went to pay a call on him at his apartment, I found a girl there who really was famous all over Little Rock for not being nice.  So when I found out that girls like that paid calls on Mr. Jennings I had quite a bad case of hysterics and my mind was really a blank and when I came out of it, it seems that I had a revolver in my hand and it seems that the revolver had shot Mr. Jennings.

[...]

Because everyone at the trial except the District Attorney was really lovely to me and all the gentlemen in the jury all cried when my lawyer pointed at me and told them that they practically all had had either a mother or a sister.  So the jury was only out three minutes and then they came back and acquitted me and they were all so lovely that I really had to kiss all of them and when I kissed the judge he had tears in his eyes and he took me right home to his sister.

So, I mean, I liked the novel a lot - I didn't find it quite as uproariously funny as some people evidently do, and I think the joke would wear a little thin if it were stretched beyond the 150pp of this novel - but it was great fun while it lasted.  And I do have the even shorter sequel, But Gentlemen Marry Brunettes, in the other half of this edition, starting from the other side and meeting in the middle... I'll report back in due course.

Song for a Sunday

Like everyone else in the world, it seems, I have Adele's albums.  I bought 19 after hearing her beautiful cover of 'Make You Feel My Love' at my cousin's wedding.  Well, little did I know that, buried deep in my iTunes, I had a duet called 'Water and a Flame' which Adele sang with Daniel Merriweather on his album Love & War.  And it's rather nice.

Stuck-in-a-Book's Weekend (Minimalist) Miscellany

It's been a long day, so I'm going to leave you with a very minimalist miscellany.  Follow the links to find out more...

1.) 60 Years in 60 Poems - can you help?

2.) Remember how much I loved Life in a Day?  Now there is Britain in a Day.  Not as good, but still definitely worth watching.

3.) Have you seen Karyn's new bookshelves yet?

4.) Tove Jansson AND Alice's Adventures in Wonderland?  Yes please!  (click the picture for more info.)

5.) Claire shares How To Write A Novel by Georgette Heyer - very funny!  And...

6.) Michelle shares On Reviewing Fiction by Rose Macaulay - also very funny!

Have a lovely weekend :)