Almost famous

I've been quiet here for a while now. But this week has been a big one: I have had my first piece of flash fiction published.

It's called Bog Standard and it's super short but it's quirky and I like it, and you can read it in the shake of a baby lamb's tail.

This week I have also had my final wisdom tooth out, and just this minute I've found out I'm getting another short story published, this time online and in print so I can look at it both on the screen and in a frame, hehe.

So basically I figure that right now I'm almost famous.

Confessions on an English non-Opium Eater in a new city

"To the Reader, I here present you, courteous reader, with the record of a remarkable period in my life...."


I don't know where to start. It's all a daze. My head is fuzzy, like something fuzzy, and I can see everything but can't touch any of it. I can't grab hold of anything; it's all beyond my reach. 
      I know where I am but always forget. When I have to write my address, the one that comes to my head is where I lived a year and a half ago. I know where I live but feel like I'm leaving in two days. The only thing I can touch is Oscar, and thank god; he is what brings my feet to the ground. 
     It's hard isn't it? Life. Trying to do what you want to do. Trying to be true to yourself, be liked, be respected, be loved. That's all I've ever wanted. Along with money and to be a writer.

Look out the window. The whole world is a story, and every moment is a miracle.
-Bruce Taylor, UWEC Professor of Creative Writing

Madrid: first impressions

People keep asking me if I prefer Barcelona or Madrid.
     I've told them to ask me again in 3 years (that's how long I was in Barcelona). That way I can make a fair and informed comparison. Right now I miss the beach terribly. Sounds awful doesn't it? Get the violins out quick.
     Madrid, Barcelona. They are very different. The people, the way of life, the bars, the food. Here there's great banter, and tapas with your drink for free which goes a long way. There seems to be a big party scene and it doesn't feel too different to London - both big, cool capital cities with a lot going on and a lot of people moving fast around you, all the time. I'm sure I'll love it.
     After 9 days I have worked a full week in my new job, lived in two flats while searching for one to really live in, still don't have a mobile but yes I do have a lot of dirty clothes. Fingers crossed I'll have a home from Tuesday and will put a wash on.
     It's all gone so amazingly fast that I have to catch my breath.
     Just three weeks ago I was mooching around Buenos Aires reflecting on my many months of travels, gazing down at my tanned feet and snapping away on the camera. All of a sudden I have a job again (a really great job), with a title and a desk and a computer and a phone and workmates and an office and it feels a little like Let's Pretend. As quickly as you jump out of reality, you're thrown right back in.
     Would I opt to live travelling? No, I wouldn't.     

The potholes, the bumps, the clouds, the lows. They are all worth it for the moment of flying through the air, the highs, that sparkle of the silver lining.

- Little Poet

Thought for the day

Trifles make perfection, but perfection is no trifle.    

- Michelangelo

Reading under spotlight

I'm reading a short story of mine at storytails.org on Sunday! I better get practising my reading voice.

Eeek!

Cat got your tongue?

Confidence is a funny thing. My favourite words are funny and interesting, I really do over use them and should start thinking of some good alternatives. But until then, it's a funny thing. Sometimes I can chat away and other times a cat's got my tongue and is playing with it as if it's a mouse and it won't give it back. So, while the cat paws at my tongue, I can sit for an hour in silence while everyone around me airs their views, says things I agree with, things I think are ridiculous, things I'd like to pick up on and argue about, but I can't because that cat has still got my tongue.
     Then there are other times, when the cat throws it in the air and it comes back to me and I say something, and the blood rushes to my cheeks, my arms, my chest, my goddamn forehead, and I'm burning hot. I want to apologise, tell everyone to ignore the colour of my skin, but if I dare do that it turns to a shade of purple, so I struggle through as quick as I can.
     Lots of people who know me would be stumped to hear this coming from my mouth, from which come loud cackles, arguments, jokes, stories. But if the ground I'm on is a tiny bit shaky, the room I'm in, a tiny bit intimidating, the people I'm talking to, a tiny bit posh, the cat runs in, takes my tongue and leaves only the tail and the heart when it's finished. 

Londoners running the Underground

I've had a couple of funny moments on the tube, lately, so thought, why not share?

I was running for the tube the other day. Before you ask, I wasn't late, and I wasn't going to work. It was really here nor there if I got this tube or the next one, in, say, 2 minutes. Now that I'm back in London I realise that the need to run is inherently ingrained in me. When I see the tube on the platform and I hear the beeps I have to run for it and throw myself in the gap that's closing between the doors. Phew! I always make it. I know the sounds and the timings to heart so I earn some smiles when on the right side of the closed doors.
     This time as I lunged myself at the doors and jumped gracefully onto the tube, something different happened. As I jumped on, something shot up behind me and there was a loud bang that made me scream and everyone in the carriage turn and look. It was like a serve moment in a tennis match: all heads turned to me. I swung around to see what the noise was and what did I find only a man on the ground holding his forehead. Directly in front of him was the yellow pole of the Underground. I think everyone was waiting to see how this panned out. I could almost see the birds flying out from this guy's ears as his head spun around inside itself. Are you okay? I asked him. Yeah, he said. His accent told me he wasn't a Londoner, and his face said he didn't feel very well.

Another night on my way home from watching the Barca-Real Madrid game and a guy had his rather large man-bag on the seat next to him, which became my seat and meant I had only half of it. I sat down and when he didn't look up from his magazine I thought, what a wanker! I thought I'd shimmy and give him the hint; it would shake his bag and the magazine lying on it, which he was reading. I began to shimmy and he looked up. You must think I'm a right ignorant pillock! he said. I'm so sorry! I was away with the fairies. Then we both laughed hard as we knew he'd hit the nail on the head. My annoyance floated away as we chatted.

I find the tube in London quite a funny place (funny weird). No-one talks, no-one smiles, no-one says hello, how are you doing? But I still manage to break though it all when I can and have a giggle with a stranger. It's good fun. Try it, you might like it.

Diaspora at Home

People find it amusing to find someone born and bred in Willesden Green, which amuses me in turn. I'm sure there are quite a few of us, and really, it needn't be such a surprise.

I went to the LSE Space for Thought Literary Festival in February. Its theme: 'Crossing Borders'. In one lecture they came on to second generation diaspora and my ears pricked up. It was about the thread of diaspora, and the fact that it  doesn't stop with the person who sails. They mentioned belonging, completion of the self; something we all want to do and which are complicated by diaspora. I identified with this, and thought of it the other day when I saw two teenagers with cockney accents in hiqabs on the 98 bus. I also thought of an Irishman my mum used to talk to, and when she asked him what part of Ireland he was from, he said he was born down the road.
     When I say to people that I'm from Willesden, the usual reaction is,
     'Oh! So you're actually from London, then?'
     Well, yes, I guess I am.
     Though it took me a long time to get to that bit. I am just like the kids I see now going to school, with their mums in hijabs, or a scarf, or whatever they might have on. My point is, my parents are from somewhere else, too. So it took me a long time to think I was from here when I used to have an Irish accent myself, when I thought I was from somewhere else. I've argued the point a lot, but I don't bother so much now. When I live in Spain, or should I say Catalunya, then I'm English. But then they say I don't look English, so I say my parents are Irish, and then the reaction is, 'Oh! So you're Irish?'
     Well, I guess I am.

In Ireland, I am English. At University, I was the Irish girl. In Willesden, I'm from Willesden. Sometimes, people are more extreme nationals of their own country when they are out of it. Home is always home, even when you've been living in another country for fifty years and at home for seventeen. Someone asked me the other day why second generation Irish want so much to be Irish? ... Interesting, I said. Maybe it's because they grow up hearing about another place called home. They go home every year. Their extended family are at home. Then you grow up and realise your home is not the same as the one you've grown used to hearing of.

So, in my home, Willesden Green, there are the following places, to name a few:

• Irish pubs (Angie's, Lula's, McGowan's and more)
• A Church, with a Polish congregation
• KD's (A Caribbean take-away shop)
• Mandy's (an Irish shop)
• Liquid (used to be an Aussie place, maybe still is?)
• Red Pig (a Polskie butchers)
• The Charcoal Grill (Kebab shop)
• The Central Mosque of Brent
• The Queensbury Pub (used to be The Green)
• The Queensbury Deli
• Nest, a cafe by Willesden Green station
• Foxtons - a big disappointment. Pizza Express should have got it...
• Pomegranate - a Thai BYO

What we used to have:

• The Spotted Dog - an Aussie hub, gone now apart from the façade
• D & G's - that great family-run Greek
• Shish - never quite as good as D & G's but a lot better than Foxtons

These places tell me that so many threads, textures and colours meet here, and I think of a line of a poem: 'Wherever I hang me knickers - that's my home', by the Guyanese - British poet Grace Nichols.

Mummies Mummies Mummies: food for thought

I stumbled into a 'Mums and Bumps' group yesterday morning. Lots of lovely mummies, or soon to be, sitting around old wooden tables, eating chocolate cake and chatting.

And there I was, alone, reading Fat Is a Feminist Issue by Susie Orbach (for research purposes). It was uncanny. The page I happened to be on went like this:

"For a mother, everyone else's needs come first. Mothers are the unpaid managers of small, essential, complex and demanding organizations... For her keep, the mother works an estimated ten hours a day (eighteen, if she has a second job outside the home) making sure that the food is purchased and prepared, the children's clothes, toys and books are in place, and that the father's effects are at the ready. She makes the house habitable, clean and comfy; she does the social secretarial work of arranging for the family to spend time with relatives and friends..."

I looked around at this group and wondered if the 'bumps' were ready, and how the already mummies were coping with it all. And their jobs, what were their jobs? Ah, back to the book...

"In a capitalist society everyone is defined by their job. A higher status is given to businessmen, academics and professionals than to production and service workers. Women's work in the home falls into the service and production category. Although often described as menial, deemed creative, dismissed as easy, or revered as god-given, women's work is seen as existing outside the production process and therefore devalued."

Susie goes on to say that "women are seen as different to normal people (who are men), they are seen as 'other'". I look back at the women around me, who have reserved an area of the deli for their Tuesday morning group. They don't look the 'other' to me; they look like they're having fun. Orbach's book is old, now, so maybe lots of this is out of date, and let's hope it continues to become more and more so by the day. These women are attractive, powerful, full of energy and chat. They are not victims, but friends, professionals, people who are also mothers.

I am not a mother. I have one who struggled with the issues Orbach mentions, as many have. I hope that it's easier for mothers, nowadays, to be everything they want to be.

Research. Who wants to do it?

In the novel I'm writing, someone goes missing. I need to research this. Who better to talk to, only the police? I have some idea of what happens... I've watched The Bill, I'm watching The Wire at the moment (and loving it!), but for that real authentic stuff, I want some guidelines to work with. So I pop into the local police station. They have shut the office as there is an urgent case of a missing person, so I have to come back another day. It fleetingly crosses my mind to ask if I can stay, but that thought runs back to where it came from and I shut the door behind me.

I walk down the road to the community police office. A young girl (who looks like she would help me) explains she doesn't know about that department, she'll go and ask her colleagues. A few minutes later and I'm hopeful. The door opens, and instead of inviting me in, she says that they can't talk to me; rules and regulations. I need to talk to press. She'll be able to help me, she's very nice. I go home. I call the number I've been given but it's just after 5pm so there's no answer. I call again the next morning and get through. She'll see what she can do. She takes my email and says she'll get back to me. And she does; to say that, no, press can't help me. I should try the website. Well, I had already read that in the first place, hadn't I.

Someone goes to hospital, not the same person that goes missing, another someone. So I need a doctor. I've been asking myself who's brain I can pick but, as yet, haven't come up with one. I do contact a centre though, and explain my situation. Maybe they could point me in the right direction, let me know about resources available? I wait. Then I get an email saying, no, due to limited resources, they can't help me, many thanks for getting in touch. No, please, thank you.

Wait for it.

The next day I get an email from the same person, with an additional line at the end of the previously sent email, of a link of another institution that might be able to help.

Message of the day?

A teeny weeny life line always pops up when you least expect it.

Still writing. You can't see me, but I am

So here I am. Writing to win. Writing, sending, writing some more. That makes me sound really busy. I shouldn't lie. I was out in the sun today reading, and felt my skin get hot and begin to tingle and lose its jaundiced look.

Yes, I'm serious. About the colour of my skin and the heat. The sun is out in London. 21 degrees, yes sirree bob. So get out there in your lunch time and take your clothes off. Your statutory rights will not be affected.

Now I'm back in the pink room and as my dad's is a south-facing house, no more sun for me.

What was my point? Oh yeah, writing to win. Well, no knocks on the door yet. I have had an email though, and it wasn't an automated one. A person (other than a friend) actually wrote to me to say that if I don't hear from her in 45 days, get back in touch.

Er, thanks for that.

I must admit that this did make me kinda happy, even though it was to say, see ya! wouldn't wanna be ya!

I should also tell you that I've marked in my calendar when 45 days from now is.

Writing to WIN!

Here are 14 tips on writing for competitions from WritingCalendar.com that I wanted to share with all writers, or in fact, anyone working on anything:

1. Read the rules and follow them. 
But rules are made to be broken, right? 
2. If you send off for more information always include an SAE. 
That's fair enough 
3. Don't play chicken with the closing date.  
Deadlines are really not my strong point. I do play chicken 
4. If there's a theme, use it.  
Oops. So you mean I can't just send my story with its theme EVERYWHERE? 
5. Keep to the word count.  
Okay. Just five or ten more doesn't count 
6. Don't publicly slag off the competition because you lose or aren't placed above someone who you think is a poorer writer. 
Oh right, you mean like Jacqueline Howett? http://booksandpals.blogspot.com 
7. Use a typewriter or wordprocessor.
I can do that
8. Spell check and punctuate.
Now, that's where the wordprocessor is a bonus
9. Don't pester the organisers. 
Of course not, I'll just give them a quick call... 
10. Don't use fancy fonts, coloured paper, or attach balloons etc.
Some Marks + Sparks chocolates?
11. Make sure you attach enough stamps and use a decent sized envelope.
Weighing it means queuing at the post office and at 5.30pm the queue is all the way down the road... Do I have to?
12. Include your contact details. 
My facebook page?
13. Never give up your copyright.
Yes, Sir.
14. Keep trying.
Finally, we've cut to the chase.

"My boss sucks her thumb!"

Well now, that's not really something you ever want to hear, is it? And no, thank the lord it's not my boss that sucks her thumb. I don't have a boss, remember. I don't have a job, ha.

My boss is called Guilt. Guilt if I haven't written anything, Guilt if I have slept in, Guilt if I've got caught up in the afternoon Masterchef. My boss can be pretty nasty sometimes, can make me feel really bad. I've had others, too, that weren't too kind. But I'm happy to say I've never had the misfortune to have a boss that sucks her thumb. All day. With her index finger tickling her nose.

That sounds enough to have to deal with, but on top of that, of course, you have to take the power struggle between you and her, because she has to prove herself, defend her position, flex her muscle.

So the whole thumb sucking thing has a lot more to it. I'll stick with Guilt for now.

Signed, sealed, delivered

I've sent a short story to a couple of competitions, yay! I've filled out the forms, written the cheques, printed the story double spaced, size 12 and stapled the left hand corner as directed. They should get there on time (I sent one way too late a week ago).

Surely that already puts me in the pile, right?

But, which pile?

Spread the Word, like Irish butter on your toast

So I went to Spread the Word's workshop on Saturday 26th March and it was very good.

Direct Action: Reaching New Audiences. A good, catchy title, I thought, and it bought me straight away. Or I bought it, and it wasn't that cheap. I don't know if I learned how to reach new audiences, but I did meet fellow writers, feel vaguely like a writer, even if it was from 9.30 to 5.30, and, oh yes, gaming! Yes, not exactly my cup of tea, either, but it was... interesting. If I learned anything, it's that gaming is certainly going well for Naomi Alderman, author of award-winning novel 'Disobedience', and that it is definitely her cup of chow.

Joe Dunthorne joined us for a performance at lunch, reading extracts from his novel 'Submarine', now out in cinemas, and his new novel. He was brilliant; not only were his pieces and poetry fantastic, but he was patient as the latecomers straggled in, and one lady put her red high heel through the floorboard.

The main thing I came away with at the end of the day (apart from leaflets and a couple of email addresses) was that writing doesn't have to be about holing yourself up in the back room of your house (or your Dad's house, as is my case). What they were telling us was that you actually can get out there, collaborate with people, DO things. Read at open mics, go to events, meet people with whom you have something in common, even if it is that, yes, I just want to be read, too.

It briefly closed the gap between me, all on my own, and everyone else... which was nice. Now I just have to try that list of things outside the walls of this nice, pink, back room.

Getting a book published: Checklist

Novel pitch. Check.

Cover letter. Check.

Synopsis. Check.

First 3 Chapters. Check.

The rest of the novel... erm, working on that.

Baby steps

I'm trying to write a book. I write every day. Am I a writer? I want to be one, I want people to read me, but maybe I'm already there.

What actually makes you a writer, what gives you that title... the confidence, the authority, to call yourself the word with the big W. People keep the books they've written in the drawer of their bedside cabinet, and I never understood why. But maybe that is their dream come true, maybe they don't need to be read by the mass audience. I don't know if I see the point in writing something, in having something to say, if you don't want to share it with people. My problem is that I do; have something to say; want to share it...

The thing is, the road seems so long to get the thing you want to say written down, printed, and then read. I guess I just have to keep on walking.

You've got to make it happen

Oasis, on the radio, telling me over and over again...