How Hard Can It Be?

I remember thinking this when I decided to write a novel. It was about five years ago, I had a block of a few hours every afternoon to myself and I’d always fancied having a go at writing a book.

As it turns out, my naivety knew no bounds…

But we only know what we know. None of us is gifted with knowledge past our own experiences. And so, I had no way of comprehending just how hard it is, when I sat down to write that first ‘novel’. I didn’t know it when I sent that first draft away for critique, or when the critique came back suggesting I should go away and learn how to write a novel. I had a stab at a rewrite, then put it in a drawer and began something new.

I didn’t even grasp how hard it can be when I sent part of my third ‘novel’ away for a multiply published writer to take her hatchet to. And, boy, did she ever totally eviscerate my writing and get unnecessarily personal whilst she was at it. Her criticism was extreme. It was enough to make me consider turning tail and running for the hills. Taking up crocheting instead. Or chess. Or deep-sea diving. But I’m very determined when I want to be (some might say bl**dy minded…) and I managed to separate emotion from advice, absorbed the useful bits and sallied forth with a determination which had deepened, rather than waned.

Even when people began to tell me my stuff was good, I hadn’t grasped it. Because throughout all these formative experiences I still had no idea how little I truly understood about the world I was getting into. There was too much ‘I’ and ‘me’ involved in the whole thing. I hadn’t grasped the nettle of what I was trying to achieve – and for whom.

And perhaps the question I should have asked myself back then was how hard can it be to write a decent novel? Because it isn’t difficult to string 90,000 words together into a story and call it done. What is hard is to craft it into something entertaining and fulfilling for the reader. To leave them with more than they had before they opened the cover. To make them smile, or sigh, or laugh, or cry. To leave them thinking about the characters long after they close the pages. To make them want to come back to your books time and again…

I’m edging towards understanding, I think. My first novel (of publishable standard) is a little over a month away from its launch date. I’m building a solid foundation from which I hope to develop, with the help of my wonderful publishers, Champagne Book Group.

What I’m saying is that nothing worth doing is easily achieved, in any field. And that’s as it should be. Finding things hard to achieve is what makes the achievement worth holding close to our hearts. Never give up. Never give in.

These days I have an alternative question for that naïve version of myself…

Why would you want it to be easy?

Oh- and why puffins? Well… Why not? 😉

Plus, I couldn’t work out how to import the picture I really wanted, and rather than destroy something in frustration, in this instance I am taking the path of least resistance, instead…

Responsible Self-Publishing

I got ‘book mail’ today, and I am excited – a couple of books have arrived which I can’t wait to get stuck into. Both are self-published. Both look awesome. I read a wide variety of genres, styles, and authors. I love everything from Jane Austen to Terry Pratchett, via Elly Griffiths, Mick Herron and Dawn O’Porter. Traditionally published or Indie, I don’t mind.

Actually, that’s not strictly true.

I don’t mind the origins of the book. What I mind about is its quality.

There is no doubt that self-publishing is an awesome step forwards for the book world. It gives the reader a whole treasure-trove of literature which would otherwise never see the light of day. And there are loads of excellent self-published books and amazing Indie authors out there. Plus, I know lots of hybrid authors, who supplement their publishing deals with the freedom that self-pubbing brings.

However, there’s a ‘but’… (Isn’t there always…)

The other day I read a self-published book by a debut author and marked eighteen punctuation errors in a double page spread, as well as four sentences which, frankly, made no sense. I flicked through two-thirds of the book hoping for improvement. It didn’t come. On the back page, the author thanked his editor. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

The thing is this. Self-publishing provides tremendous opportunity, but it should come with an equally tremendous dose of responsibility to get it right. Not only for your fellow authors, but – more importantly – for your readers.

It shouldn’t be a way to foist a sub-standard product onto an unsuspecting audience.

Readers are intelligent and perceptive. They want to be entertained, to submerge themselves in the worlds which books create, to escape reality for a little while. To see different points of view, to experience life through another’s eyes, to go on adventures not possible for them in the real world. But nothing turns a reader off more quickly than typos, bad punctuation, and weird layouts. The human brain is amazingly good at making subconscious corrections. And every book ever published contains a few typos. But once a reader begins to notice errata, they have already been sucked out of the story and will inevitably focus on the wrong aspects of the book.

In other words, you’ve lost them.

And if the errors keep on coming, the next stage is for the reader to become annoyed. After all, they have given up time to read what they hoped would be an entertaining story. They’ve paid money for it. A contract has been entered into – the reader gives their money and time in what they assume will be an exchange for entertainment and attention to detail. If they don’t get that, they feel cheated. Rightly so.

Not every reader will like every book. Obviously. We’ve all got ‘did not finish’ books lurking in a pile somewhere. But there’s a difference between disliking a particular storyline of a well-written book and feeling like you’ve just been mugged.

I am going through the process of editing my debut novel, due for publication this autumn, and am on round two of the publisher’s editing process. After ploughing my way through most of the aforementioned book, whose edits I think – if I’m being uncharitable – feel like they might have been completed whilst author and editor were enjoying a heavy night out in a pub, or perhaps even during a visit to a strip club for the amount of concentrated effort which went into it, I began to count up the number of edits my manuscript has been through. It’s already on edit/rewrite number seven (and that’s a conservative estimate).

The first draft went to a treasured beta reader for her initial thoughts. I revised accordingly. Then it went for critique to a fantastic scheme run by the RNA. I rewrote accordingly. It was read by my local writers’ group and was edited as a result. It went for a mentoring edit – and was rewritten again. It was picked up by a publishing house (more about that in future blogs) and I completed a pre-edit for them. I am now working on its second round of content editing with my assigned editor, and I continue to be amazed by the fine-tuning involved. The basic story and characters might be exactly the same as the ideas which turned my brain into a racetrack when I initially wrote it, but there is so much more to creating a novel than writing down the story.

At every stage of what might look like a daunting process, I have learnt something new. I have taken my abilities further. It has been more than worth the effort.

In the not-too-distant future, my book baby will leave my control. It will enter the final stages of its journey to publication, with line edits and copy edits, formatting and quality reviews taking place – another host of different eyes checking for slips and errors, another group of people aiming to produce the best quality product possible.

I understand that not everyone has access to this level of editing. But there are plenty of books out there on the subject of writing, and on the art of editing. (I should know, I’ve read quite a few of them). There are plenty of writer’s groups and free websites set up by authors wanting to help fellow writers. Help and support is out there. And any serious writer is going to need it, because creating a novel isn’t an easy task. It shouldn’t be easy. There is a phrase which regularly pops up when I am taking courses or listening to established authors – ‘Easy reading takes hard writing’. In other words, something which is silky smooth on the page has taken a shedload of work to appear effortless. Think majestic swan on the river with its energetic paddling below the surface. It takes grit and determination to write well, along with time and thought and patience and self-doubt and rejection and rebirth and trial and error and skill.

I made a conscious decision a few years ago to pursue this challenge to its limits, and in doing so try to learn as much as possible about the process of writing. Like many things in life, the more you begin to understand a skill, the more you realise there is yet to learn. The higher the mountain you’ve decided to climb becomes. Few will ever reach the summit. That’s not what this blog is about. It’s not about getting to the top of the mountain. It’s about not sticking your flag in the ground and calling it done when you’ve barely scaled the foothills. Aim a bit higher than that. Go for it and self-publish, but don’t be content with being an ‘uploader’. Because at the end of the day readers can spot that a mile off, and they won’t ever bother to come back for more.

Remember the badly edited, error-filled book at the start of my blog? That kind of book is the reason readers decide that self-published books aren’t for them. In one fell swoop, that writer will have frightened away an audience. And not just for his books, but for all the Indie authors who fall into the same genre category. That’s why getting it right matters.

So here, for what they are worth, are my top tips for things to do before you think about pressing the ‘publish’ button…

  1. Read loads of books in the genre you write. Try to define why they ‘work’ – or indeed don’t. Apply the same logical approach to your writing. (If you find you don’t have the distance from your own stuff to be able to see that clearly – and if you’re like me, you probably won’t – see tip #2).
  2. Join a local writing group, or an online one. There will be writers at all stages of their journey. The guy running my local (free to join) group is multi-published and is happy to offer advice. I belong to lots of online writing groups, all were free to join. One offers a critique-swap between members (you send your stuff; someone sends you theirs – you swap thoughts on what you read). Costs nothing but your time and gives useful pointers from an independent reader’s viewpoint. Find some like-minded writing buddies and talk about your writing/critique one another’s stuff. If you can, pay to do some professional courses, run by established writers. They are worth their weight in gold. Above all, don’t go it alone.
  3. Don’t be in a rush. Write your manuscript. Put it away for a minimum of a few weeks (a few months is even better). Return to it with a fresh perspective and read it as if you’d bought it. Preferably when you’re in a bad mood. Still uber-impressed with it?
  4. Edit HARD. Don’t be kind to yourself, because readers won’t be. Stephen King talks about ‘killing your darlings’. He doesn’t just mean characters who fulfil no real purpose, he’s talking about pet phrases which you love but don’t enhance the story, parts of the novel which do nothing but fill up pages, the use of too many adverbs, filler words. Too much ‘telling’. The list is endless. (And if you’re not sure what’s on the list – you’re not ready to push the button).
  5. Be aware that what you think is your very best work today, will probably look like it was written by a seven-year-old when you review it at some future time. This is normal. It is part of the process. (Refer to tip #3). I have four complete manuscripts which were written before the one I refer to in this blog. I cringe when I look at them. I still love the stories. I don’t love the way I wrote them. I am eternally glad I didn’t self-publish them, because I now know I can do a much better job for those characters, when I finally get around to rewriting them.
  6. Know that every speck of effort you put in now will pay dividends later. Your future author-self will thank you, that much I promise you.

As with many things, Stephen King probably sums it up the best, so I will leave you with a quote from his writing memoirs.

“If a writer knows what he or she is doing, I’ll go along for the ride. If he or she doesn’t… well, I’m in my fifties now, and there are a lot of books out there. I don’t have time to waste with the poorly written ones.”
― Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

Austen in Lockdown

A while ago, I entered a short story competition – the inspiration being Jane Austen’s 465 word short entitled ‘The Beautifull Cassandra’. I didn’t win – boo, hiss – but that means I get to put it on my blog instead… 🙂

I hope you enjoy it:

‘ Mrs Reynolds bustled in, placing the day’s post in front of me with what I liked to think was a curtsy, of sorts. I thanked her, setting down the novel I was much enjoying.

That, and the cup of tea which stood at my elbow, would have to wait.

I sorted the pile, taking my time. Allowing the anticipation to build. Would today be the day his letter would arrive? Mine, posted five days previously, would have reached him in plenty of time to be able to expect a reply by today, latest. My hopes had been dashed yesterday, and I wasn’t sure I could take another disappointment.

With no further interest in the day’s news, Mrs Reynolds took herself into the kitchen, where I could hear her consuming her customary beverage without much propriety.

I set to one side items of no immediacy, circulars went into the fire, and I was about to give up hope when, second to last in the pile – there it was. A cream envelope, with the now-familiar handwriting sprawling its way across the paper.

I’m not embarrassed to admit my heart jumped, and my stomach lurched in a similar way to the first time I travelled by boat.

Peeling back the flap, I retrieved the folded contents. Strangely intimate, to hold the piece of paper he had held, to run my fingers across the words he’d written. To press the paper to my nose, and hope for traces of his scent. To wonder how long it would be before I could hold him, rather than his letter. I settled back to read.

The letter, when all is said and done, was a little on the short side.

‘Dear Elizabeth. You are bonkers. Why can’t we just speak on the phone, like normal people,’ it read.

Mrs Reynolds bustled back into the room. I touched her briefly on the head before she flopped down in front of the fire. She was asleep and dreaming of recalcitrant rabbits within seconds.

I picked up my mobile and dialled William’s number. He answered instantly.

‘We do speak on the phone,’ I said. ‘But you can’t beat getting a letter in the post.’ I glanced at the sheet of manilla. ‘If you can call that a letter.’

‘You got it, then,’ he said.

‘Could you go for more than a one-liner, next time?’ I asked. After my outpourings of affection, my regaling of events, my secret messages hidden within my words, it seemed only fair to expect more in return.

He laughed. ‘How is it that I meet the woman of my dreams three weeks before lockdown – on top of which, she turns out to be the only person on the planet who still wants to communicate via paper and pen?’

I fingered the cover of my copy of Pride and Prejudice, the spine so worn it was difficult to make out the title.

‘I miss you,’ I said.

‘I miss you, too,’ he replied. ‘

The Case of the Mysterious Disappearing Blog

During lockdown my focus has been hard to maintain. My mind flits off in all directions, making creating anything meaningful a challenge. The writing of blogs completely disappeared from my mental ‘to do’ list. I mean, everyone’s got enough on their plates, right now, without me wittering on as well…

But the other day I got all keen, wrote a blog about whether or not we’re getting a handle on the virus situation (not really), or whether we are like those people at the beginning of pretty much every apocalyptical film I’ve ever watched. You know the ones, carrying on as if nothing is wrong whilst the massive tsunami builds, or the volcano ramps itself up, or the zombies gather in a disused quarry hemmed in by little more than a conveniently placed burnt out car.

I published the blog, went to check how it looked, and ‘pouf’ – it was nowhere to be seen. I expect I did something wrong, pressed the wrong button or whatever. It’s probably hovering in the ether somewhere, wondering why nobody loves it. But I love a good conspiracy theory, so you can imagine where my thoughts went next.

To cheer myself up, I watched ‘World War Z’. I mean, there’s nothing more uplifting than realising things could be so much worse. Plus, it stars Brad Pitt (with too much hair, in my opinion. And his jaw isn’t quite Rob Lowe chiselled, but I made do…)

And then I went to the wholesalers, and stocked up. Just in case. We now have enough rice for about five years. The dog has Bonio treats galore, and I couldn’t find a bigger pot of hot chocolate powder in the place.

I did leave the powdered milk on the shelf. I didn’t want to be totally fatalistic. I mean, they’ll sort this thing out, right?

Maybe I should have got the milk…

Virtual Hugs

I never realised how much I need to give and receive hugs until this week.

The automatic step forward to hug a friend, the arm raising itself to touch another’s shoulder, such small insignificant everyday movements which now have to be curbed and turned into a step back instead – very hard to process.

I understand the need for it, obviously. I get it. I’m not blind to the seriousness of the situation. But I do think ‘Social distancing’, whilst being vitally important in slowing the spread of Covid-19, is going to leave us with a raft of other problems, deep feelings of isolation and loneliness. Depression. Problems which will linger in the psyche far longer than the virus.

What I’m saying, I think, is that #bekind has never been more important than it is right now. But we need to be kind to everyone. Everyone. We need to be prepared to listen to what everyone’s worries are – however small and petty they might seem against the backdrop of this pandemic. Otherwise people will get swept away in the tide of ‘your problems aren’t big enough to worry about’. And some of them won’t have the energy to swim back.

We are all facing the possibility of life never quite being the same again. We are all facing the possibility of losing people we love. I am not making light of these things, they are real. But we all have smaller, more immediate things happening to us right now which are causing us sadness and worry, too. The things that need a good hug and chat with a friend to put them in their place. And without the ability to get that hug, or see that friend – those things become so much harder to deal with. It makes the need to be sensitive to others even more vital than ever before.

Just such a thing exists in my life, today. It is related to the virus, but not because anyone I love is ill. It is not earth shattering, or life altering in the long term, but it matters to the people it is happening to today. It is something which is not their fault but they will never be able to get what they will lose back. And that makes me sad for them. Luckily I will be able to hug one of them – if she’ll let me. She is a teenager after all. But she’s my teenager, so I’m sure it’ll be okay.

And for anyone else facing something big, or small, which feels as if it’s a little bit too heavy to bear – I am sending you a pile of virtual hugs to apply as and when. Not as good as the real thing, but it’s a start.

How you know when you’ve hit middle age…

We have just enjoyed a very family-orientated Christmas – the format is one day with his family, the other with mine, in an uber-fair yearly rotation. And luckily we all get on well enough for the days to proceed without the need to spill anyone’s blood.

This year, however, was the first time I truly felt like I an no longer part of ‘the’ generation. We are still the ones who make things happen, who are ‘in charge’, but I get the feeling we won’t be that for much longer.

My nephews and nieces are careering headlong through their teenage years, with a whole new sub-language all of their own. Of course they have – we all did that, although most of the words we used to describe things are now so totally non-PC there would almost certainly be a social media storm of epic proportions should any of us attempt their use in this day and age… (The Pogues ‘Fairytale of New York’ springs to mind just now). But for the first time I realised that whilst my parents didn’t have a scooby what ‘pengting’ meant (my mother kept asking why my niece was talking about paintings) and that the ‘olds’ bemusement was a source of comedy for everyone around the table, it occurred to me that I didn’t know what the words meant, either. For the first time, I felt out of the loop, excluded purely because of my age. And that gave me pause. Made me feel a bit awks, to be honest. (I think I’m still allowed that one).

Whilst the conversation proceeded at breakneck speed, with words cascading from teenage mouths faster than water down the Niagara Falls; whilst the oldies gave in gracefully and concentrated instead on nailing the sprouts on their plates; I felt a desperation to keep up. To be ‘in’. And, if I’m honest, I haven’t felt like that for a very long time. Because I’ve felt like I, and my peers, have been the constituent parts of the ‘in’ group and that others needed to keep up with us…

How the wheel turns…

And on top of that, I was given an Echo Dot. The ridiculously easy way in which I set it up and started ordering Alexa about made me feel a little bit insecure about how cool we thought we were, back in the day, to have something like a Walkman, for example. How amazing it seemed that you could just slip a cassette in and pop the equivalent of a tele-sales person’s headset on and be listening to an album, or a compilation (maybe Now That’s What I Call Music 6 or 7), or even a tape you’d recorded and compiled yourself. Might as well have been impressed by my ability to crack a nut between two large stones…

Perhaps I should just cling onto the happy knowledge that at least I still have the ability to set up a piece of modern technology. Perhaps I should cling onto the purple Quality Street sweet of knowledge that the ease by which the Dot came to life is a reflection on all the work we put in, rewinding cassette tapes back into their casings with pencils when the machine chewed it up; deciding that it was a rubbish way to listen to music and there had to be a better one. Creating it.

But, as I sat at that table, I realised that in just a few year’s time it will be those pengting teens who will be taking the lead, deciding how the human race takes itself forwards. That my generation will be surplus to requirements. Spent. We will be replaced, just as the tiny little circular speaker housing a very middle-classed sounding lady situated on the kitchen worktop has replaced a cd player and boxes full of discs. And the radio. And the weather forecaster. And the news channels. And the Encyclopedia Britannia. And probably loads of other things I haven’t even found out about yet.

I’m not going down without a fight, though. As I write this, I’m listening to Abba whilst munching my way through what’s left of a box of Quality Street – both of which have been around forever and show no signs of fading out of the picture. So, neither shall I. I just need to have a piece of paper and a pencil at hand the next time the offspring are around, so I can take notes. Or perhaps Alexa can do it for me…

Oh, and by the way, I hope you all had a very pengting Christmas. 🙂

Christmas on a Postcard

One of the churches in a local town (small city really – it has got a cathedral) holds a Christmas Tree Festival every December. Organisations from the local area create or decorate a tree in any way they see fit. This year the display included a tree made from Amazon boxes, with nativity scenes held within each tier of box (local primary school), a tree in the form of an evening dress (boutique shop), an ice pyramid with a polar bear at the top and piles of rubbish at the bottom, a tree decorated totally with knitted baubles… In all, a hundred and nine incredibly different trees.

To be honest, I was there to see a particular tree. A white tree with postcards fastened all over it. On each postcard, a maximum of a hundred words describing an aspect of Christmas. Contributions from local aspiring and published authors. Including me. Mine made the cut! It’s hard to describe the feeling that a little piece of my writing has made it into the public sphere. That people I don’t know are actually reading it.

I tried not to be too obvious as I took a few photos. Alright, a lot of photos – cut me some slack, this is still exciting for me… I may bore my nearest and dearest with the pictures for the rest of the month…

But I thought I would post what I wrote here, as well. Hope you enjoy it.

‘She liked it when they switched the lights on, tiny pearls of sticky resin on the end of each needle shining bright as raindrops. But that wasn’t the best thing. Sequined baubles, glitter coated reindeer, rows and rows of sliced silvers and golds and reds, nestling like extra branches, she loved those, too. They filled her vision, embellishing nature’s perfect pine creation, but they still weren’t the best thing. Twitching her nose, she spiralled her way up and around the trunk, pausing momentarily before she headed for it. Wrapped in easily shredded foil was the best thing. Chocolate.’

Happy Christmas!

A Screeching of Brakes

I think I need to say thank you to a power far greater than me for my safe deliverance home just now. Tootling home in the car from a Tuesday morning social spent with writing buddies turned into something which could quite happily have resembled a scene from one of the Mad Max films.

Needing eyes on stalks, and the ability to see around corners whilst driving has undoubtedly been a requirement for some time, but this morning was something else.

Now, I appreciate that expecting people to make use of the stick-like thing on the side of the steering wheel, which operates those funny little blinking orange lights, is clearly a step too far. But neither using the indicators, nor choosing which lane you truly wish to inhabit seemed de rigour this morning. Maybe it is a new part of the driving test. The ‘keep the rest of the buggers guessing’ section of the test which has been adopted in one of the (many) years since I took mine. Straddling the white line in the centre of two lanes on the approach to a roundabout and then at the last moment – and I mean the very last second possible – choose which way to go without letting any of your fellow road users in on the secret is part of a skill set I don’t have.

Or, alternatively, look to all intents and purposes like a proper road user. Indicate to leave a dual carriageway, move into the slip road like a normal vehicle and then, with an impressive, lightning-speed reaction, zip back out again, across the chevrons and back onto the dual carriageway, like a goose breaking free from the flock and taking flight. It was just a pity for the people behind you, who looked more like geese with both feet tied together, as they slammed on their brakes and skewed across the tarmac in an effort to work out what the f*cking hell just happened.

I might look on the internet, and see if I can discover where I, too, may hone these skills. Perhaps it’s part of the advanced driving test, or there is a secret society for learning how to be a world-class inconsiderate driver. I’m hoping it might have a special handshake, so we’ll know one another in social situations and can compare stories.

For now, though, I’ll just make myself a cup of camomile tea, and wait until I stop shaking…

Puppies

My dog is now six. Not an old boy, but it’s been a while since I viewed him as being a puppy. He still thinks he is a puppy – he’s a Labrador, they think they’re puppies up until the day they pop their clogs – but he really isn’t. He’s got a grey chin and the beginnings of a thick middle… Haven’t we all…

Just lately, I’ve been thinking how lovely it would be for him to have a companion. He gets on brilliantly with other people’s dogs, and watching him with other people’s puppies almost brings tears to the eyes. He instantly knows what they need, knows how they want to play; knows whether to be gentle, or whether they are up for some proper rough and tumble.

Last night I went to book group. I was feeling knackered, plus I hadn’t read the book (I couldn’t even remember what book I should have read. Bad book group member. Naughty book group member), but I went, even though it was raining and cold and dark and I could have stayed at home with a glass of red and a packet of marmite-coated cashews.

The connection? Where is this going, I can hear you say. What is she wittering on about? Well, the connection is puppies – I’d forgotten, in my exhausted state, that the home we were meeting in for supper was inundated with a litter of Labrador puppies a month ago. Black, squidgy, delicious sausage-puppies. All with big fat puppy-tummies and massive doses of the cute-factor. When we arrived they were asleep. In a black furry pile-up, so tangled together it was difficult to work out where one puppy ended and where the next one began.

‘Please don’t wake them.’ The frazzled mantra repeated by their human mother as the rest of the book group assembled, a human mother who is normally impeccably dressed and always in control but last night was dishevelled and still wearing her pyjamas from the night before. Okay – that’s an exaggeration, but the puppies had clearly taken a not-insubstantial toll on the human members of the family.

Talking of which, the puppies’ actual mother was nowhere to be seen. Hiding, I imagine, from any unwelcome demands from her children. Eventually, she did put in an appearance. Just to check we hadn’t eaten her babies, I presume. And she did make me chuckle. She had the same shell-shocked expression I think I probably wore for about the first eighteen months of motherhood. The ‘I thought I would take this whole thing in my stride, but it’s actually a freaking nightmare of epic proportions’ expression. And I only had one baby. She’s got seven.

The puppies began to wake up and their mother, Coco, legged it, leaving us to make the best of a bad job. It was awful – soft fur to be stroked, tiny pads on each of their tiny toes to be tickled, warm little bodies to allow to snuggle onto a lap. Mock annoyance as they nibbled at the cuff of a jumper or investigated the chewing possibilities of the edge of a boot. Thoughts of supper, or discussion of the book we were supposed to have read, faded into the background as we ended up sitting on the kitchen floor having a massive puppy-fest love-in.

And that’s how nature gets us. How it suckers us in. Because by the time I left, I wanted one. I didn’t care that I’d cleared up quite a few accidents with kitchen roll and had my new scarf chewed. I didn’t care that I smelt of puppy-wee and that I’d spent the evening sat on the floor. I’d forgotten the expression on Coco’s face as the puppies made a beeline for her. I was no longer noticing just how exhausted my hostess looked. I’d forgotten the seven months it took to house train our own particularly unconcerned but absolutely cracking boy. All I could think of was how warm and soft and delicious they were – especially the bigger boy puppy who I was determined not to name because that way madness lies.

Hercules.

Damn it.

The drive home gave me plenty of time to work out where the puppy could sleep. How it wouldn’t really be a problem if it chews the kitchen furniture. How much fun he would have with our dog. How brilliant it would be to have a new member of the family. How I wouldn’t mind being woken up at five in the morning to let him out. How I felt sure that the pet shop would do a Christmas stocking suitable for a puppy.

I arrived home, photos on my mobile at the ready to show the other half. ‘Look’ I say. ‘Aren’t they gorgeous. What do you think about…’

I got no further, before a half-asleep man, distracted from happily viewing ‘The Inbetweeners’ to look at photos of black sausage-puppies, said in not-so dulcit tones, ‘We’re not having another f*cking dog.’

Hmmm. It appears there may be some work required…

One Mouse, Many Mice

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be a blog about the vagaries of the English language and its spelling, although I’m sure there are plenty of those around. No, this one is about actual mice.

With their bright, glassy, black eyes, ever-moving noses and tiny little paws – what’s not to like? And at this time of the year, when their outdoor food supplies start drying up (or floating away, depending on where you live…) the soft and furry little wee machines begin to move indoors, to share our space. To share a dry, comfortable, safe environment. To share our food.

And this is the point at which my tolerance for their bright little eyes and their cute little paws begins to fade. I had a special little bar of chocolate, saved from a half-term trip with my daughter, tucked inside my writing folder. For when the nibbles might strike. Unfortunately, the other night, it wasn’t my nibbles which struck. Picture the scene. Five in the morning, pitch dark, warm and comfy in bed. Writing folder on the floor beside me – just in case inspiration should strike, and I could be bothered to write the inspiration down – a normal scene. So, what was the scratch, scratch, scratch I could hear?

You’re absolutely right – a mouse, tucking into my special little bar of chocolate. Little sod.

And then, this morning? Outside, in the early morning dawn, I shove a scoop into a bag of animal feed, eyes half-closed, brain half-fogged up. Takes me a few seconds to register that the wristband on my coat suddenly seems to be tighter than it had been, only moments before. I glance down and freeze, brain whirring to process what I already know to be the truth; a long, delicate, dark-brown tail exudes from my coat and reaches all the way to the palm of my hand.

Whilst part of my brain runs screaming, chased by scenarios fresh from a film, as yet unmade, but strikingly similar to ‘Alien’, in which a mutant strain of mouse burrows into your arm and takes over your chest cavity, using it as a nest whilst it eats all the chocolate, the rest of me stays put. I want to scream and jump around and rip my coat off and stamp on it. Instead, I remain freakishly calm and get hold of the tail.

Once my coat is mouse-free, I console myself with logic. The mouse was more frightened than me, it was only a tiny little thing, never going to do me any harm. Blah, blah, blah.

Suffice to say – traps will be purchased…