It has to be done. I can’t keep ignoring these developments in publishing.
stories for people on the move?
This idea really appeals to me. It obviously appeals to many more. Millions sold? Writers like Lee Child, Stephen King, Jodi Picoult et al joining?
Why have I been holding back all this time?
I’ll tell you. I’m a big-head. I didn’t want lumping together with the thousands of wannabee writers out there self-publishing their masterpieces. Oh, dear. I read some of them. No, that’s not true. I read only parts of some of them. Yes. I’m a big-head. I didn’t want tarring with their brush.
Now, this Kindles Singles and Kindle Serials is a completely different kettle of fish. It’s opened up a whole new opportunity for those of us whose work doesn’t fit neatly into a genre or an ‘acceptable’ word-length.
So, I’ve been watching from the sidelines. It’s time to make a move. I’m going to dip my toe.
Move over Stella. (McCartney) Here’s Celia’s design for a Red Nose.
Red Nose Day is coming up again. Here’s a picture of a perfect home-grown tomato. I know it’s home-grown because I grew it myself. I loved it and cared for all its siblings and they all tasted very nice, thank-you-very-much with basil and olive oil and a few crushed pine nuts, maybe a bit of Parmesan cheese. Ah, eating lunch outdoors.
It feels like a long time since it was warm enough to do that. It’s probably the coldest day of the year here today. We have proper, real, honest to goodness, on-your-face red noses. It snowed in the hills yesterday. They don’t tell you that can happen on A Place in the Sun. They don’t tell you how much it’s going to cost you to heat your place in the sun through the winter months.
Holidaymakers haven’t a clue what happens here from November through till March. They arrive in June, July, August and September and are disappointed if they see a cloud.
Ah, well. It’s a perfect afternoon for watching the Six Nations Rugby.
Trobairitz were troubadours. Female troubadours. They sang songs and poems about love, tradition and current affairs. Their songs were called cansos. Their language was Occitan – the language that gave its name to the region of southern France where they lived and worked.
Langue means language.
Langue d’Occitan became Languedoc
The region of Languedoc stretches across southern France from west to east.
This where the Trobairitz came from. This is the area they covered when they travelled in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Not much is known about them. Very few of their songs remain.
Azalais came from Portiragnes
Azalais de Porciragues lived in the twelfth century. Her home town is called Portiragnes now and is a popular beach resort in the summer.
Women like Azalais were strong and independent. It’s thought they must have had their own means to support their lifestyles.
This is where I live. The departments might have slightly different names now, but the rivers are all in the same place and the mountains funnel the winds as they always did.
land of the Trobairitz
Languedoc is a land of tradition and superstition. Its people love the Arts: it’s in their genes. This is where I’m writing about a twenty first century Trobairitz. She has stories to tell. About love, tradition and current affairs. Her name is Weed. Like the Trobairitz of old, she’s strong and independent. She has her own means to support her lifestyle. She travels the land of the troubadours in her truck. She tells her stories at an overnight truck stop.
Edit: Book One – Trobairitz – the Storyteller is available on Amazon from Friday 28th November 2014.
Shampoo bottles. And conditioner bottles. Why don’t manufacturers stick to one method of letting you know which is which when you’re in the shower without your reading glasses? Because, I don’t know anybody who needs reading glasses who actually wears them in the shower. What would be the point? They’d get all steamed up. So, there you are, in the shower, naked and helpless as . . . and you reach out for the bottle you need and YOU CAN’T TELL WHICH IS WHICH!
how can you tell?
Some brands have the shampoo bottle sitting on its bottom and the corresponding bottle of conditioner sitting on its top, with the labels stuck on the other way around, if you see what I mean. But they don’t all do it like this. So, if you’re like me and you regularly change brands depending on what’s on special offer down the haircare aisle and because the magazines tell you NOT to use the same brand all the time or you’ll get BUILD-UP whatever that is, and because you regularly use more conditioner than shampoo anyway, you’ll end up with a motley collection of bottles with bits of something inside them. BUT YOU WON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS. Not if you’re in the shower without your reading glasses!
Last night I dreamed I went to duMaurierLand again. (Sorry Daphne)
Let me explain. When I was younger and I might dream of living the life of a writer, I’d create for myself a room with a desk by a French window, beyond which there would be green swathe running down toward the sea and there would be bracken and paths through stands of trees. Indoors, I would have a log fire and tea in a bone china cup and I’d probably be wearing something quite figure-hugging and pearl earrings. You see, dear reader, I read everything Daphne published. The lot. All the novels. All the collections of short stories. I keep by my desk an old copy of Rebecca and every day, before I begin, I look at it. Sometimes, I pick it up and sniff it.
my teenage heroine
There’s nothing like the smell of a good book. Kindles can’t do that. They can’t reproduce the touchy-feely thing about holding a favourite book in your hands. It would be sacrilege to read Rebecca on an e-reader. Wouldn’t it? Would I experience the same sense of connection with the woman who has inspired me for years?
first edition – I wish I had one
Can you curl up with a Kindle?
a scene from Hitchcock’s 1940 film
Rebecca is my talisman. I keep it by my side to remind me of the power of characters. In du Maurier’s Rebecca there’s a character so powerful she controls everything even after she’s dead. Rebecca, who Mrs Danvers adored, still occupies the thoughts and actions of the de Winter household to the extent that poor second Mrs de Winter doesn’t even get a first name all through the entire novel.
That’s power.That’s character. And yet . . . and yet.
I’m writing in the twenty first century. I might have a desk now AND a French window, ( I live in France; everybody has French windows) but Manderley it isn’t. My characters don’t wear pearls and dress for dinner.
My main character in Trobairitz drives a truck. This is where she spends most of her time.
My character loves her cab
She hasn’t worn a skirt for years. She stuffs her hair under a baker boy cap when she’s driving and it’s so long since she had any fun with a man, she wonders if all her bits still work.
Daphne, as far as I remember, didn’t write about women’s bits or have a character admire the way a man fills his tee shirt.
But, if I can get my characters onto a page , whether on paper or a backlit screen, and readers remember them long afterwards, the way I remember Rebecca, I’ll be in du MaurierLand.
I love trucks. Especially ones like this. I hang out the car window to take pictures of them. I hang around truckers’ websites like a sniper, hitting on forums and stealing their conversations. I watch all the trucker TV programmes.
It’s no surprise then, that my novel Trobairitz features a mothertrucker as its main character. Trobairitz were female troubadours in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. My twenty-first century lady troubadour tells stories at an overnight truck stop. She doesn’t know she has it within herself to put back into her life the things she needs. She doesn’t even know she needs them yet.
She’s careful about getting too close to people. That’s why she tells stories instead.
In principal, I am opposed to courses.I don’t see the point of aiming to turn out clones of the This is Best School of Literature. What good would that do? You’d have shelves of books in the bookstores and titles of ebooks all in the same mold. Boring, or what?
On my Home Page, I’ve already said how variety is the spice of my life. I grow jaded with repetitive activities such as dragging out the vacuum cleaner and planning meals. Odd, isn’t it, that sitting at the keyboard doesn’t have the same effect?
But, I digress. Creative writing courses. I went on one once. It came at a time when I needed a break from domestic dolour and an injection of uplifting motivation. I’d had my share of rejections and was looking for other avenues to explore.
Snoopy the hack
I found the book doctor. The course, held in the Dordogne, which happened to be a convenient train ride for me, was a combination of motivation and relaxation. The setting was peaceful and nurturing. Our hosts were kindly and nurturing. Their food was delicious and nurturing. Above all, Philippa Pride was friendly and, you guessed it, nurturing.
I wouldn’t say I came away with startling new perspectives about the complicated world of publishing. After all, I wasn’t an absolute beginner: I knew something about what I was attempting to get myself into.
It was such a delight to meet with people who had similar ambitions, who were supportive of each other, who had no ulterior motives. Needless to say, I loved this course and returned home feeling refreshed, ready to get back to work and thoroughly nurtured. Philippa provided a perfect combination of workshop/retreat. Here’s a link to her website:
I emailed somebody in the education department, but never had a reply. This morning, I’ve emailed a contact at a media group with my question about the Micklefield route and the use of the Micklefield name in the Cape Town area.
There are also many references to the name Cecilia. There MUST have been a Cecilia Micklefield in Cape Town’s history. It’s fascinating. I’m looking forward to discovering more.
Sometimes, as soon as I wake, and I’m talking the very second, there’s a question clamouring for an answer. It’s there, in my head and I don’t know where it came from, but it’s pushed itself forward demanding attention. There’s nothing else for it but to do something about it.
This morning the question was about two halfpennies rubbing together. You know the saying, I haven’t got two halfpennies to rub together. What if you had? What if you had those two halfpennies and you rubbed them. What would happen? This What if? question is huge. I read somewhere it’s often the question Stephen King starts out with. So, I looked up the derivation of the saying re: rubbing two halfpennies together and I learned something about myself: I have a tendency to take things too literally.
what if the answer’s in the clouds?
I’m not too hot, it turns out, at this blue sky thinking. See, when I think of rubbing two halfpennies together, I immediately imagine there has to be an element of manual manipulation in there somewhere. You have to grab hold of those damned halfpennies, don’t you. and physically rub them together? Actually, no you don’t. They might rub together all by themselves, jangling in your pocket as you walk along the street, thereby demonstrating to the world around you that you are a person of means.Listen everybody, those jingling coins say to your neighbours. I have the wherewithal to buy whatever one may purchase for ready cash. Of course, the neighbours wouldn’t know whether those were coppers rubbing along in your pocket, or guineas.
what if it’s me?
And so, the whole phrase can mean so much more than I had thought. Now, there are images in my head; there are sounds; there are values and attitudes creeping into the old saying that I’d never considered before.
Spring arrives early here. That is to say, it lets you think it’s arriving early. But, it’s tricksy. Oh, yes. It’s tricksy.
can spring be very far away?
It likes to see buds forming on the irises, and then, just when they’re getting ready to open up, SURPRISE, here comes a late blast of icy cold mountain air. The poor things shrivel and hang their heads.
Writers are like those irises, vulnerable to cold blasts of discouragement and thinly-veiled put downs. Self-doubt, unlike spring, is never very far away.
Wrap up warm. Keep on your comfy, confidence cardie. Smile. Doubt hates smilers; he doesn’t know what to do with them and usually takes his leave. Take a break from your usual routine. Do something physical. Physical activity guards against writers’ arse and I do believe there’s a lot to be said for the old chestnut – blowing away the cobwebs.
Take a good look at the people you mix with. How do they make you feel? Do they drain you, or do they make you feel uplifted?
