The Planter's Daughter - in print!

Will I write about Malawi? Yes, but as usual it will take time. I've diaries to reread and think about - the usual preamble to shaping a book. But this post isn't aboit Malawi.

For my Planter's Daughter is, at last, a print book.

For those who have forgotten, this novel has grown from a vignette I came across in New Zealand. Barbara Weldon was born in Ireland, and travelled to the bleakest, coldest corner of New Zealand via England and Australia in the mid-nineteenth century. I'd chosen to go there ... but what about her? What took her across the world? How did she travel? What did she find there? Did she have lovers? Children? Although the vignette implied a very troubled woman, I so wanted her to have lovers.

Research brought only the sketchiest details. But I couldn't let go of her story. So I made it up. Well, most of it. And what fun I had - wallowing in research, wandering round Ireland and Liverpool, wallowing in more research. And finally writing the novel. I've kept the bones of her story and a few unexpected details; but this is definitely fiction. (I've blogged about the publishing decisions somewhere - so won't go over that again.)

The ebook came out before Christmas and has two wonderful reviews, plus some verbal feedback that made me blush - and requests for a print book. There simply wasn't time before I left for Malawi to get that show on the road, but now, at last, I can hold a real book in my real hands.

I know the 'writing journey' is a cliche, but this has felt like an expedition. And I'm relieved - and a      teeny bit proud - of having finally produced the book!

Here  it is, on Amazon.

And, to celebrate, and for one week only, the ebook is down to 99p!

Truth and Fiction

Us fiction writers - we make stuff up. Sometimes we wallow in research for long enough to ground our made-up stuff in enough real-stuff to make it credible. And sometimes we just make it all up.

Readers know this. It's part of our contract with them - we do our best to make it believable and they do their best to suspect disbelief until the end of the book. But nobody really believes that David Copperfield or Anna Karenina or Middle Earth really existed.

Recently, it seems, some politicians have been taking a leaf or few out of our books. Here in the UK, the Leave campaign sprawled a slogan on the side of buses, insisting that they could give £350,000,000 a week to the NHS if we left the EU. And enough people suspended disbelief for long enough vote for it - though now the Leave leaders seem astonished that anyone might have taken them seriously. Across the pond, Donald Trump convinced voters that as soon as he was inaugurated as President of the US he would instigate criminal proceedings against Hillary Clinton - but now he's been elected this has been withdrawn. He claims, magnanimously, that he will give her time to heal.

Does this matter?

I would argue that it does. If it becomes acceptable for our politicians to abandon a semblance of truth - where will it end? Can teachers make up history, forgetting things like slavery or reframing it as 'development'? Or social scientist 'massage' the population figures, discounting anyone over eighty and thus meaning they have no need of social care? Let's not begin to think what the climatologists might come out with.

At times like this - times of great upheaval - we need clear thinkers. Men and women able and willing to cut through the claptrap and show us a truth. Men and women able and willing to stand up to the politicians and their wheeling and dealing.

Which will leave us fiction writers happily making stuff up, without worrying that anyone might actually believe us. Having said that, I think it's time Harry Potter challenged Trump to a game of Quiddich.

Book groups - and the writer.

My Planter's Daughter has been delayed, slightly, as my editor has been poorly. These things happen. We are slaving away over the words again now, so the end - phew - is in sight. When I have a date I'll give it you.

Last time I saw her, my editor said something that really set me thinking. (Actually, she said many things to set me thinking. This is just one of them.)

'This book,' she said, 'would make for a great discussion in a book group.'

Well, who wouldn't be flattered when someone who is there to be constructively critical says that! So I huffed for a minute or two - and have put time aside since then to think about it. I haven't written this book with groups in mind. In fact, I've been so absorbed in the narrative that I've had to make a big effort to consider one reader, let alone a group.

And - at the same time - I've attended a book group. I've read countless books and engaged in numerous conversations about them. Book groups are one of life's essential pleasures.

So how come I've made no real connection between my writing a novel and talking about novels in the book group? Like they are distint, unrelated activities? 

What a plonker! (I've said it - I'm sure it's what you're thinking.) But, having admitted that, I can't help wondering if other writers have a corner of their mind on a possible critique from a book group when they are sitting down to graft out sentences. 

The garden needs a headache.

It's that time of year. Everything is overgrown. The air smells wet and soggy leaves clog the lawn. The roses have have a few brave little flowers but the glories of June are behind the. I've a vine that straggles across the back of the house. The quince tries to attack me as I squeeze past it to get to the compost heap. The ornamental pear looks like it's just woken up after a night on the tiles: it needs a haircut. The mock orange was beautiful in June but now it's trying to take over the world.

I don't climb ladders any more - mainly because I live alone, and if I fell off I'd be really stuck. Nobody coming to the front door and finding me out would think, 'I know, she's fallen off a ladder in the garden so I'd better find a way to get in and rescue her.' No, off they'd trot, assuming I was out or had my head buried so deeply in a book I was refusing to answer the door.

And so I have a trusty pruning-man. He comes with his ladders and electric thingies and long-handled whatnots and whizz, snip, chop - and the lawn is thick with twigs and leaves and general debris. My job is to come behind him and sweep it all up, and lug it down the garden to the compost heap. Give us a couple of hours and the garden will have its annual headache. It will look a bit surprised for a day or two, and it might sulk for a while, but by spring all will be forgiven. (Except, maybe, the vine - which has produced just one bunch of grapes in all the years I've lived here. It hung over next door; eat them, I said. But they didn't. And so, in a fit of childishness, I chopped that end off the vine. It has never produced grapes since then.)

The garden sorted, I need to do the same for my writing. Pass it over to someone with a serious red pen. Someone who does not linger over dead wood. Someone who can spot a weak shoot or crumbling branch and not grieve for it. I, too, might sulk for a while But eventually I'll review the remains of my lovely words. It will all feel very bald for a while, but will hopefully blossom next year. For we all know that writing, like gardens, need a serious chopping from time to time.

Why I don't write about Child Protection.

I've been asked this - so I'll tell you.

I understand the curiosity. I spent thirty years with traumatised children, surely I have stories to tell. They'd be interesting. They'd open people's eyes to the suffering of children and their capacity for recovery. All very true.

Firstly, I'll not write about anyone I knew - it would break all the rules of confidentiality, for a start. But it's more than that - children are precious and so are their stories. It is up to them who knows.

I know - I wrote about therapeutic work with children and used case studies, all heavily disguised and with the child's permission. It must be possible to do that on my blogging platform. But that writing was for other professionals - men and women trained to work with children, or men and women who needed to meet and think about the gruesome details of child abuse before meeting a real child. The aim was help them be better at what we were doing - helping children.

This blog aims to do nothing more than entertain. Occasionally I get polemical, but mostly it's chit-chat about books and writing and travelling. Nothing to frighten the horses. Child abuse isn't entertainment. There is nothing funny or exciting about it. It is messy and frightening and deeply uncomfortable. What's more, some people get off on the details. (Surely not?? Oh yes there are. I've come across the worst that people can do to children and know that there are w*nkers out there.)

Couldn't I make it amusing - were there no funny moments? Of course there were. And often we found a terrible grisly humour which kept us going but would be inappropriate to share with anyone. For they were funny moments that only had validity because of the things we had seen and heard.

It is vital work - and I'm proud of everything I achieved. There are children I worked with who are making a success of caring for their own children (I am especially proud of them). But it's behind me - I left at the right time for me, just as I was beginning to wonder if I could listen to this any more. I don't miss it.

So no, I won't write about Child Protection. Instead I'll write about travelling, and bluebells.

All fall down ...

We know the children's rhyme - Ring-a-ring-a-roses, and at the end a pile of children collapse on the floor giggling, and then bounce up again.

I believe it's derived from the time of The Plague, when one sneeze was enough for sufferers to begin digging their own graves. Not much giggling there.

Well, in all the wind and rain, my fence fell down taking a shrub with it, and the tree from next door fell on the other fence. The result - debris scattered all over the garden, broken shrubs and roses and general muddy miserableness.

But nobody was hurt. No houses were damaged. We were warm and dry and had enough to eat. This is not a post about those who still find themselves under water - but let's pause for a minute to think how that must be, weeks down the line, and your carpets still stinking of mud (and worse).

No, the point is that, bit by bit, the mayhem in my garden is receding. The tree has gone from my lawn. One fence is back up. One little tree - an ornamental hazel - has somehow escaped damage and stands bravely in a rather bald flower bed. My neighbour and I have promised ourselves a trip to a Garden Centre once the other fence is up, to buy plants to replace those that were buried under the mud. The garden is getting used to its new shape. Before long it will be hard to recall the shadows of that lovely apple tree; only the birds will miss the red berries on the pyracantha. We'll sit in it next summer, with wine, and savour the surprises of new plants and flowers.

What has all this got to do with anything? Well, I think my writing-head feels like that garden muddle at times. All bits and twigs and muddiness. What begins as a good idea somehow collapses and become misshapen, trampled, its core buried under the wreckage.

It takes time, dragging each titbit into the daylight and wondering if it is any use or to dump it in the 'delete file'. Sometimes there's a temptation to dump the lot, to begin again, to find a new idea. But that core - the one that fired me in the first place - is generally still there. It takes time to find it. And it might need new narrative contexts in which to flourish. But ideas are precious, and should be cherished. They'll come out to play eventually, if we can give them space to breathe. And clear the rubbish that threatens to overwhelm them.

The wonderful process of co-working

Isn't it wonderful, where ideas come from? I think they float around in the air and find the nearest head to land in.

So I've no clue who had the notion that Emma Pass and I should write a blogpost together, each post it on our blogs at the same time, and see what happened. We had a quick exchange of tweets - and suddenly there it was - an IDEA - and we both ran off with it, together.

There were emails - what do you think about ... and it was (I can only speak for myself here) FUN! We were collaborating, working together, making our point jointly, and enjoying it. More evidence, if that were needed, that we need not be competitive in our writing.

It reminded me of a recent cricket match I watched - bear with me, it's relevant. The team filled with international players was soundly beaten by one comprised of people I've never heard of. And the commentator noticed that the winning team played as a team, while the others behaved like stars. What a wonderful lesson. We can be stronger when we work together, and risk being prima donnas if we always work alone.

So - thank you, Emma. It was a privilege to work with you. Especially as you must be overwhelmed with everything at the moment - for your book comes out today!!! I hope you have the best day ever!

Not met Emma before - she had a great website here.

And, for those readers who haven't come across her book yet (where have you been?) you can find it here.

(And we can say what we like about her today, as she'll be too busy launching her book to look at this.)

Has anyone else tried co-writing? How did it go?