Laurie Graham's Blog, page 25

Today the sad but not unexpected announcement of Sue Townsend’s death. In recent years she was prey to a shocking list of disabilities and a testament to the old saying that health is wealth.

Sue and I grew up on the same street and went to the same school. We were never friends. She was a year older than me and lived in what my Mum sniffily referred to as The Prefabs. They were just little bungalows erected to house people while Leicester recovered from its wartime bomb damage, but they were the source of a kind of apartheid on Grange Drive. My mother could be a bit ‘bay-window’ when provoked and Sue’s enormous success with her first Adrian Mole book was the occasion for some maternal bristling in our house. My mother believed that God only handed out one publishing contract per street, per century, and that Sue had gone and pipped me to it.

Memories are so personal. Sue named her famous diarist in honour of one of our primary school teachers, Tom Mould. She said his reading of stories to us had inspired her to become a writer. Funny, because I don’t remember him reading stories to us. I remember him for his ability to play anything, I mean ANYTHING, on the piano and for the love he gave me of singing. Regrettably I wasn’t able to parlay his influence on me as successfully as Sue Townsend did. I still move my lips when I’m reading the bass clef line and my singing is only welcomed by those who love me.

By the time I was published Sue was already a celebrity, albeit a reluctant one, and when my publicist learned that I had a vague Adrian Mole connection she practically wet herself with excitement. Sue was approached and asked for a blurb for the cover, which she promptly and generously provided, describing my Parents’ Survival Guide as ‘shining like a Noddy nightlight amidst the gloom of most childcare books’. We were grateful and thrilled. Until the book hit the stores and Enid Blyton Rights Inc or some such avaricious organisation threatened to sue us if we didn’t pay them bags of money for use of the N word. That or remove it from the cover. And as I was an unknown author, unlikely even to earn out my modest advance, my publishers decided not to throw good money after bad, and for the second print run Sue’s praise underwent a Noddy-ectomy.

Sue Townsend used to say that readers must have felt disappointed when they met her and discovered she was just a regular Mum and granny. I think she was wrong about that. I imagine she inspired many of her fans to have a go at writing or to pursue some other ambition that might otherwise seem crazy to a woman with children clamped to her knee.

Well now Sue has laid down her pen for the last time. May she rest in peace. Sixty eight is far too young to die.

   I was tickled to see HM Queen wearing the Vladimir Tiara (emerald version) as a gesture of Oirishry to President Michael D Higgins last evening. Tiaras are not part of my daily life   -  though I’d wear one given half a chance  -  but I do know a bit about the Vladimir because its rescue from the chaos of Russia in 1917 features in this year’s book, The Grand Duchess of Nowhere.

The tiara was originally the property of the Grand Duchess Vladimir, known to her friends as Miechen, and was a confection of diamonds and pearls. Miechen was a great collector of jewels and she had a generous husband who rewarded each of her four confinements with yet more sparklers. When it was clear that there was no place in revolutionary Russia for Romanovs Miechen arranged for her jewels to be spirited out of the country. Perhaps she thought she’d wear them again. Perhaps she realised they’d have to be sold to cover daily living expenses.

In fact Miechen didn’t long survive in exile and her gems had to be sold to clear her debts, but discreetly. Not so much a Cartier yard sale as a series of private arrangements with family getting first dibs. Queen Mary of the British Royal Family nabbed the Vladimir, probably at a very good price because the value of pearls had plummeted. Mary also had some spare emeralds lying around (as you do) and decided to have them drop-mounted as an alternative to the pearl drops. Just what the fashion editors exhort us to do: ring the changes with different accessories (or precious gems).  Our present Queen inherited the Vladimir tiara with its pearls and emeralds from her grandmother, Queen Mary. And last evening, in honour of her Irish guest, she chose the emerald option. So now you know.

Of course I could wear a tiara every day. Sitting at my desk, who’s to know? I could probably get one from Claire’s Accessories. I could probably buy three and get one free. Don’t think I’m not tempted.

As is well known (because I’m always  complaining about it) I never have enough time to write my books. It’s now April 5th, this year’s book is still not quite put to bed, and I have to deliver another finished manuscript by next February 1st. So I’d like to assure my editor that the frittering away of valuable writing time in the creation these origami Easter hens had nothing to do with me. I’d like to, but I cannot tell a lie. I was tired of novelising. My fingers itched to make something. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Is that enough excuses?

Seriously, writers need time out as much as anyone else, and given the interiorised nature of the day job I believe practical activities are the best antidote. Gardening would probably be a good choice but I am overwhelmed by the jungle view from my window. For me gardening wouldn’t be a refreshing interlude. It would be a life’s work. With a machete. Let’s call its current state my gift to local wildlife.

No, all I need is an hour here and there. You can fold a lot of paper in an hour. Which is how I ended up with this procession of mildly psychedelic Easter chucks. Each one is capacious enough to hold a dozen of those little chocolate eggs Marks & Spencer are selling at the moment. Just so you know.

 If you want to have a go yourself (and I imagine you can hardly wait) here is a very good instructional video.

So that was my Friday evening. There’s nothing like the rustle of origami paper after a long hard week at the coalface of plot structure. Well, that and the pop of a cork.

I’m delighted to announce the dedicatee of this year’s book, drawn from my ratty old hat without favour or prejudice. Ernest Pig was nominated by his Humans and he seems a particularly appropriate winner because The Grand Duchess of Nowhere already contains a couple of Ernests: Grand Duke Ernie of Hesse and Ernst, Prince of Hohenlohe. E.Pig (if you’re interested in a pig’s perspective you can follow him on Twitter @ErnestPig) will now complete the triumvirate. Okay, a pig doesn’t count as a vir. You know perfectly well what I mean.

My husband, who is allergic to anything containing a trace of whimsy, will argue that no animal’s name should have been included in the list of candidates. ‘What’s the point?’ he’ll say. ‘Can a pig read a novel?’ Obviously not, though a pig might appreciate the quality of the paper on which it’s printed. And as I explained in an earlier post, dedications aren’t always received with gratitude. Sometimes they pass completely unnoticed, even by humans.

Anyway, the pig has it! Good. I appreciate pigs. I enjoy observing them and eating them and it is now with great pleasure I shall dedicate a book to one. Commiserations to those who weren’t chosen this time. But I’m already at work on next year’s book so you can try again next March.

    First, thanks to all those who have so far stepped up and offered themselves as dedicatees of my new book. Your enthusiasm is appreciated. I’ll draw a name from the hat during the first week of April.

Next, the  aforementioned book is now off my desk for a while. I delivered the revised manuscript to my editor this morning. I’m not saying it’s over. There will still be Final Tinker, followed by Proof Corrections, but for a week or two I’m off the hook. How do I feel about it? Flat as yesterday’s Tizer.

Before I finish work each day one of my habits is to write myself a little to-do list for the following morning. It might be to check on some fact or to reconsider a sentence that  looks a bit inelegant. It also often includes non-book jobs, so my list might look something like Date of Battle of Alma? Marinade chicken. Buy stamps. The other morning I found the following: Wash spinach. Coat to dry cleaner. Too much shrugging.

Too much shrugging? Yes, far too much. I’d been working on revisions, came upon a shrug and thought there had already been one a few pages earlier. I did one of those searches that make me bless the day Bill Gates hired the clever dudes who invented Microsoft Word and found to my horror that I had no fewer than seven shrugs in a 300 page novel. Tsk tsk.  What is wrong with these characters? Don’t they know anything? Don’t they care about anything?

But here’s the problem. Shrug is not an easy word to replace. A shrug is a shrug, even when it’s Gallic. Which, by the way, mine weren’t. They were multinational shrugs but clearly some of them had to go. I allowed myself to keep two. It wasn’t easy. How I longed for an alternative word.  Perhaps we should adopt one.

He looked at the letter and huddered?  No.

With a bored thruntle he tossed the letter in the fire? Nope.

Our rich language definitely needs a simile for shrug. I am, as ever, open to polite suggestions.

The edit is nearly done which means I can turn my attention to important details such as which earrings to wear to the Man Booker award ceremony. Also, to whom should I dedicate this new book? I have a patchy history when it comes to dedications. Two friends who have been my dedicatees are no longer my friends (and I don’t think it was anything to do with the quality of the writing) and one friend still doesn’t know I dedicated a book to her because she’s never opened the copy I gave her and I’m now too pissed off to mention it.

Personally I would be thrilled if someone dedicated a book to me. Unless they were some creepy stalker, or someone who suffered from adverbarrhoea. Apart from that, I’d love it. It would be more gratifying even than becoming a crossword puzzle clue. Heck, I’d settle for being the dedicatee of a trifold pamphlet.

But I’m a bit stuck for this book. My grandchildren are possible candidates, but there are a lot of them. If they’re to have a book each I’ll have to keep writing for another fifteen years. The very thought makes me want to go for a lie down. Dead people are pretty safe. I’ve dedicated books to my Dad who didn’t live to see me published, and my late Mum who did. So a deceased friend is one possibility. Or I could just put it out there, like a literary yard sale. A dedication prize draw. Anyone fancy a book dedicated to them? No strings attached, except I don’t want you turning round and snarling at me in five years time because we differ over the Common Agricultural Policy or some similar deal breaker. Bidding is open till March 31st.

Meanwhile, here’s Ella.

    In the matter of Laurie Graham v. Editor, the jury is back. The unanimous verdict is that it would be more powerful to leave the narrator in partial ignorance of the fate of her relatives. The Editor has graciously conceded. ‘You’re the writer, Laurie,’ she said. ‘I trust your judgment.’

I thank all of you who took the time to give me your opinion. I’m quite an old hand at this novel-writing game, but even old hands have moments of self-doubt. So now it’s on with the edit which must be delivered by the middle of this month if I’m to catch my October publication slot. Crazy isn’t it? You’d think each copy had to be handwritten by a monk.

Meanwhile all this essential work is nibbling away at the time I have for the next book, which must be delivered by February 1st 2015 or we’ll be on gruel and candle ends. I hear the siren call of Next Book. It’s like a half empty bag of M&Ms. Even if you stick it in the back of a cupboard you still know it’s there and you want to go to it.

I may be tempting fate by announcing that the title of this year’s book is The Grand Duchess of Nowhere. With titles it’s never over till it’s over and the accountants haven’t yet thrown in their two pennyworth, but I live in hope that they’ll be too busy to tinker with it. I can also reveal that my editor and I have both requested a cover blanketed in snow. So come October, look out for a sunny beach scene.

More as it happens. Now on, on…..

As my regulars know my view has always been that writers should go quietly about their business and not seek the opinion of every Tom, Dick and writers’ workshop. No-one sees my stuff until I deliver first draft to my editor and my agent. My husband gets to read final draft, if he asks nicely. So, anyway, I’m now at first edit stage. My agent and my editor have sent me their notes which, comfortingly and amazingly  are almost perfectly congruent, and now I have to see what I can do with their suggestions. Blue pencil time.

It’s quite rare for me to jib at anything my editor suggests. But this time there’s something that’s keeping me awake nights. Let me run it by you. At least, let me pose a hypothetical case because I don’t want to give away my story eight months before it’s published.

Imagine you are reading a novel that features a major historical event. Let’s say…. the French Revolution. We all know what happened. There’s no changing the facts. All you can do is tell it from a new perspective. What, for instance, if the story is being told by someone who is, at the time of telling, oblivious to the fate of Louis and Marie-Antoinette? The narrator could be in the deepest dungeon of the Conciergerie. Bear with me here. It could be someone who sincerely believes the revolution will be humane. It could be someone who believes the Royal family have been spirited away to exile. For you, the reader, which is more powerful  – to know something the narrator doesn’t know? Or to turn a few pages and find the narrator just caught up with the facts?  News just in….

That’s my jibbing point. I thought I’d created a poignant moment of blissful ignorance. My editor feels we should, a bit later, deliver the full meal, like one of those TV dinners that has everything on the tray. Turkey, cranberry, apple pie, execution scene, gravy.

Your opinions on a postcard please. Well actually an email would do nicely.

     I just spent a frustrating half hour on the telephone to libraries. First my local one, a piss-poor ghost of a place with sadly depleted shelves. Perhaps everything’s out on loan? I don’t think so.

The reason for my call  -  my house is groaning under the weight of brand new copies of my books, hardback, paperback, LARGE PRINT, audio. I thought I’d donate one of each. Admittedly there’d be something in it for me. I earn a tiny fee each time someone borrows one of my books. But it was not my principal motive. I just want them out of my way.

However my local library can’t take donations because they have no cataloguing facilities. So I thought okay, the Central Library will be the place. Wrong.

The Central Library said it was unlikely they’d take my donationss to put on their shelves because the cost of cataloguing new books is higher than the cost of buying them. Hunh? What kind of cataloguing system are they running? And anyway I wasn’t selling I was offering to donate. The librarian said the most likely thing they’d do with donated books is give them away. But I can do that myself without schlepping down to the gruesome Ilac Centre on even more gruesome Henry Street. There’s a charity shop at the end of our road where I can give them away. In fact that’s where I’m going right now.

So that, dear readers, is one of the reasons your library shelves aren’t what they used to be.  Financial restraints have taken their toll too (all the more reason to accept donations, I’d have thought) and politically correct culling, particularly from children’s libraries. But what a dead-head defeatist attitude. And you know I’d have been a lot more forgiving if the librarians I spoke to today had displayed the slightest hint of regret or frustration. That’s what happens to you when you work long enough in the public sector. It sucks the oomph out of you.

Surplus books. Crisp and never been opened. Can’t give them away. Well actually that’s all I can do.

Never mind about the lack of snow and the unfinished hotel rooms. This morning  every writer is gagging to know what was the Princess Royal reading while she waited for the fireworks? What a boost to sales that would be. Can’t you just see the book shops whacking on those flash stickers? A RIGHT ROYAL READ!

I know it wasn’t one of my books. That looks to me like an 700-pager.  And she’s half way through it so she’s clearly enjoying it. Unless that royal sense of duty forces her to trudge on with even the most bin-worthy turkey.  I did have an authorial brush with the Royal Family myself many years ago. A box of books accompanies the Royals when they go to Balmoral for the summer and a list of its contents is published in the press. My Parents’ Survival Guide made it into the box one year. For all I know that copy may yet lie mouldering in some Aberdeenshire charity shop.

But let’s get back to Sochi. I’m not a sportsperson on ice or off it. I’ve been voted Woman Most Likely To in the biennial Arse over Tip awards on more than one occasion. But I can dream. I do dream. I’m sitting here at my desk dreaming when I really should be pulling on my thermals and going to Tesco. What Olympic events can we writers propose for Pyongchang 2018?

Cross-country Plotting? In which the action moves seamlessly between Vilnius, Paris of the Baltic and Wellingborough, Armpit of Northamptonshire.  Alpine Prequel Writing? Heidi: so what exactly did happen to her parents? would be a good entry for that. How about Freestyle Speed Editing? I could take a crack at that.

Oh, I have it. Nordic Bandwagon Jumping. Of course by 2018 Nordic Noir will be as dead as mutton but I don’t think we should allow that to discourage us. We have four years in which to prepare.

Those sneerers who have christened the Sochi mascot Nightmare Bear should be very, very careful. That name already belongs to President Putin. Haven’t they seen the pics of him tiger-wrassling, ordering the elimination of his critics  and bareback riding? Someone should really have told him that the ‘bare’ bit of bareback riding refers to the horse, but I can quite understand why they didn’t.

And so…. to Tesco.