Today my friends, I am going to give you one excellent piece of advice.

If you walk into a coffee shop and happen upon me sitting alone, innocently sipping a Skinny Latte with an extra shot (easy on the froth), do not under any circumstances sit anywhere near me.

There. I’ve said it. You’re welcome.

Don’t worry, this isn’t for any medical reason and I showered recently so it has nothing to do with hygiene. No, the reason I say this is because if you do sit near me and I happen to hear your conversation, there is a small chance that it will end up in a book.

I know. I apologise.

Actually I don’t.

It’s a perk of my job.

For I am a sticky beak, a nosey parker or more charitably, a people watcher. I have lost count of the number of impatient frowns I have attracted from my husband because I am listening to someone else’s conversation instead of his.

‘But darling, I’m working,’ just does seem to cut it. Funny that.

I even have my favourite haunts. There is a coffee shop in a nearby town with a big room at the back. The acoustics are excellent for eavesdropping. When I am in need of a little creative inspiration, I head there, order a coffee and settle down with my notebook.

I love watching people, their minute gestures and unconscious behaviours. I don’t do it for too long and I never stare. I’m not a weirdo. I just find human behaviour fascinating and really rather inspiring.

So you have been warned. Avoid me at all costs.

Unless you like the idea of featuring in a book. In which case, come and sit by me, say something interesting and you just might.

 

 

Firstly, I would like to thank Helen Phifer (my shelf buddy) for nominating me. It’s the third award I’ve been nominated for during my forty one years on the planet. The first was in the category, ‘Person most likely to become a Blue Peter presenter’ (I neither won the award nor went on to become Helen Skelton). The second was for my second book, ‘Dear Lizzie’ in the ‘Best eBook’ category at last year’s Festival of Romantic Fiction. I didn’t win this one either but I had a lovely evening laughing and chatting with lots of fellow authors.

This leads me on neatly to what I like about this award. It’s about supporting and encouraging fellow female writers, having a giggle along the way, sharing our thoughts and acknowledging this unique pool of creative talent.

Sisters, I salute you!

Here are my answers to lovely Helen’s questions:

What is your dream job?

I’ve always wanted to work at John Lewis, marry George Clooney and eat chocolate for a living so perhaps I could be Mr. Clooney’s personal chocolate shopper at John Lewis?

What do you mean that’s not a real job?

What could you not live without?

My children, my husband, gin.

Who inspires/motivates you?

My children, my husband, gin.

What do you mean gin’s not a person?

Where is you ideal holiday destination?

Southwold in Suffolk. There’s a long beach with candy-coloured beach huts nestled along the promenade, a pier and a brewery in the town. It’s basically heaven by the sea.

If you could arrange a meeting with anyone alive or dead who would it be?

My father-in-law, Bob, who died five years ago. I want him to see how wonderful his grandchildren are now.

What advice do you wish someone had given you when you were younger?

It will all be okay.

 

I would like to nominate Katie Oliver, Rebecca Raisin, Jill Steeples, Samantha Tonge, Holly Martin, Karen Aldous and Kerry Barrett to answer the following questions:

Have you had a ‘sliding doors’ moment and what would have happened if you’d followed the other path?

Who is your favourite writer and why?

What was the last thing you ate?

Which historical period do you wish you’d lived in?

Tea or coffee?

What’s the best advice you’ve ever been given?

What’s your greatest ambition?

Over to you, blogging sisters!

 

 

The school holidays are upon me so writing is taking a happy back-seat for a week or two (Writing likes sitting in the back – the views are better). I have therefore ransacked my photographic archive and am proud to present the next best thing for you, reader friends – a squirrel eating an ice-cream.

You’re welcome.

I wish you a happy Easter/spring/early April depending on your viewpoint. Normal service should be resumed next week.

I have always been a seat of the pants kind of girl. I tend to leave things to the last minute. It drives my husband insane when I’m ‘just putting a load of washing on’ as the children are clambering into the car. We are invariably late but it’s usually fine because firstly, my family are used to this (my mother swears it’s because I was two weeks late being born) and secondly, I have whittled my group of friends down to an elite selection who share my tardiness. It’s all good, apart from my husband’s irritation but hey, I hate the way he leaves his shoes next to rather than on the shoe-rack. I know. Let’s not sweat the small stuff, people.

So anyway, on the particular day in question I was late. It was during the time when I was writing my first book. My daughter had just started primary school and my son was still reluctantly having naps between the post-lunch, pre-pick-up golden time known as, ‘Mummy’s writing time’, or, ‘Quick, get some words down on the page – you never know when you might get another chance!’ The first label is probably catchier but you get the gist.

 

Despite having perfected the art form of lateness, I am also a consummate time-checker. When working, I live and breathe by the tiny clock in the bottom right-hand of the screen. On this particular day I was having an unusually productive writing session. The words were flowing, my fingers dancing over the keyboard. The writers amongst you will know that this doesn’t always happen. Some days it’s like your brain is full of treacle and on other days, it’s almost effortless. These are the best days and I’ll be honest, I didn’t want it to end. I glanced at the clock. 2.59 pm. This was okay. My daughter needed to be picked up at 3.30 and it was only a five minute walk, provided my son rode his scooter. I still had a good ten minutes, allowing fifteen minutes to wake my son and give him time to work through his post-nap grumpiness.

You see, I was a model mother, making allowances for the moods and whims of my children. My son is a lovely boy; a real treasure. He’s funny and engaging and wonderful to be around. Unless he’s only just woken up. To describe him as grumpy doesn’t really get to the nub of the matter (and I’m all about nubs). Imagine if you will, a Grizzly Bear, who has been hibernating for around three months. His snooze has been interrupted much earlier than he intended and he is very hungry and possibly needs a really long wee. Multiply that by ten and you have a rough approximation of what my son is like when he is woken before he wants to be. So really, I needed to go into his room at 3.09 pm, marvel at how angelic he looks whilst asleep, try to wake him as gently as possible and then retreat as this tiny monster rampaged for the next ten minutes.

That’s what I should have done. I know you’re ahead of me on this one (you’re clever; that’s why I like you). On this day, I decided to wing it. I conveniently forgot about the potential fall-out. I just wanted to finish my chapter; to feel that I had actually achieved something that day, aside from keeping two small people alive. I think I stopped typing at around 3.17 pm and had little panic. Then I told myself to calm the flip down and focus on getting to the school on time. I climbed the stairs, the adrenaline pumping, praying that my son would wake full of smiles, complying immediately with my dearest wish to be out of the door and on our way.

I decided that blithe cheer masking my panic was the only way forwards as I breezed into his room.

‘Wake up darling! It’s time to get your sister.’

His perfect sleeping face was immediately blotted by a small frown as he registered my presence.

‘Wake up sleepy head!’ I sing-songed. ‘Time to get up!’

The bear opened one eye and scowled at me.

‘No’.

It was uttered with terrifying finality. Bugger. This wasn’t going to be easy. I glanced at my watch. 3.21 pm. We had to leave within the next four minutes or we’d be late. There was only one thing for it.

Bribery is not a pretty thing. It’s the refuge of the desperate and morally wonky but by heavens, it works. Show me a parent who hasn’t used bribery at some stage of their child’s life and I’ll show you a person who’ll never be on my Christmas card list.

I can’t remember what the bribe was. It probably involved doughnuts or sausages but then, the best bribes usually do.

As a result of my quick-thinking shady dealing, my son plodded down the stairs and allowed me to put on his shoes for him. All the time, I kept up a cheerful one-sided dialogue (if such a thing exists), which I think was more for my benefit than his. It went something like this:

‘Okay, good boy, down the stairs we go, here are your shoes, let’s get your coat, okay, okay, great now, we need to be really quick, so jump on your scooter and off we go.’

All the while my son was regarding me with a look that said, ‘Who is this numpty and how did I end up with her as a mother?’  Fair point, well made. The only time he spoke was when I told him to get on his scooter. I can still picture this small, determined boy as she sat on the bottom stair, folded his arms and declared,

‘No. Doan want to.’

I wracked my weary brain. I had already used bribery and didn’t know where else to go. In the event, I turned to the tried and trusted method of desperate pleading.

‘Pleeease. I really need you to scoot. We don’t want to be late for your sister, do we?’

His frown deepened. This had got him. His emotional attachment to his beloved sibling was as unbreakable as titanium. He glanced at the scooter and then back at me.

‘Buzz Lightyear fell off,’ he said forlornly, pointing at the bell on his scooter and the plastic Toy Story badge that I had promised but failed to re-attach following that morning’s school run.

‘Okay, okay, if I stick it back on will you scoot, please?’

He took a deep breath, considering his mother’s discomfort. ‘’kay,’ he replied with martyred resignation.

‘Great!’ I cried, leaping up and rushing to the cupboard under the stairs where we kept the super glue. I wasn’t messing about. No PVA or Pritt Stick for me. I was rolling out the big guns. I seized the circular badge and applied a liberal squirt of glue, then I knelt behind the scooter and squashed it back into position.

‘There you go, Buzz.’ I smiled. ‘Now, don’t touch it while it dries,’ I added, turning to my son. I glimpsed the time. 3.26 pm. We might just make it. ‘Come on, let’s go to infinity and beyond!’  I think my son might have rolled his eyes.

It was as we were jogging along the road that I notice the splodge on my trousers. It was quite distinct and rapidly turning white against the black fabric. By the time we reached the school, it was an opaque blister. I was momentarily distracted by the incredible fact that we were on time. I felt jubilant and exhausted. My daughter appeared minutes later full of smiles and reported tales of her day on the walk back home. It was as we re-entered the house that I remembered the glue on my trousers.

‘What’s that Mummy?’ asked my daughter, gazing towards where I was looking.

I pulled at the fabric, feeling a rising sense of dread. ‘It’s super glue,’ I explained. ‘I used it to mend the badge on your brother’s bell and got some on my trousers. I think they might be stuck to my leg.’

‘You’re funny, Mummy,’ giggled my daughter.

‘Buzz fell off again,’ reported my son without emotion as he parked his scooter in the hall and wandered towards the kitchen in search of biscuits.

I stared at the sticker-less bell and then back at my stuck trousers. ‘Brilliant,’ I sighed. ‘That’s just brilliant.’

As I headed to the kitchen to google, ‘trousers stuck to leg with super-glue,’ and join the biscuit-eaters, I had to admit that the situation wasn’t all bad. The children had survived another day of me being their Mum and I did finish that chapter.

‘Seat of the pants Girl’ had done it again – just.

 

Of my recent blog posts, the one which caused the most furore (love that word) was when I talked about cheese and running.

I know. I love to mix things up, my friends.

To be fair, it was my assertion that cheese and fruit cannot be mixed as a single entity that caused the most fuss. I have considered this in great detail and am still of the mind that Wensleydale with cranberries is the work of the devil. Others may disagree, but they probably think ham and pineapple pizzas are okay too.

For the record, they’re not.

Anyway, cheese bigotry to one side, I thought I would give you an update on my progress as a runner.

Oh yes, I’m a runner now, although probably in the same way as I’m an electrician (I learnt how to wire a plug 30 years ago) and guitarist (I know three chords and apparently this makes me a Country musician).

As you may recall, the New Year dawned and I decided that the cheese eating had to stop and the running had to start. I downloaded the Couch Potato to 5K Podcast, dusted off my trainers and started my running career with the wide-eyed positivity of a young child.

Two months on I am delighted to share with you the things I have learnt:

I am never going to be a marathon runner. I will never compete in a triathlon. I have no desire to complete a 10K run. I may manage 5K. I just want to be able to run for a bit without gasping for breath. I want to make the most of the body I have but I don’t want to push it to its limit. I love the sensation of completing a run but I don’t want to do it every day.

I like to run alone. A few friends have suggested joining up and running together. This will never happen. I like to keep my own pace and look ridiculous all by myself. If I could run with a bag over my head I would.

I need someone to tell me how to run and I have found the ideal candidate. Her name is Laura and she is the lady on Podcast (I mentioned her last time). She is perfect because she is encouraging without being bossy and she isn’t real so won’t get cross when I cut short the warm-down walk (please don’t tell her).

Never mind about a sports bra, you have to find the right pants for running (underwear if you’re American). There is nothing more undignified than trying to pull your knickers out of your bum whilst jogging, although the drivers of the cars passing you may find it amusing.

I keep going even if I feel as if I’m going to collapse in a gasping heap. I either focus on the thought of a slimmer, fitter me or if I’m really knackered I think about that biscuit I’m going to have as a reward when I get home.

I like to channel my inner Jessica Ennis-Hill or imagine I’m in a dramatic scene from a movie. Running in drizzling rain adds to the romance of this particular moment.

So there you have it – I am a lone, movie-star runner with occasional underwear issues, but above all, I enjoy it and I never thought I would.

That’s all the motivation I need for now.

 

 

 

This week my daughter celebrated her tenth birthday. It was a splendid thing. There was a lot of cake, a sleepover with four girls (considerably more fun than you might fear) and that melancholy joy you get when another milestone is reached.

I suppose it’s the nature of my job as a writer but I tend to feel these milestones more keenly these days. I realise that this is natural for a woman in her forties with growing children and ageing parents but still, the passing of time has never seemed more apparent and often a little alarming.

As part of her birthday present I bought my daughter some jauntily named ‘Walbums’. For the uninitiated, these are fold out plastic ‘frames’ with pockets for photographs.

One morning I sat down at my computer and went through my daughter’s life on film. It took a while (why did I take nineteen versions of every photo?) but it gave me such utter joy and brought me repeatedly to tears.

I smiled at the pictures of her as a baby, that steady ‘Paddington bear’ stare she used to give me, unamused but constant. It was as if she were peering into my soul, wholly unimpressed by what she found. It’s the kind of look that keeps you grounded at all times and I love her for it.

Then there were the pictures of her with my husband’s father, who died four years ago. They catch me every time because we would love him to see her as she is now; not a teenager but not a little girl anymore; funny and kind and fiercely interested in everything the world has to teach her. She loves music and sport and this makes my husband happy and a little sad because his Welsh-rugby-obsessed, passionate musician Dad would have been so proud of her.

I turn to the pictures of her with my own parents, who are now in their eighties and am taken aback because they look so much younger back then. This is obvious, of course. Heaven knows my husband and I looked about twelve in those days, admittedly with bags under our eyes and unkempt hair but still, it wasn’t quite as grey. There is one photo in particular of my Dad and my daughter to which I keep returning. It’s taken in summer in a garden in Suffolk. They are sitting on green plastic chairs and it looks as if my three-year-old daughter has just told my Dad the funniest joke in the world. She wears a look of delighted mirth at having said something amusing and my Dad is leaning towards her, his face wrinkled with laughter lines, his mouth grinning with joy at the sheer brilliance of this small person. He was in his late seventies when this picture was taken and had always been an immaculate man, taking great pride in his appearance. People often thought he was ten years younger and I never thought he would age. A couple of years ago he had a mini-stroke and although he is all right, he seems like a shadow of the man he was. He is less polished, slower and more remote. This happens of course, but seeing that picture of the two of them simply enjoying each other’s company, I am reminded to savour each moment and treasure every memory.

Some of my favourite photos are the ones of my daughter and son together. As she regularly likes to tell him, ‘I was two years and nine months and then you came along and ruined it all’. In truth, she has been his fiercest protector since the day he was born but above all, she made room for him. As our family of three became a family of four, she shifted a little on her princess’s throne and let him share the attention. Of course they have their moments but most importantly, they like each other and I’m pretty sure it’s down to her readiness to accept him.

As I sift through these treasures, I see my daughter at the centre of it all, of the happiness she has brought and I see how much she is loved. I always knew that being a mother would change me but I don’t think I realised how profound it would be. I know I’m lucky and I’m grateful for everything she has taught me, both good and bad.

You can’t stop time but you can do your best to enjoy every blessed second.

It was 3.56 pm on Friday 1 March 2013 when the e-mail arrived but I didn’t see it straight away. We were post school-run and in need of a treat – the children wanted biscuits, I wanted a gin and tonic but settled for green tea. I am the model of motherhood after all.

It had been a tiring week. To be honest it had been a tiring start to the year but then life is tiring, isn’t it? I wearily note the way my seven-year-old son springs out of bed every morning and wonder if I was ever like that. I can’t recall. I’m too tired.

But I digress. The point is that if you had asked me on that particular Friday what I did for a living, I would have flashed you jaunty smile, ruffled the nearest child’s head and said, ‘I look after these two rascals!’

You see, despite having written two books and received positive feedback from most major publishers, I couldn’t call myself a writer because I hadn’t got a deal. A rejection is a rejection. Gushing praise does not send you a royalty cheque every three months. So I was a writer in the same way that I was a baker, gardener and folder of pants (for the record I excel at the last).

And that is why I nearly gave up. In February 2013 I had what my husband poetically refers to as, ‘The Melt Down.’

It wasn’t pretty. It was a bit childish to be honest. I think a few cushions were punched and possibly some smaller items of furniture thrown. There were a lot of tears and comforting hugs from said husband.

The trouble was that ever since I’d been made redundant from my publishing job, the fairy godmother of self-confidence had not been kind. In truth she’d pretty much ignored me. So I was writing and loving it but had no idea if what I was writing was any good or if it was merely a decadent form of therapy. People told me I could write, but these were people who loved me and didn’t want me throwing the furniture around.

February 2013 was a turning point because I met an old publishing friend at a party and she told me to join LinkedIn. ‘Seriously,’ she said. ‘There are loads of writers, editors and agents on there. You should do it.’

I followed her wise advice and it wasn’t long before I came across the brilliant Jenny Hutton, who used to work for Mira. We were discussing another book I had written and she gave me the details of her successor, the equally brilliant Sally Williamson and told me to mention her when I made contact. It was the positive exchange I needed and I was encouraged. But it didn’t end there, dear Reader. Oh no. It was the e-mail which Jenny sent me at 3.56 pm the next day that changed everything.

She said that she had been thinking about my book and mentioned Carina, Harlequin’s shiny new digital-first imprint. She thought that my first book would be perfect for the list. Would I like her to propose it to them? It’s probably a blessing for Jenny that she wasn’t in the room with me at that moment. I hugged my oblivious children and skipped around the kitchen in a state of high excitement.

On the 10^th July of that year Not Quite Perfect was published as an eBook. By September it had reached number 6 in the Kindle bestsellers and number 1 in the Romance Chart. In July 2014 it was the first Carina title to be published in paperback. My second book, Dear Lizzie was published as an eBook in the same month and last Friday I finished writing my third book for Carina.

And it’s all thanks to a wise friend, LinkedIn, a kind editor and my husband.

I am a writer and I love it.

 

 

Today, reader chums, I am more than a little delighted to be hosting fellow author and all-round gorgeous lovely, A.L. Michael on the penultimate stop of her blog tour. 

Her latest book, ‘My So-Called (Love) Life’ is the story of the brilliantly named Tigerlily James,  founder member of the ‘Young and Bitter Club’ who is happily single and cynical until she gets an invite to her Ex’s wedding and suddenly needs a ‘plus one’. Enter Ollie, barman at her favourite cake and cocktail haunt. He offers the perfect solution – he will pose as a fake boyfriend if she pretends to be his girlfriend for three months – no sex, no strings. Tig has finally found a way to date without the heartbreak. Surely this is her best idea ever? Or maybe not…

Here, A.L. Michael talks about ‘Stuckness’ and the pain of the late twentysomething:

There’s only one reason a group of people would insist on something called a ‘Misery Dinner’. A Misery Dinner is something in my latest novel, My So Called (Love) Life, and it’s a monthly dinner where you get together with your dear friends, eat gluttonous food, drink margaritas and feel damn sorry for yourself. You list the horrible things that have happened to you, you wallow in them, surround yourself in them, almost allow yourself to *enjoy* the shittiness that has been inflicted on you.

You know those friends who constantly moan about their partner, or their parents, or their ‘difficult situation’ (whatever that might be), ask for your opinion, take up hours of your time (you know because you counted) and then do NOTHING? Only to start the cycle over and over again the next week? These people ENJOY it. They are true wallowers.

Whether you’re the wallower, or you’re the poor friend, you are in a state of ‘stuckness’. You can’t move forward. Maybe you don’t want to. This state can happen to anyone dealing with grief or shock, but it seems to be a standard moment in the late twenty something life. Things don’t look like they’re changing. And you’re not entirely convinced you want them to. Because, yeah, things suck…but they could be much worse, couldn’t they?

The job you vaguely dislike could be a shittier, worse paid one. The partner you don’t particularly like could be horrible. The friends who let you down could be arseholes. It’s safer to be stuck. Except then you’re never happy.

My So Called (Love) Life is about what happens when you decide to let go of the stuckness, even when it’s scary. When you decide to take a chance on someone who makes your heart flutter, on a job that makes you panic, on the ideas you forgot you were passionate about.

So have faith, young stuck ones- be brave. Say no to the Misery Dinner, and hello to second chances.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/My-So-Called-Love-Life-Michael-ebook/dp/B00S6T93OQ

 

Praise for A.L. Michael

‘I know it’s a good book when I shut the kindle cover and sigh with contentment. The Last Word totally did it for me.’ – 4* from Angela (Goodreads)

‘This is a funny, funny book.’ 5* to The Last Word from Rosee (Amazon)

‘Fresh, fast and…had that magical romance feeling and a bit of hotness that you just can’t help but love<./b>. Absolutely brilliant!’ 5* to The Last Word from The Book Geek Wears Pajamas

‘I LOVED THIS. I laughed, I cried, I fell in love. All of the emotions were felt in the reading of this book and it is definitely one of the best Christmas releases that I’ve read this year.’ 5* to Driving Home for Christmas from Erin’s Choice

‘I laughed, I cried and I was left with that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you read something wonderful.’ 5* to Driving Home for Christmas from That Thing She Reads

 

 

Picture the scene.

A slightly dishevelled woman sits at a laptop, her brain infused with a mixture of caffeine and fatigue. The washing machine hums comfortingly in the corner. The reassuring sound of Peppa Pig distracting her four year old daughter enables her to relax a little. She stares at the computer screen and desperately tries to channel her inner Anne Tyler. Always good to aim as high as possible, she tells herself. She blinks at the word count figure. Twenty thousand words. 

How is she ever going to get past twenty thousand words?

A squeak from upstairs causes her to flick her eyes from the screen to the clock. Twenty minutes. It’s only been twenty minutes for Pete’s sake. She pretends she didn’t hear it. Only persistent wailing will distract her from her task. She holds her fingers over the keyboard and types. The words come quickly and then she stops. She reads them back to herself and sighs.

Another squeak.

This is definitely the squeak of wakefulness. She deletes everything she has written and sighs again.

The squeak has become a,’Mamamamamamamam,’ very clear and very definite.

She glances again at the twenty thousand word count figure and closes the document.

‘Mum!’ cries her daughter from the other room. She gets up from her computer and pauses in the doorway to the living room.

‘Yes darling,’ she asks wearily. ‘What is it?’

The baby is getting a little impatient now, his shouts constant and insistent. ‘Mam! Mam! Mam!’

The little girl’s eyes do not leave the television screen. ‘Baby’s crying,’ she says.

Picture the scene five years later.

A slightly dishevelled woman sits at a laptop, her brain infused with a mixture of caffeine and fatigue. The washing machine hums comfortingly in the corner. The reassuring stillness of a quiet house, because the children are at school, enables her to relax a little. She stares at the computer screen and desperately tries to channel her inner Anne Tyler.

Some things never change, she tells herself.

She glances at the pictures surrounding her desk showing the covers for her three published titles and at the framed picture with the Not Quite Perfect cover at the centre and ‘Forty Fantastic Reviews for a Fabulous Forty Year Old’ that her best friend gave her for her birthday. She smiles.

Everything has changed. You just have to get past the twenty thousand word mark.

And drink a lot of coffee.