Warm words

After two months of floods of biblical proportions, the sun has finally got his hat on. Though I'm not sure it's his thinking cap.

I don't know about you but the last few days of sunshine have done nothing for my concentration. Stuck in an office that has bars on the windows, a view of a car park and a budgetary ban on water coolers, the last thing I feeling like doing come 5 o'clock is rushing home to work on my word count.

Following last night's dinner (on a tray, in a deckchair, in the garden) I found myself kicking off my shoes, topping up my glass of Tio Pepe and getting in the mood for my up and coming honeymoon to Andalucía. Boyfriend looked most pleased to have some company as he cracked open another beer and wiggled his toes in the grass.

All very nice but the novel isn't going to write itself is it?

The lazy part of me whispers ‘so what, leave it till after the wedding, it’ll be nice to have something to focus on.’ Naughty girl.

But the tyrannical part of me (the very same part that’s imposed a time consuming pre-wedding skin care and fitness regime) is less sympathetic. ‘I don't care if you haven’t seen the sun for weeks!’ she screams with military coldness, ‘Get out of the garden and onto the computer. But not before you drop and give me twenty.’

So, which voice will win? I’ve always found warm words the most persuasive…

Ad nauseam

I had a lesson with my writing teacher this week, and although things got off to a healthy start ('yes, I like this first chapter, well done,') by chapter 4 the compliments were waning (this needs a little more work.) By the time we'd limped through the last two ailing chapters, we were both a bit sick of it.

Oh dear. Is it just me or does anyone else regularly find themselves breaking out in a cold sweat, stomach-churning, while they feverishly try to remember what exactly possessed them to ramble on for 600 words - yes, two A4 pages! - about something completely gross?

This week's humiliation centered around a scene when one of my baddies was sick on one of my goodies. It seemed like a good idea at the time - a kind of dramatic turning point that inspires my hero to stand up for herself at last, after 60,000 words of lolling about like a weakling. Still, did I really have to go into such detail? What made me think anyone would want to read 600 different descriptions of vomit? I must be sick in the head!

Taking a deep breath, and a gulp of peppermint tea (to settle her stomach?), my teacher wisely suggested I rewrite the offensive section, trying this time, NOT to repulse the reader.

Bloody obvious, I know. But for some reason, in my determination to create vivid imagery, I’d overlooked the fact that no one wants to read about puke - no matter how clever or original the description.

Let’s hope I've learnt from that hiccup...

Miss Write around the corner

Back in the days when the summer of 2007 still seemed like a sizzling prospect, I entered a writing competition run by Cosmopolitan magazine and Waterstones. The competition, 'Miss Write', promised one lucky novelist a book deal with Sphere, an introduction to a top literary agent and an 'offer of the week' slot at Waterstones. Basically, the stuff of all my chic-lit dreams...

Well, rumour has it the judging panel will be contacting the winner over the next few weeks. Blimey! Cue butterflies and ominous music. Hey, everyone's allowed a dream...

Now. Everyone who knows me will testify, I'm probably the world's worst phone answerer - guilty of all sorts of elusive silences and where-the-hell-is-she sins. Who do I think I am? A post-baby, pre-powerplate celeb?

No more! The competition has reformed my non-contactable nature and like those annoying people at dinner parties who can't seem to press the silence button and let the caller ring off, I've suddenly developed a fixation with my mobile.

Every time the damn thing rings my stomach swoops skyward and I'm pouncing on the vibration in a nervous frenzy. Private Number? The screen might as well read 'your future editor calling.' I'm seriously starting to wonder if it's possible to overdose on adrenaline.

Tell you what though, it's done wonders for my telephone voice. And my social life.

First cup is the deepest

OK, so here I am, milky Earl Grey at the ready.

I'm starting my spanking new blog. I've fiddled with the font and messed about with the links, all that's left to do is actually write the damn thing!

It's a familiar feeling. Most of my novel writing sessions seem to start with a protracted faff around Facebook before I actually get down to adding anything to my word count.

It's taken me nearly a year to write 60 000 words! Is that good or bad? Fellow blogger and first time novelist, Cally Taylor (see Writing About Writing link below) managed to bang out a whole book in a third of that time! Wow! Well done Cally! Inspirational stuff for the likes of me, Miss 600-words-is-a-good-day.

But why does it bother me how long those 60 000 words have taken? Can success be summed up a word count? Let's hope not! I've never been good with numbers...