I have decided I quite love my Kindle.
1) I like the thrill of being able to buy a book without leaving the house and enjoy the instant gratification of having it delivered in under 60 seconds. 60 seconds!! 'I'll have that one - paid - voila! And read...' Magic!
2) I like the smallness and lightness of it. I have bought a flowery canvas Kindle cover for it (by Lente Designs on Amazon - very good value for money and vegetarian-friendly to boot) and it is still small and light. It slips into the purple shoulder bag perfectly and there's no ruckling of pages and crumpling of paper. And the book mark doesn't slip out when any process of shoulder bag rootling has to take place.
3) I like the push-button page turning. No having to hold the book open, which, let's face it, can be a chore if the book is an 800 page blockbuster that requires fingers of steel to keep the pages apart. You can lie on the living room floor (my favourite position for reading) and go 'read-click-read-click-read-click' with the merest pressure of a thumb. Or index finger, just for variety. I imagine the calorific burn is similar, so no obvious danger of developing fat hands.
4) The variable print size suits my fuzzy eye tiny reading prescription moments first thing in the morning and last thing at night when I am tired or just awake. No varifocals for me! Well, not just yet anyway...
5) Some of the free books are fabulous. And some of them are rubbish. Lots of the books are under a £1. Some of those are fabulous. And some of them are rubbish. I downloaded what turned out to be a rubbish one but it also turned out to be the best 98p I've ever invested, because as I read I thought,' This is dreadful! This woman is a much-published and professional writer. She earns her living writing. I can write better than this. Much better.' And it got me re-editing 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue,' and the first three chapters are ready to go off to agents and publishers. Just need to write a synopsis now, and if you are a writer you'll know that this is probably the most tricky and tedious part of trying to get published. But I'm so happy with the book, I may just upload it to Kindle anyhow, like we did with Nearly King Jimbo. I reckon it's worth a pound of anyone's money.
I have embraced the e-book. P'raps I'm not such a Luddite after all. Of course, I shan't reject the booky book because some books will always be better in their booky book form than their Kindle book form. But for the reading of a novel-type book (especially your light-weight holiday chicklit reads), the Kindle is great! And it takes up a lot less space on the shelf, too.
Showing posts with label Nearly King Jimbo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nearly King Jimbo. Show all posts
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Saturday, 5 March 2011
Mothers, eh? Part 2
Oooh, I almost forgot...
1) my son is not a ratbag. He is a great dad to Kayleigh, a hard worker, an all-round nice guy who tries to do DIY a bit and tinkers with his car too much. He's had two hamsters and three gerbils, but no rats. And if he did have rats, then I am sure his cat would deal with them efficiently
and
2) Nearly King Jimbo is now available on Amazon. Andy is more excited about this than I am, because as far as I can tell, you can publish any old tat on Amazon. But hey, NKJ is my tat, and I love it and I suppose it is quite nice to have it on Amazon. But not crazily exciting.
1) my son is not a ratbag. He is a great dad to Kayleigh, a hard worker, an all-round nice guy who tries to do DIY a bit and tinkers with his car too much. He's had two hamsters and three gerbils, but no rats. And if he did have rats, then I am sure his cat would deal with them efficiently
and
2) Nearly King Jimbo is now available on Amazon. Andy is more excited about this than I am, because as far as I can tell, you can publish any old tat on Amazon. But hey, NKJ is my tat, and I love it and I suppose it is quite nice to have it on Amazon. But not crazily exciting.
Monday, 28 February 2011
Vagueness
So Andy says to me last week, all casual-like whilst leaning against a door-jamb in a nonchalant kind of way, 'What would you do if all you could see through your right eye was a big green disc of light?'
And I said, 'I'd go straight to the optician and sit and wait until they could check my vision.'
And then I said, 'Are you telling me, in a roundabout, vague kind of way, that all you can see out of your right eye is a big green disc of light?'
And he said, 'Yes.'
After establishing that Andy hadn't been staring at a light bulb or the sun (ha! fat chance with all the rain we had last week), that he hadn't poked himself in the eye with a green felt-tip pen, and that a detached retina was possible, but unlikely and that the fear of detached retina was based on a TV programme we'd watched the previous evening, we went into town where I deposited Andy at an optician and he sat and waited for an emergency appointment whilst I went to do the weekly shop at Sainsbugs and fret about all manner of eye diseases.
Well, it turns out that the optician is almost definitely positively certain that Andy has developed a condition called central serous retinopathy, which involves a fluid bulge developing behind the retina, thus distorting vision. She is referring him for a second opinion just to make sure, but having come home and gone Google-mad for information because it sounded like something that might make your eye go pop, it seems likely she is right in her diagnosis.
What is the treatment? None.
What is the prognosis? Condition usual rights itself in around 8 weeks.
Will it happen again? Possibly. Or possibly not.
Does it affect every day functioning? No.
Can it cause long-term damage? Possibly. Possibly not.
Is it linked to high blood pressure and stress? Probably. Or not
It all seems a bit vague to me.
Anyway, Andy is being very stoical about all this. But I do catch him wandering around the house doing massive squinty faces, like he's some kind of deranged pirate who's lost his eye-patch. He says he is testing out if the big green disc is getting smaller. I think he's playing at being a pirate. In fact, I might make him an eye-patch. A padded one with lavender sewn inside to help alleviate the stress factor.
News on Nearly King Jimbo. We are going to make it available as a Kindle download. Cheap as chips. Might get a bigger audience. Might not. It's all very vague.
And I said, 'I'd go straight to the optician and sit and wait until they could check my vision.'
And then I said, 'Are you telling me, in a roundabout, vague kind of way, that all you can see out of your right eye is a big green disc of light?'
And he said, 'Yes.'
After establishing that Andy hadn't been staring at a light bulb or the sun (ha! fat chance with all the rain we had last week), that he hadn't poked himself in the eye with a green felt-tip pen, and that a detached retina was possible, but unlikely and that the fear of detached retina was based on a TV programme we'd watched the previous evening, we went into town where I deposited Andy at an optician and he sat and waited for an emergency appointment whilst I went to do the weekly shop at Sainsbugs and fret about all manner of eye diseases.
Well, it turns out that the optician is almost definitely positively certain that Andy has developed a condition called central serous retinopathy, which involves a fluid bulge developing behind the retina, thus distorting vision. She is referring him for a second opinion just to make sure, but having come home and gone Google-mad for information because it sounded like something that might make your eye go pop, it seems likely she is right in her diagnosis.
What is the treatment? None.
What is the prognosis? Condition usual rights itself in around 8 weeks.
Will it happen again? Possibly. Or possibly not.
Does it affect every day functioning? No.
Can it cause long-term damage? Possibly. Possibly not.
Is it linked to high blood pressure and stress? Probably. Or not
It all seems a bit vague to me.
Anyway, Andy is being very stoical about all this. But I do catch him wandering around the house doing massive squinty faces, like he's some kind of deranged pirate who's lost his eye-patch. He says he is testing out if the big green disc is getting smaller. I think he's playing at being a pirate. In fact, I might make him an eye-patch. A padded one with lavender sewn inside to help alleviate the stress factor.
News on Nearly King Jimbo. We are going to make it available as a Kindle download. Cheap as chips. Might get a bigger audience. Might not. It's all very vague.
Monday, 7 February 2011
Publicity Hussy
Where to begin? Well, in the shower, of course, which is where I have many of my ideas, some of them crazy.
So there I was, getting ready to go out yesterday evening. Andy and I had tickets to see Gyles Brandreth at our local theatre. I'm in the shower (best not to imagine this bit), and suddenly...
'Take a copy of Nearly King Jimbo with you,' I said to myself.
'Why?' I replied.
'To give to Gyles Brandreth, of course,' I said. 'Stupid.'
'No need for that.' I said. 'You know I can't abide rudeness.'
'I apologise,' I said. 'But I really think you should take a copy with you this evening and find a way of getting it to Mr Brandreth. He is, after all, a writer, raconteur, bon viveur, all-round arty celeb-type personality, and I bet he knows a lot of people.' And I tapped myself on the side of my nose. 'If you know what I mean. You need to make the most of these opportunities when they come along.'
'I do,' I said. 'But how am I supposed to get a copy of Nearly King Jimbo into the hands of such a celebrity? Throw it onto the stage wrapped in a thong?'
'Well,' I said. 'You are sitting right at the front. You wouldn't have to throw it far.'
Off we went to the theatre. In my bag was secreted a copy of NKJ. At this point, I think it is fair to say, I was verging on the chickening out side of my plan.
The show was very entertaining. Mr Brandreth has a bottomless pit of humorous stories to tell; well, he leads a very full and star-spangled life, so I suppose he would.
All the while I am thinking, how can I do this? He'll think I'm some kind of mad-bonkers stalker woman if I go thrusting self-published books at him.
'He might not,' I said back to myself.
Oh, here she goes again, I thought.
'He might think,' I continued with dogged determination, 'that it's a jolly good book, and that you are a writer worth championing, or at least to pass on to someone else to champion.'
'In my dreams,' I said.
'It's where all life's magic starts,' said I.
Then at the interval, I was thrown a life line. Copies of Gyles Brandreth's book would be on sale in the foyer from his wife, Michele. And after the show, Gyles Brandreth would be signing the copies that were bought.
'Aha!' I said. 'There's your opportunity. Invest in his book - it'll be a good read anyway- and then whilst he is signing it, thrust NKJ at him, but think carefully about what you are going to say; you don't want to come across like a desperate mad-bonkers writer/ stalker.'
'Okay,' I said. 'And he did say he loved puns, and NKJ is full of puns, so shall I take that as a sign to take the risk?'
'Only if you are very superstitious,' I said.
I bought a copy of his book. I had a little chat to his wife, who was very nice. She admired my necklace and we both agreed that £5 notes are very rare these days.
All through the second half I was thinking about what I was going to say. I talked myself out of my plan at least three more times.
But when the time came, I just went for it. I waited until most of the audience had gone because I didn't want to make a fool of myself in front of too many people. My nerves were eased a little when I reached his table and he looked up at me and said, 'Hello! You look rather lovely!'
Blimey, I thought; I've just been chatted up by Gyles Brandreth!
Anyway, we got chatting to him; he is a very personable person. And then I whipped out NKJ and said:
'I have a small gift for you. It's a book I wrote. Andy did the illustrations. I'm hoping to create a 'lucky co-incidence'. If you don't read it, you might leave it somewhere where someone else will pick it up and read it. Like an agent or a publisher. It's been rejected several times. We self-published it.'
(Shut up now, I thought. You're starting to ramble).
'It's the best way to go these days,' said Gyles. 'And of course I'll read it. Look, Michele. These lovely people have given me a gift.' And he showed the book to his wife.
'Will you sign it for us?' she said. 'You must sign it for us.'
So whilst Gyles was signing his book, I was signing ours! I signed my autograph in a book I wrote!!
It was all very surreal and I got a bit shaky and wobbly at this point because I was feeling ridiculously excited at my book being in the hands of a celebrity.
And if he does read it, I hope he enjoys it and maybe as a laugh or two in return for all the laughs he gave us last night.
I'll just have one last excited shriek if you don't mind...
'EEEEEEEEEKKKK!!!!!!'
So there I was, getting ready to go out yesterday evening. Andy and I had tickets to see Gyles Brandreth at our local theatre. I'm in the shower (best not to imagine this bit), and suddenly...
'Take a copy of Nearly King Jimbo with you,' I said to myself.
'Why?' I replied.
'To give to Gyles Brandreth, of course,' I said. 'Stupid.'
'No need for that.' I said. 'You know I can't abide rudeness.'
'I apologise,' I said. 'But I really think you should take a copy with you this evening and find a way of getting it to Mr Brandreth. He is, after all, a writer, raconteur, bon viveur, all-round arty celeb-type personality, and I bet he knows a lot of people.' And I tapped myself on the side of my nose. 'If you know what I mean. You need to make the most of these opportunities when they come along.'
'I do,' I said. 'But how am I supposed to get a copy of Nearly King Jimbo into the hands of such a celebrity? Throw it onto the stage wrapped in a thong?'
'Well,' I said. 'You are sitting right at the front. You wouldn't have to throw it far.'
Off we went to the theatre. In my bag was secreted a copy of NKJ. At this point, I think it is fair to say, I was verging on the chickening out side of my plan.
The show was very entertaining. Mr Brandreth has a bottomless pit of humorous stories to tell; well, he leads a very full and star-spangled life, so I suppose he would.
All the while I am thinking, how can I do this? He'll think I'm some kind of mad-bonkers stalker woman if I go thrusting self-published books at him.
'He might not,' I said back to myself.
Oh, here she goes again, I thought.
'He might think,' I continued with dogged determination, 'that it's a jolly good book, and that you are a writer worth championing, or at least to pass on to someone else to champion.'
'In my dreams,' I said.
'It's where all life's magic starts,' said I.
Then at the interval, I was thrown a life line. Copies of Gyles Brandreth's book would be on sale in the foyer from his wife, Michele. And after the show, Gyles Brandreth would be signing the copies that were bought.
'Aha!' I said. 'There's your opportunity. Invest in his book - it'll be a good read anyway- and then whilst he is signing it, thrust NKJ at him, but think carefully about what you are going to say; you don't want to come across like a desperate mad-bonkers writer/ stalker.'
'Okay,' I said. 'And he did say he loved puns, and NKJ is full of puns, so shall I take that as a sign to take the risk?'
'Only if you are very superstitious,' I said.
I bought a copy of his book. I had a little chat to his wife, who was very nice. She admired my necklace and we both agreed that £5 notes are very rare these days.
All through the second half I was thinking about what I was going to say. I talked myself out of my plan at least three more times.
But when the time came, I just went for it. I waited until most of the audience had gone because I didn't want to make a fool of myself in front of too many people. My nerves were eased a little when I reached his table and he looked up at me and said, 'Hello! You look rather lovely!'
Blimey, I thought; I've just been chatted up by Gyles Brandreth!
Anyway, we got chatting to him; he is a very personable person. And then I whipped out NKJ and said:
'I have a small gift for you. It's a book I wrote. Andy did the illustrations. I'm hoping to create a 'lucky co-incidence'. If you don't read it, you might leave it somewhere where someone else will pick it up and read it. Like an agent or a publisher. It's been rejected several times. We self-published it.'
(Shut up now, I thought. You're starting to ramble).
'It's the best way to go these days,' said Gyles. 'And of course I'll read it. Look, Michele. These lovely people have given me a gift.' And he showed the book to his wife.
'Will you sign it for us?' she said. 'You must sign it for us.'
So whilst Gyles was signing his book, I was signing ours! I signed my autograph in a book I wrote!!
It was all very surreal and I got a bit shaky and wobbly at this point because I was feeling ridiculously excited at my book being in the hands of a celebrity.
And if he does read it, I hope he enjoys it and maybe as a laugh or two in return for all the laughs he gave us last night.
I'll just have one last excited shriek if you don't mind...
'EEEEEEEEEKKKK!!!!!!'
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Another Nearly King Jimbo Fan
Well, I don't know. I sent NKJ out to around 16 agents and publishers and back it came 16 times with a 'thanks but no thanks' in 15 cases and an 'I like it very much but it's not for me' once.
So we self-publish and the people who really count, the readers, have telephoned and e-mailed to say how much they love it and how much it made them chuckle. This evening, Andy's aunt phoned.
'I've read it twice and I could happily read it again,' she said. 'It's so bubbly, so witty, and it made me chuckle a lot. It put me in mind of John Cleese and Bill Oddie in its style of humour. Are you going to write any more?'
Of course I'm going to write more. NKJ is the most fun thing I've ever written, and I could write about him ad infinitum. But what do I do now? Do I send him off again, to more agents, more publishers, only to have him come back attached to another rejection slip DESPITE the evidence that people have really enjoyed reading about him? Or do I carry on writing about him because it is a huge joy in my life to do so and if it's friends and family who find him enjoyable then that's good enough?
I don't know. It's a conundrum, and it just re-inforces my suspicions that to be published these days you need that 'lucky co-incidence' event; to be in the right place at the right time and know the right people. Or be famous. Talent, it seems, doesn't come into it much.
Anyway, I am much encouraged again by Andy's aunt's enthusiasm. I am in full writing mode. My readership may be small, but they have taste and I bet they've never read one of Katie 'Jordan' Price's offerings!
Three good deeds I did today:
1) helped a Polish lady make sense of a bus time table
2) saved a wasp from certain death
3) carried a tray filled with mugs and a jar of coffee up to the staff room for a secretary who was having a 'wobbly moment'
Three things that made me smile today:
1) Mrs Slocombe trying to jump from the back of garden chair and not quite knowing how to let go
2) bluebell shoots appearing in the front garden
3) a gang of girlies chatting on the stairs about who they were going out with, who they had dumped and if you went out with the same person twice with a two week gap in between did that count as two boyfriends or one?
One thing that made me sad:
1) hearing from three different Year 7 boys who spent much of their tutoring sessions yawning, that they'd been up until 2.30 a.m the previous night playing on their X-boxes and/ or watching 18 certificate DVDs.
One naughty thing I did today:
1) Ah, now that would be telling..!
So we self-publish and the people who really count, the readers, have telephoned and e-mailed to say how much they love it and how much it made them chuckle. This evening, Andy's aunt phoned.
'I've read it twice and I could happily read it again,' she said. 'It's so bubbly, so witty, and it made me chuckle a lot. It put me in mind of John Cleese and Bill Oddie in its style of humour. Are you going to write any more?'
Of course I'm going to write more. NKJ is the most fun thing I've ever written, and I could write about him ad infinitum. But what do I do now? Do I send him off again, to more agents, more publishers, only to have him come back attached to another rejection slip DESPITE the evidence that people have really enjoyed reading about him? Or do I carry on writing about him because it is a huge joy in my life to do so and if it's friends and family who find him enjoyable then that's good enough?
I don't know. It's a conundrum, and it just re-inforces my suspicions that to be published these days you need that 'lucky co-incidence' event; to be in the right place at the right time and know the right people. Or be famous. Talent, it seems, doesn't come into it much.
Anyway, I am much encouraged again by Andy's aunt's enthusiasm. I am in full writing mode. My readership may be small, but they have taste and I bet they've never read one of Katie 'Jordan' Price's offerings!
Three good deeds I did today:
1) helped a Polish lady make sense of a bus time table
2) saved a wasp from certain death
3) carried a tray filled with mugs and a jar of coffee up to the staff room for a secretary who was having a 'wobbly moment'
Three things that made me smile today:
1) Mrs Slocombe trying to jump from the back of garden chair and not quite knowing how to let go
2) bluebell shoots appearing in the front garden
3) a gang of girlies chatting on the stairs about who they were going out with, who they had dumped and if you went out with the same person twice with a two week gap in between did that count as two boyfriends or one?
One thing that made me sad:
1) hearing from three different Year 7 boys who spent much of their tutoring sessions yawning, that they'd been up until 2.30 a.m the previous night playing on their X-boxes and/ or watching 18 certificate DVDs.
One naughty thing I did today:
1) Ah, now that would be telling..!
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Tat's Away!
I continue my war against extraneous tat chez le Manoir, but instead of 'War By Frenzied Flinging' which featured a lot in 2010, I have adopted the more subtle approach of 'War By Subtle Nuance.' This involves a more day-to-day process whereby I chip away in a 'drip, drip,drip' kind of way rather than having to wind myself up for an eight hour sift 'n' sort marathon which generally leaves me physically and emotionally exhausted (I still can't bring myself to get rid of my wedding dress), covered in dust and smelling like a musty cupboard in a second-hand bookshop.
What I do is this:
1) if I open a cupboard or drawer, I think, 'What is in here that I can get shot of?' and I have a quick shufti and select something, then consign it to either rubbish bin/ recycle bin/ charity bag.
2) if I go past a book shelf, I stop and think, 'Which book have I read and am never going to read again?' and I select one and consign it to the charity bag/ pile for other people to have a look at in case they want to read it. Obviously, I adopt this approach only if it's one of my bookshelves. I daren't 'relocate' any of Andy's books because I suspect that even though he has several hundred, he knows exactly where each and every one is and if one went missing he would know and I would have A LOT to answer for, m'lud
3) once a week I look in my wardrobe or chest of drawers and think, 'what haven't I worn for ages/ am too fat or thin to wear/ makes me look like a bag lady or tart' and I put an item in the charity bag
Just before Christmas, we made £115 by selling old DVDs, CDs and a mobile phone on line by using this process.
Today, I have turfed out three things from a cupboard in the kitchen, and a book.
Yesterday, I bought 4 books, which slightly negates the purpose of cutting down on my book collection, but I console myself that a) I had Waterstone's vouchers to spend from Christmas and b) at least I've got a bit of space on my bookshelves to put them in.
So I bought a book on making soft toys for I have a whim to create in 3-D all the characters from Nearly King Jimbo. I can see them now - NKJ himself, Alice, the Queen and King Andy, Mr Jobble, Mrs Bobbinflaxenfluff, Farmer Seed and his wife Annie, Bob the Cat, Prince Jimbo of Titbury von Streudelheim the prize-winning angora goat and Mick the Dog. Don't ask me why; I have these thoughts sometimes and whilst I ought to learn to say 'Avaunt ye, crazy thought! Get back to the dark recesses of mine mind,' because these thoughts often result in the acquisition of more extraneous tat, this one got past my internal tat filter. Besides, I like sewing.
And I bought Janet Street-Porter's latest book 'Don't Let The B*****ds Get You Down,' because her last book 'Life's Too F*****g Short,' was very entertaining and I find JSP quite inspirational in an odd sort of way. And she, too, is very keen on getting rid of extraneous tat.
And I bought two novels which promise to be funny and entertaining, yet ever-so-slightly literary at the same time.
So my Waterstone's vouchers are spent. No more book buying for a while. No more tat.
What I do is this:
1) if I open a cupboard or drawer, I think, 'What is in here that I can get shot of?' and I have a quick shufti and select something, then consign it to either rubbish bin/ recycle bin/ charity bag.
2) if I go past a book shelf, I stop and think, 'Which book have I read and am never going to read again?' and I select one and consign it to the charity bag/ pile for other people to have a look at in case they want to read it. Obviously, I adopt this approach only if it's one of my bookshelves. I daren't 'relocate' any of Andy's books because I suspect that even though he has several hundred, he knows exactly where each and every one is and if one went missing he would know and I would have A LOT to answer for, m'lud
3) once a week I look in my wardrobe or chest of drawers and think, 'what haven't I worn for ages/ am too fat or thin to wear/ makes me look like a bag lady or tart' and I put an item in the charity bag
Just before Christmas, we made £115 by selling old DVDs, CDs and a mobile phone on line by using this process.
Today, I have turfed out three things from a cupboard in the kitchen, and a book.
Yesterday, I bought 4 books, which slightly negates the purpose of cutting down on my book collection, but I console myself that a) I had Waterstone's vouchers to spend from Christmas and b) at least I've got a bit of space on my bookshelves to put them in.
So I bought a book on making soft toys for I have a whim to create in 3-D all the characters from Nearly King Jimbo. I can see them now - NKJ himself, Alice, the Queen and King Andy, Mr Jobble, Mrs Bobbinflaxenfluff, Farmer Seed and his wife Annie, Bob the Cat, Prince Jimbo of Titbury von Streudelheim the prize-winning angora goat and Mick the Dog. Don't ask me why; I have these thoughts sometimes and whilst I ought to learn to say 'Avaunt ye, crazy thought! Get back to the dark recesses of mine mind,' because these thoughts often result in the acquisition of more extraneous tat, this one got past my internal tat filter. Besides, I like sewing.
And I bought Janet Street-Porter's latest book 'Don't Let The B*****ds Get You Down,' because her last book 'Life's Too F*****g Short,' was very entertaining and I find JSP quite inspirational in an odd sort of way. And she, too, is very keen on getting rid of extraneous tat.
And I bought two novels which promise to be funny and entertaining, yet ever-so-slightly literary at the same time.
So my Waterstone's vouchers are spent. No more book buying for a while. No more tat.
Friday, 7 January 2011
Give a Little, Get a Little
Back to tutoring this week, which I have to admit I am absolutely loving. It's doing what I went into teaching to do, and that is to teach. And the students I work with are such characters. I'm half way through the course for my first 'batch' of tutees, so have used this week to do a little reviewette of their progress so far, just to make sure they all feel they are getting something from their sessions and maybe adapt their programme accordingly.
Words such as 'enjoy', 'fun' and 'can use apostrophes properly now' have been the order of the day. One of the Year 11s said, 'Yeah, I really look forward to seeing you on Friday mornings coz I get to do proper work, innit, without idiots like Stuart and Danny getting on my t*ts?' I spent a goodly amount of time this morning listening to her enthuse about her plans for the future - and boy, has she got her life planned out! I told her about the Open University because she's worried about being able to afford to go away to uni, and she dashed off to order a prospectus. And as she went I thought, I bet she gets where she wants to be and I wish I had half her energy.
One of my tutees, a Year 7, declares on a regular basis (generally when a book comes within a two foot radius of him) that he 'hates books' and 'hates reading' because 'it's boring.' I suffer heartache when he says this because a) he is as bright as a button and suffers not from a struggling brain but a goodly dose of 'can't-be-bothered-lazy-itis' and b) I love books and can't really cope with people who say they hate them. So I said to him on Wednesday, 'Would you read a book on an e-reader?' ( I got Andy a Kindle for Christmas and it's been attached to his palm ever since.) And this little lad looked at me like I was mad and said, 'Course I would.' And I said, 'Why? It's still a book, isn't it?' And he said, with a pitiful look in his eye, 'Well, I wouldn't have to bother about turning any pages, would I?'
Ah...so it's the turning of the pages of a book that makes reading boring, is it? Easy-flip pages could be the way to go for this weak-wristed generation of children.
Another boy was having trouble with his biro today. One discovery I've made since becoming a teacher is that boys aged 11 to 14 have the uncanny knack of making biros explode so that they and all their surrounding become covered with thick, gooey ink. It's a rare and peculiar talent, demonstrated beautifully by Alfie. He got out his 'emergency biro' which then refused to write properly.
'It's all scratchy,' he said. 'What I really like writing with is a fine liner.'
'Me too,' I said. 'I have one you can borrow if you like,' and I lent him the one I keep in my lovely shiny purple handbag.
Well, he did some beautiful writing with the fine liner, taking real care to form his letters (he's a bit of a drunken-spider-on-a-page writer), and at the end of the lesson he gazed lovingly at the pen.
'You can keep it if you like,' I said, because I could tell he was reluctant to part with it.
Honestly, you'd think I'd given him the crown jewels, such was the beam of joy on his face!
'Make sure you keep up your good writing with that pen,' I said.
'I will, ma'am,' said Alfie.
And this brings me to the karmic theory of 'give a little, get a little.' Because when I got home and checked my e-mail, I found one from my friend Sarah, who bought copies of Nearly King Jimbo for her family. She had forwarded an e-mail from her aunt, part of which said thus...
'Have loved NKJ. So much so that I think it is the only book ever that I have almost immediately restarted when I have finished it. There is so much in it that my slow wit missed much first time around - and much enjoyed both times. It is a book for all ages...'
Bless you, Sarah's auntie. You've made a rookie writer very happy!
Words such as 'enjoy', 'fun' and 'can use apostrophes properly now' have been the order of the day. One of the Year 11s said, 'Yeah, I really look forward to seeing you on Friday mornings coz I get to do proper work, innit, without idiots like Stuart and Danny getting on my t*ts?' I spent a goodly amount of time this morning listening to her enthuse about her plans for the future - and boy, has she got her life planned out! I told her about the Open University because she's worried about being able to afford to go away to uni, and she dashed off to order a prospectus. And as she went I thought, I bet she gets where she wants to be and I wish I had half her energy.
One of my tutees, a Year 7, declares on a regular basis (generally when a book comes within a two foot radius of him) that he 'hates books' and 'hates reading' because 'it's boring.' I suffer heartache when he says this because a) he is as bright as a button and suffers not from a struggling brain but a goodly dose of 'can't-be-bothered-lazy-itis' and b) I love books and can't really cope with people who say they hate them. So I said to him on Wednesday, 'Would you read a book on an e-reader?' ( I got Andy a Kindle for Christmas and it's been attached to his palm ever since.) And this little lad looked at me like I was mad and said, 'Course I would.' And I said, 'Why? It's still a book, isn't it?' And he said, with a pitiful look in his eye, 'Well, I wouldn't have to bother about turning any pages, would I?'
Ah...so it's the turning of the pages of a book that makes reading boring, is it? Easy-flip pages could be the way to go for this weak-wristed generation of children.
Another boy was having trouble with his biro today. One discovery I've made since becoming a teacher is that boys aged 11 to 14 have the uncanny knack of making biros explode so that they and all their surrounding become covered with thick, gooey ink. It's a rare and peculiar talent, demonstrated beautifully by Alfie. He got out his 'emergency biro' which then refused to write properly.
'It's all scratchy,' he said. 'What I really like writing with is a fine liner.'
'Me too,' I said. 'I have one you can borrow if you like,' and I lent him the one I keep in my lovely shiny purple handbag.
Well, he did some beautiful writing with the fine liner, taking real care to form his letters (he's a bit of a drunken-spider-on-a-page writer), and at the end of the lesson he gazed lovingly at the pen.
'You can keep it if you like,' I said, because I could tell he was reluctant to part with it.
Honestly, you'd think I'd given him the crown jewels, such was the beam of joy on his face!
'Make sure you keep up your good writing with that pen,' I said.
'I will, ma'am,' said Alfie.
And this brings me to the karmic theory of 'give a little, get a little.' Because when I got home and checked my e-mail, I found one from my friend Sarah, who bought copies of Nearly King Jimbo for her family. She had forwarded an e-mail from her aunt, part of which said thus...
'Have loved NKJ. So much so that I think it is the only book ever that I have almost immediately restarted when I have finished it. There is so much in it that my slow wit missed much first time around - and much enjoyed both times. It is a book for all ages...'
Bless you, Sarah's auntie. You've made a rookie writer very happy!
Friday, 12 November 2010
Full Stop
Well, the excitement when our copy of Nearly King Jimbo arrived! I felt a little ridiculous, feeling so thrilled about it really, but it has turned out sooooooooo well! I mean, it looks like a proper book for heaven's sake.
'The only thing,' I said to Andy as we sat staring at our artistic baby, 'is that I don't think I can bear to read it in case I find any errors.'
'Yes,' said Andy, who had already picked unnecessary holes in his wonderful illustrations. 'I know what you mean.'
For we had edited and edited and gone over the final script with a fine tooth biro and it seemed that every time we looked at it, we found something not quite right. But finally we convinced ourselves the copy was as perfect as it was going to be and Andy pushed the 'Send' button and away it went.
I am doing quite a bit of reading at the moment. In fact I have just finished 'The Red Queen' by Philippa Gregory which was very good. And as I read it, because I still had my editor's brain to the fore, I found three very obvious typos. So today, when I read a bit of Nearly King Jimbo, I wasn't too upset on finding an errant full stop. Just a little bit, but not too much. Well, if a multi-million selling author like Gregory employs a proof reader who lets obvious mistakes slip through, I think that me, the amateur, can be forgiven the escape of a little full stop. Maybe. Still a bit irksome though. Stop thinking about it....okay....I've stopped...
So, this week has gone really quickly. A bit of part-time tutoring has brought in some cash, and a visit to the theatre yesterday brought in some cultural stimulation. We went to see 'The Rivals' by R.B. Sheridan. It was very funny, and because it was a matinee and the theatre wasn't full we got free upgrades to better seats, too. And whilst we were dawdling around waiting for the performance to start, we booked tickets to go and see 'The Phaaaaaaaaaaaaaaantom of the Operaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!' just before Christmas.
I went to find the Assistant Head at lunch time for her to sign my time sheet for this week.
'Ah!' she said. 'Just the person,' which, a few months ago would have been a phrase which brought a sense of impeding doom to my shoulders, but since I am enjoying what I am doing and know I can put a full stop to it at any time I like without having to do ridiculous things like work out notice, it doesn't bother me at all now.
'How would you like to do some internal exam marking at the beginning of December?' she continued.
'Tell me more,' I said, because marking is, like tutoring, a very lucrative sideline for teachers. Especially if you have a bottom set class with lazy boys in it who don't do writing because they can't be arsed and they manage about three paragraphs before their wrists come over all limp so they down pens and spend the majority of the exam time slumped in their seats staring at the ceiling and sighing a lot.
So she explained. Two sets of exam papers from bottom set Year 11 and one set of papers from bottom set Year 10. And I agreed. I thought, there's next year's holiday paid for.
And then she looked at me more closely.
'You're very flexible, organised and determined, aren't you? I don't suppose you'd consider applying for the Head of English post would you?' she said. 'Only they could do with someone like you.'
'Absolutely not,' I said. 'Full stop!'
'The only thing,' I said to Andy as we sat staring at our artistic baby, 'is that I don't think I can bear to read it in case I find any errors.'
'Yes,' said Andy, who had already picked unnecessary holes in his wonderful illustrations. 'I know what you mean.'
For we had edited and edited and gone over the final script with a fine tooth biro and it seemed that every time we looked at it, we found something not quite right. But finally we convinced ourselves the copy was as perfect as it was going to be and Andy pushed the 'Send' button and away it went.
I am doing quite a bit of reading at the moment. In fact I have just finished 'The Red Queen' by Philippa Gregory which was very good. And as I read it, because I still had my editor's brain to the fore, I found three very obvious typos. So today, when I read a bit of Nearly King Jimbo, I wasn't too upset on finding an errant full stop. Just a little bit, but not too much. Well, if a multi-million selling author like Gregory employs a proof reader who lets obvious mistakes slip through, I think that me, the amateur, can be forgiven the escape of a little full stop. Maybe. Still a bit irksome though. Stop thinking about it....okay....I've stopped...
So, this week has gone really quickly. A bit of part-time tutoring has brought in some cash, and a visit to the theatre yesterday brought in some cultural stimulation. We went to see 'The Rivals' by R.B. Sheridan. It was very funny, and because it was a matinee and the theatre wasn't full we got free upgrades to better seats, too. And whilst we were dawdling around waiting for the performance to start, we booked tickets to go and see 'The Phaaaaaaaaaaaaaaantom of the Operaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!' just before Christmas.
I went to find the Assistant Head at lunch time for her to sign my time sheet for this week.
'Ah!' she said. 'Just the person,' which, a few months ago would have been a phrase which brought a sense of impeding doom to my shoulders, but since I am enjoying what I am doing and know I can put a full stop to it at any time I like without having to do ridiculous things like work out notice, it doesn't bother me at all now.
'How would you like to do some internal exam marking at the beginning of December?' she continued.
'Tell me more,' I said, because marking is, like tutoring, a very lucrative sideline for teachers. Especially if you have a bottom set class with lazy boys in it who don't do writing because they can't be arsed and they manage about three paragraphs before their wrists come over all limp so they down pens and spend the majority of the exam time slumped in their seats staring at the ceiling and sighing a lot.
So she explained. Two sets of exam papers from bottom set Year 11 and one set of papers from bottom set Year 10. And I agreed. I thought, there's next year's holiday paid for.
And then she looked at me more closely.
'You're very flexible, organised and determined, aren't you? I don't suppose you'd consider applying for the Head of English post would you?' she said. 'Only they could do with someone like you.'
'Absolutely not,' I said. 'Full stop!'
Monday, 8 November 2010
Baby Sitting, Baby Sales
So yesterday I had a call to arms, of babe-in-arms to be precise. Could I go and collect Kayleigh and look after her for a couple of hours? Of course I could, I said. That's what Grans are for.
So off we went, and gathered Baby plus a bag of accoutrements. We struggled a bit to get the car seat in the car, and then we struggled a bit to get the Baby in the car seat but Kayleigh was very good-natured and smiley about the whole chaos and with all parts secured, off we went.
Chez the Manor, Andy and I set about the process of Entertaining Baby. We spread some toys over the floor and plonked her in their midst. She immediately made a bee-line for the new cat water fountain. Copious amounts of kitchen roll were used to mop her up, and one or two strops were thrown until she realised she wouldn't be able to shift me from blocking her further access to the fountain until she is at least 14, and she headed back to the living room, leaving me to get over my stropping.
As with all babies of my acquaintance, Kayleigh isn't really interested in toys. She is more likely to be entertained by, in yesterday's case, a wooden salad server spoon, the cardboard tube from the aforementioned kitchen roll, an empty egg box and the colour supplements from the Daily Mail and the Guardian. Interestingly, she seemed to show more rage when ripping the Dail Mail supplement to shreds. Is she her grandmother's grand-daughter I ask myself.
Then she ate two oat cakes, half of which she schmooshed into the living room rug. And then stared at Andy who was eating an apple until he capitulated and gave her a slice to share. And then she added a load of appley dribble to the oat cake schmoosh in the rug. And then she had a drink from her tippee cup. More dribble. Mmmmmm.......
And then she started getting a bit grumpsome, so I changed her nappy( a first in over 20 years - they're a lot more stretchy than I remember) and snuggled her until she went to sleep. And then I showed I was a sterling Granny stalwart by remaining utterly still for a good half an hour even though my arm went dead within the first ten minutes and my bladder was bursting for a tinkle.
And the best bit was that Andy held several conversations with Kayleigh and Kayleigh didn't cry once. She stared at him in a very solemn way, especially when he was explaining oxymorons and galaxy systems to her. And somehow I felt she was taking it all in. Andy is very determined to play a full part in her education. He is also determined to build her a doll's house, but that will be a different story all together.
On more baby notes, I am THRILLED to report we have secured sales of 3 copies of Nearly King Jimbo. I suspect they have been bought by my pal Sarah, but nonetheless I have written a book that has sold 3 copies that weren't bought by me! I am soooooooooo excited!! So if it was you, Sarah, bless your heart and roll on our 'beside the sea-side weekend'. And if it was someone else, thank you too. The sales may be baby, but you have made my year!
So off we went, and gathered Baby plus a bag of accoutrements. We struggled a bit to get the car seat in the car, and then we struggled a bit to get the Baby in the car seat but Kayleigh was very good-natured and smiley about the whole chaos and with all parts secured, off we went.
Chez the Manor, Andy and I set about the process of Entertaining Baby. We spread some toys over the floor and plonked her in their midst. She immediately made a bee-line for the new cat water fountain. Copious amounts of kitchen roll were used to mop her up, and one or two strops were thrown until she realised she wouldn't be able to shift me from blocking her further access to the fountain until she is at least 14, and she headed back to the living room, leaving me to get over my stropping.
As with all babies of my acquaintance, Kayleigh isn't really interested in toys. She is more likely to be entertained by, in yesterday's case, a wooden salad server spoon, the cardboard tube from the aforementioned kitchen roll, an empty egg box and the colour supplements from the Daily Mail and the Guardian. Interestingly, she seemed to show more rage when ripping the Dail Mail supplement to shreds. Is she her grandmother's grand-daughter I ask myself.
Then she ate two oat cakes, half of which she schmooshed into the living room rug. And then stared at Andy who was eating an apple until he capitulated and gave her a slice to share. And then she added a load of appley dribble to the oat cake schmoosh in the rug. And then she had a drink from her tippee cup. More dribble. Mmmmmm.......
And then she started getting a bit grumpsome, so I changed her nappy( a first in over 20 years - they're a lot more stretchy than I remember) and snuggled her until she went to sleep. And then I showed I was a sterling Granny stalwart by remaining utterly still for a good half an hour even though my arm went dead within the first ten minutes and my bladder was bursting for a tinkle.
And the best bit was that Andy held several conversations with Kayleigh and Kayleigh didn't cry once. She stared at him in a very solemn way, especially when he was explaining oxymorons and galaxy systems to her. And somehow I felt she was taking it all in. Andy is very determined to play a full part in her education. He is also determined to build her a doll's house, but that will be a different story all together.
On more baby notes, I am THRILLED to report we have secured sales of 3 copies of Nearly King Jimbo. I suspect they have been bought by my pal Sarah, but nonetheless I have written a book that has sold 3 copies that weren't bought by me! I am soooooooooo excited!! So if it was you, Sarah, bless your heart and roll on our 'beside the sea-side weekend'. And if it was someone else, thank you too. The sales may be baby, but you have made my year!
Monday, 1 November 2010
Proper Books
I write today in a tone of reverential hush, because upstairs a work of genius is occurring. Over the weekend, Andy the Pen completed the illustrations for 'Nearly King Jimbo' and today he is constructing the book in some kind of a file that will be accepted by Lulu, the self-publishing company.
Well, every now and then Andy appears downstairs where I have been skulking, doing rivetting stuff such as cleaning out the fridge and my reflexology homework, and he asks me VERY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS about things like page numbering, chapter headings and the placing of illustrations within the body of the text. It's all very publishy and booky and proper! And I've just taken him a cup of tea, and had a sneaky peak over his shoulder, and there are pages with numbers and text and pictures on his computer screen that look like they are from a PROPER book!!
Corr!!
We had a discussion about ISBN numbers over the weekend. And Andy made some more wine and I knitted a pig, but that's two different stories altogether. We've found out where you buy the numbers from, and that they come in blocks of ten. Do we really need an ISBN number, we wondered? According to Lulu, we don't. We can publish through them, and people can order copies without the need for an official number. But if you want to make your book available through somewhere like Amazon, you need an ISBN. And, get this, if you publish with an ISBN number you have to donate a copy of your book to the British Library Archives for free. Ha! What if you don't want to, eh? Do they send round a librarian to shout in your kitchen or something??
Okay, so if we splash the cash (£115 and something pee) for 10 ISBN numbers, what do we do with the other 9? Do they go off? I mean, do we have to use them within a certain period of time, or can we save them ad infinitum? Could I, for example, have one stamped on the side of my coffin, to go with the inscription of 'See, She Was A Proper Writer' on the headstone?' I said we could publish 'The Chicken Blogs' next year. That'd use up two. And I feel I could write more Nearly King Jimbo adventures, in fact once I get started I'm going to be difficult to stop given the potential goings-on in Titbury von Streudelheim.
Anyway, more research vis a vis ISBN numbers is required. And of course a lot of the issue depends on how cocky we feel that people are actually going to want to buy a copy of the book. I mean, it's all well and good handing them out as freebie Christmas presents, but getting people to actually part with cash for them is another pot of ink altogether. Except for my friend Sarah who is still determined to buy copies for her friends and relatives. And I can't imagine anything more depressing than checking your book for sales and feedback and seeing it surrounded by balls of tumbleweed, a lone coyote howling in the background.
Right, I'm going to check on progress at Much Malarkey Manor Publishing House; Andy has just informed me he is uploading a test copy to see how much it's all going to cost.
And apparently there is a difference between vanity publishing and self-publishing. I think I'm going to have to look up that one, too...
Well, every now and then Andy appears downstairs where I have been skulking, doing rivetting stuff such as cleaning out the fridge and my reflexology homework, and he asks me VERY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS about things like page numbering, chapter headings and the placing of illustrations within the body of the text. It's all very publishy and booky and proper! And I've just taken him a cup of tea, and had a sneaky peak over his shoulder, and there are pages with numbers and text and pictures on his computer screen that look like they are from a PROPER book!!
Corr!!
We had a discussion about ISBN numbers over the weekend. And Andy made some more wine and I knitted a pig, but that's two different stories altogether. We've found out where you buy the numbers from, and that they come in blocks of ten. Do we really need an ISBN number, we wondered? According to Lulu, we don't. We can publish through them, and people can order copies without the need for an official number. But if you want to make your book available through somewhere like Amazon, you need an ISBN. And, get this, if you publish with an ISBN number you have to donate a copy of your book to the British Library Archives for free. Ha! What if you don't want to, eh? Do they send round a librarian to shout in your kitchen or something??
Okay, so if we splash the cash (£115 and something pee) for 10 ISBN numbers, what do we do with the other 9? Do they go off? I mean, do we have to use them within a certain period of time, or can we save them ad infinitum? Could I, for example, have one stamped on the side of my coffin, to go with the inscription of 'See, She Was A Proper Writer' on the headstone?' I said we could publish 'The Chicken Blogs' next year. That'd use up two. And I feel I could write more Nearly King Jimbo adventures, in fact once I get started I'm going to be difficult to stop given the potential goings-on in Titbury von Streudelheim.
Anyway, more research vis a vis ISBN numbers is required. And of course a lot of the issue depends on how cocky we feel that people are actually going to want to buy a copy of the book. I mean, it's all well and good handing them out as freebie Christmas presents, but getting people to actually part with cash for them is another pot of ink altogether. Except for my friend Sarah who is still determined to buy copies for her friends and relatives. And I can't imagine anything more depressing than checking your book for sales and feedback and seeing it surrounded by balls of tumbleweed, a lone coyote howling in the background.
Right, I'm going to check on progress at Much Malarkey Manor Publishing House; Andy has just informed me he is uploading a test copy to see how much it's all going to cost.
And apparently there is a difference between vanity publishing and self-publishing. I think I'm going to have to look up that one, too...
Friday, 22 October 2010
The Jury Is Out...So is The Chicken
Our local newspaper is very excited about a court case that is currently running in the town's Crown Court. So much so that it devotes many pages each week to the progress of the case, and I am following with goggled amazement as the tale unfolds because it involves a murder that happened about a mile away from MMM, and it's like The Jeremy Kyle Show only without the moving pictures.
It involves a family, whom I shall call Smith, and a crime committed two days after Christmas last year. I know Christmas can be a stressy and tricky time for families, but this one takes the biscuit. Apparently, allegedly, a man was murdered a la being run over by a Land Rover, driven by one of his two younger brothers, possibly an older brother. There are about 6 brothers involved altogether, plus 3 sisters, and their assorted wives, husbands and children. To make matters more confusing, they are all called 'Smith' and share various forms of a central name or two, for example William, Bill, Billy. Billy-Boy, Johnny, Jack, Jackie, Jack Junior and Gary etc. etc, you get my drift. The newspaper, to simplify matters, periodically prints a fact-file style family tree thing so we can keep up.
There was definitely a Land Rover involved. And a Ford Mondeo. Possibly a gun of the rifle variety. Some of the family have committed gun-related criminal offences already - they all deny the gun, if it existed, was theirs.
There was much shouting on the day in question. Various witness disagree about the name being shouted as the various accused bore down on the victim with their various vehicles and possible gun. Other things were shouted like 'Get 'im!' 'Get 'er!' 'You've got it comin' you 'ave!' 'Sort it aht, bruv!' 'You're next, you are!' etc. Apparently, allegedly, it was all about one of the brothers inheriting the mother's farm after she died and other members of the family were mad with jealousy and didn't think it was right, him being younger etc etc.
There was a pub involved, too. That's where it all started in a 'he said that she said that he said his dad/brother/ nephew/ son said that the brother-in-law/ sister said the mother said that Billy and Jack should 'get it sortid,' before she died, God rest 'er soul.' Various texts were sent between various mobiles about Billy looking for Bill, who was after Jack because Verity said they should get it 'sortid', but William answered Billy's phone and got the wrong message and thought Jack was after Billy and he told Billy who said, 'Wotsit gotta do wiv me, bruv?' and he went after Jack Junior, who's a kid and should have stayed out of it, but 'e didn't and now the barrister is saying he is lying and he ain't.
This is where it starts turning into an episode of Eastenders.
Today's best evidence goes to witness Alice, one of the sister. She told her brother, in the pub, to 'Sort it aht, and he said, 'I am not sorting it out, because it's two cartridges for big boy, two cartridges for Jack and the same for Johnny.' '
Big boy? Who the heck is big boy?? The family Staffie?? And now it seems there WAS gun, because the only other things I can think you need a cartridge for are ink pens and printers. Unless the bruvs were going to 'get it sortid' with a mass photocopy session, of course. Or exercise their copperplate technique across each other's foreheads. I can't wait to see if that's brought up in the defence case later on. 'I was just practising me italic form, m'lud, and I needed two cartridges in case one run out.'
Meanwhile, Jack Junior was on Facebook, updating his status - 'Effing barrister accused me of lying. Swear down I was tellin' the truth.'
It's all very sad, tragic, and stupid. Some Christmas that family is going to have.
On a lighter note, Mrs Pumphrey is awarded the 'Cunning Chicken 2010' award, for her magic Houdini performance yesterday. I happened to be at the kitchen window washing up and from my vantage point I could see Misses Miggins and Slocombe racing up and down the inner fence of Cluckinghen Palace like chickens demented. I thought, what's up with them? and scanned the garden for cats/ foxes/ flocks of pigeons/ Tango Pete in his Tom Jones posing pouch.
Then all of a sudden, Mrs Pumphrey hove into view, strutting with purpose across the lawn towards the asparagus bed.
'Look at me!' she called. 'I'm strutting!'
Well, she'd somehow managed to escape the run, and given that she is one big chicken and the escape hole, when located, was teeny tiny, we counted ourselves lucky we didn't have a lacerated and strangulated chicken on our hands.
Carpenter Andy set about making the run safe. He also made them a winter bivouac, which they are regarding with suspicion at the moment, but I'm sure they'll appreciate come the next rainstorm. Mrs Pumphrey continued to climb in and out of the escape hole going 'Look at me! Look at me!'
But by the end of the day, they were all safely ensconsed in Cluckinghen Palace aka 'Henditz.'
And now I must go to complete the final, final, FINAL edit of Nearly King Jimbo, my mission to flush out the tiny errors that keep slipping past mine eagle eye. In two weeks, Andy has a week of holiday and we are going into NKJ production mode. Andy the Pen is churning out magnificent illustration after magnificent illustration, I am gearing myself up to write some entertaining blurb and author/ illustrator profiles to go inside the cover.
'Shall we include a picture of us strangling each other?' I said, for 't has been a project of high stress and occasional artistic difference.
'If you like,' said Andy. 'Now, have you seen my box of cartridges?'
It involves a family, whom I shall call Smith, and a crime committed two days after Christmas last year. I know Christmas can be a stressy and tricky time for families, but this one takes the biscuit. Apparently, allegedly, a man was murdered a la being run over by a Land Rover, driven by one of his two younger brothers, possibly an older brother. There are about 6 brothers involved altogether, plus 3 sisters, and their assorted wives, husbands and children. To make matters more confusing, they are all called 'Smith' and share various forms of a central name or two, for example William, Bill, Billy. Billy-Boy, Johnny, Jack, Jackie, Jack Junior and Gary etc. etc, you get my drift. The newspaper, to simplify matters, periodically prints a fact-file style family tree thing so we can keep up.
There was definitely a Land Rover involved. And a Ford Mondeo. Possibly a gun of the rifle variety. Some of the family have committed gun-related criminal offences already - they all deny the gun, if it existed, was theirs.
There was much shouting on the day in question. Various witness disagree about the name being shouted as the various accused bore down on the victim with their various vehicles and possible gun. Other things were shouted like 'Get 'im!' 'Get 'er!' 'You've got it comin' you 'ave!' 'Sort it aht, bruv!' 'You're next, you are!' etc. Apparently, allegedly, it was all about one of the brothers inheriting the mother's farm after she died and other members of the family were mad with jealousy and didn't think it was right, him being younger etc etc.
There was a pub involved, too. That's where it all started in a 'he said that she said that he said his dad/brother/ nephew/ son said that the brother-in-law/ sister said the mother said that Billy and Jack should 'get it sortid,' before she died, God rest 'er soul.' Various texts were sent between various mobiles about Billy looking for Bill, who was after Jack because Verity said they should get it 'sortid', but William answered Billy's phone and got the wrong message and thought Jack was after Billy and he told Billy who said, 'Wotsit gotta do wiv me, bruv?' and he went after Jack Junior, who's a kid and should have stayed out of it, but 'e didn't and now the barrister is saying he is lying and he ain't.
This is where it starts turning into an episode of Eastenders.
Today's best evidence goes to witness Alice, one of the sister. She told her brother, in the pub, to 'Sort it aht, and he said, 'I am not sorting it out, because it's two cartridges for big boy, two cartridges for Jack and the same for Johnny.' '
Big boy? Who the heck is big boy?? The family Staffie?? And now it seems there WAS gun, because the only other things I can think you need a cartridge for are ink pens and printers. Unless the bruvs were going to 'get it sortid' with a mass photocopy session, of course. Or exercise their copperplate technique across each other's foreheads. I can't wait to see if that's brought up in the defence case later on. 'I was just practising me italic form, m'lud, and I needed two cartridges in case one run out.'
Meanwhile, Jack Junior was on Facebook, updating his status - 'Effing barrister accused me of lying. Swear down I was tellin' the truth.'
It's all very sad, tragic, and stupid. Some Christmas that family is going to have.
On a lighter note, Mrs Pumphrey is awarded the 'Cunning Chicken 2010' award, for her magic Houdini performance yesterday. I happened to be at the kitchen window washing up and from my vantage point I could see Misses Miggins and Slocombe racing up and down the inner fence of Cluckinghen Palace like chickens demented. I thought, what's up with them? and scanned the garden for cats/ foxes/ flocks of pigeons/ Tango Pete in his Tom Jones posing pouch.
Then all of a sudden, Mrs Pumphrey hove into view, strutting with purpose across the lawn towards the asparagus bed.
'Look at me!' she called. 'I'm strutting!'
Well, she'd somehow managed to escape the run, and given that she is one big chicken and the escape hole, when located, was teeny tiny, we counted ourselves lucky we didn't have a lacerated and strangulated chicken on our hands.
Carpenter Andy set about making the run safe. He also made them a winter bivouac, which they are regarding with suspicion at the moment, but I'm sure they'll appreciate come the next rainstorm. Mrs Pumphrey continued to climb in and out of the escape hole going 'Look at me! Look at me!'
But by the end of the day, they were all safely ensconsed in Cluckinghen Palace aka 'Henditz.'
And now I must go to complete the final, final, FINAL edit of Nearly King Jimbo, my mission to flush out the tiny errors that keep slipping past mine eagle eye. In two weeks, Andy has a week of holiday and we are going into NKJ production mode. Andy the Pen is churning out magnificent illustration after magnificent illustration, I am gearing myself up to write some entertaining blurb and author/ illustrator profiles to go inside the cover.
'Shall we include a picture of us strangling each other?' I said, for 't has been a project of high stress and occasional artistic difference.
'If you like,' said Andy. 'Now, have you seen my box of cartridges?'
Thursday, 14 October 2010
Sinks and Spiders and Inspiration
I had to do a lot of pacing today, and play a not inconsiderable number of games of Mahjong Titans in a bid to jolt the creative process into action. And all this to aid the completion of Nearly King Jimbo Mark Two. Ye Gods, it was like giving birth all over again. Until now, I'd been fair whizzing through the draft but as the end appeared on the horizon, the writing process slowed until today I had to crawl through to the end on my hands and knees.
But I did it! And now the script is in the hands of my illustrator, Andy the Pen, to continue creating his lovely little cartoon illustrations for our joint project to be ready in time for Christmas.
And whilst I was writing and pacing, Andy was being Andy the Plumber because our kitchen sink had developed a bit of a leak. Nothing major, but enough to warrant something being done about it. As Andy pointed out, he isn't a plumber. So the leak was approached with some trepidation. There was a lot of staring at the underneath of the sink with a torch whilst water was poured down the plug hole and more staring was done as water dribbled through the u-bend where it shouldn't.
And then there was the cleaning out of the pipe work, which honked considerably and caused a minor amount of retching. Then there was a considerable amount of interwebbly search on 'How To Be A Plumber In Three Easy Stages,' and then a visit to the DIY emporium to purchase stuff like putty and glue and a plug system doo-dah and other manly bumpf which is way too technical for a girly like me to understand.
Once the whole process got under way, there was no stopping Andy the Plumber. I hid in my writing room maintaining a discreet distance. At one point the effort of my labour was eclipsed by the labour of Andy the Plumber; at least, he was doing more swearing. And then the cats decided to get involved in the general chaos by going on a spider hunt. It was a big spider, one that had been living undetected 'neath the sink for ages, I expect. Pandora limited her efforts in the spider hunt to the occasional pat in order to send the spider scuttling around the kitchen. Tybalt was far more energetic. He likes a good spider hunt and throws himself into them with great gusto, plumbing chaos or not.
In our various endeavours, I created a new character called Mrs Peddlestool-Smythe, Andy the Plumber created a whole new way to waterproof a sink, and Tybalt and Pandora created a whole new way of putting the wind up me by sending the spider off in the most unexpected directions.
But all was well in the end. I made veggie spag bol whilst dancing around the kitchen to Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames, and Jools Holland. We all agreed it was getting chilly in the evenings now. I gave a cursory glance to the three Christmas catalogues that arrived, uninvited, in the post today, then consigned them to the recycle bin. The cats lay, spide-hunt exhausted on the pouffe.
And the sink is now leak-free.
I'm not sure about the spider...
But I did it! And now the script is in the hands of my illustrator, Andy the Pen, to continue creating his lovely little cartoon illustrations for our joint project to be ready in time for Christmas.
And whilst I was writing and pacing, Andy was being Andy the Plumber because our kitchen sink had developed a bit of a leak. Nothing major, but enough to warrant something being done about it. As Andy pointed out, he isn't a plumber. So the leak was approached with some trepidation. There was a lot of staring at the underneath of the sink with a torch whilst water was poured down the plug hole and more staring was done as water dribbled through the u-bend where it shouldn't.
And then there was the cleaning out of the pipe work, which honked considerably and caused a minor amount of retching. Then there was a considerable amount of interwebbly search on 'How To Be A Plumber In Three Easy Stages,' and then a visit to the DIY emporium to purchase stuff like putty and glue and a plug system doo-dah and other manly bumpf which is way too technical for a girly like me to understand.
Once the whole process got under way, there was no stopping Andy the Plumber. I hid in my writing room maintaining a discreet distance. At one point the effort of my labour was eclipsed by the labour of Andy the Plumber; at least, he was doing more swearing. And then the cats decided to get involved in the general chaos by going on a spider hunt. It was a big spider, one that had been living undetected 'neath the sink for ages, I expect. Pandora limited her efforts in the spider hunt to the occasional pat in order to send the spider scuttling around the kitchen. Tybalt was far more energetic. He likes a good spider hunt and throws himself into them with great gusto, plumbing chaos or not.
In our various endeavours, I created a new character called Mrs Peddlestool-Smythe, Andy the Plumber created a whole new way to waterproof a sink, and Tybalt and Pandora created a whole new way of putting the wind up me by sending the spider off in the most unexpected directions.
But all was well in the end. I made veggie spag bol whilst dancing around the kitchen to Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames, and Jools Holland. We all agreed it was getting chilly in the evenings now. I gave a cursory glance to the three Christmas catalogues that arrived, uninvited, in the post today, then consigned them to the recycle bin. The cats lay, spide-hunt exhausted on the pouffe.
And the sink is now leak-free.
I'm not sure about the spider...
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Courgette Soup Syndrome
I have been off-blog for a few days now because my netbook has been unwell. But now my netbook is better and I am back. 'Hurrah!' I hear you cry...oh, come on, do play the game...
Anyway, the netbook, which I was given as a birthday present last year by Andy, suddenly went all peculiar in the screen. One minute it was okay, the next it had taken on the colour of courgette soup when it develops a bit of a scum after its been left standing in the fridge for too long. It seemed to affect colours in the red end of the spectrum only (I say this with all the conviction of someone who knows exactly what she's talking about of course, aha!), and the machine was still usuable, but there was something clearly wrong with its innards, and one can only look at a green and mouldy courgette soup screen for so long before it start making one's eyes go squiffy.
So the receipts were duly retrieved, the guarantee confirmed as active for another six weeks, and several e-mails passed between Andy and some techno-centre chappie which included a list of suggestions of 'Things To Try', the last of which was 'Send It Back To Us and We Shall Repair It For Free Under the Terms of the Guarantee.' Andy tried all the suggested ideas which resulted in him swearing a bit and getting antsy. I inadvertently discovered that if I squeezed the netbook, the screen reverted to normal. However, squeezing a netbook renders both hands unable to do anything else useful, like typing or workng a floating mouse, so although I felt triumphant in that I, techno-phobe girl, had cured a netbook, the triumph was minor and the netbook was duly sent off for repair.
It came back today! How about that for service? Picked up by courier Monday, arrived for repair on Tuesday, repaired and re-posted on Wednesday, arrived home on Thursday. According to the repair sheet the LCD has been replaced. There was no mention of squeezing.
In the meantime, I have occupied myself with a huge dollop of writing. My desk top computer in my writing -soon-t0-be-therapy room does not have internet access, so I have no option other than to write when I am on it. Okay, and maybe play the odd game of Patience, or Majong, but there's no getting distracted by interwebbly malarkey, or making random purchases of highly important books from Amazon. As a result, I have written 8 thousand words of 'Nearly King Jimbo' over the last two days, plus another thousand words of 'Merrily Kissed By an Angel' and a ranting letter to myself about eating too many nuts and not doing enough exercise.
The loss of the second part of 'Nearly King Jimbo' on my old and now definitely deceased laptop turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Although I am keeping to the original plot in a very loose manner (luckily, the synopsis survived in the form of the good old paper copy), I'm having to re-write the second part anew. My spirit tells me the writing is fresher and snappier than it was before, and I've been able to get rid of the tenuous and oft contrived plot points that were bugging me from the original script but that, at the time, I was too lazy to do anything about. I've even been able to use the phrase, 'That's the badger!' and include my friend Sarah's cat, Bob, in a cameo role.
A copy of 'Ginnungagaps' arrived from Lulu. Actually, due to some technical error, it was only half a copy, but it has given us an idea of what we can expect from the self-publication of 'NKJ', and what we need to do in order to improve layout especially as Andy's collection of illustrations is gathering apace.
Other news...
...after harvesting some pink fir apple potatoes from the allotment, I can now report they are neither fur-like, appley and are only a little bit pink, and I am marginally disappointed they didn't end up looking like replicas of the pink Duracell bunny...
...I have harvested the first Malarkey Manor hops, and feel I have connected a family hopping tradition to the next generation, some of my family on my mum's side having been hop-farmers...
...Andy has made damson jam from damsons purloined from the edge of the park down the road in a surreptitious way at 6 o'clock the other morning...
...the hall, stairs and landing are complete in their redecoration, and the Manor looks tres posh et chic and I have done much swanning up and down the hall and stairs thinking, 'Isn't this rather lovely and civilised? Yes it is!'
...Mrs Slocombe has stopped moulting and is back in lay; Mrs Pumphrey has started moulting and is off lay. I love it - relay egg-laying!
...the bee-hive is a happy bee-hive.
Anyway, the netbook, which I was given as a birthday present last year by Andy, suddenly went all peculiar in the screen. One minute it was okay, the next it had taken on the colour of courgette soup when it develops a bit of a scum after its been left standing in the fridge for too long. It seemed to affect colours in the red end of the spectrum only (I say this with all the conviction of someone who knows exactly what she's talking about of course, aha!), and the machine was still usuable, but there was something clearly wrong with its innards, and one can only look at a green and mouldy courgette soup screen for so long before it start making one's eyes go squiffy.
So the receipts were duly retrieved, the guarantee confirmed as active for another six weeks, and several e-mails passed between Andy and some techno-centre chappie which included a list of suggestions of 'Things To Try', the last of which was 'Send It Back To Us and We Shall Repair It For Free Under the Terms of the Guarantee.' Andy tried all the suggested ideas which resulted in him swearing a bit and getting antsy. I inadvertently discovered that if I squeezed the netbook, the screen reverted to normal. However, squeezing a netbook renders both hands unable to do anything else useful, like typing or workng a floating mouse, so although I felt triumphant in that I, techno-phobe girl, had cured a netbook, the triumph was minor and the netbook was duly sent off for repair.
It came back today! How about that for service? Picked up by courier Monday, arrived for repair on Tuesday, repaired and re-posted on Wednesday, arrived home on Thursday. According to the repair sheet the LCD has been replaced. There was no mention of squeezing.
In the meantime, I have occupied myself with a huge dollop of writing. My desk top computer in my writing -soon-t0-be-therapy room does not have internet access, so I have no option other than to write when I am on it. Okay, and maybe play the odd game of Patience, or Majong, but there's no getting distracted by interwebbly malarkey, or making random purchases of highly important books from Amazon. As a result, I have written 8 thousand words of 'Nearly King Jimbo' over the last two days, plus another thousand words of 'Merrily Kissed By an Angel' and a ranting letter to myself about eating too many nuts and not doing enough exercise.
The loss of the second part of 'Nearly King Jimbo' on my old and now definitely deceased laptop turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Although I am keeping to the original plot in a very loose manner (luckily, the synopsis survived in the form of the good old paper copy), I'm having to re-write the second part anew. My spirit tells me the writing is fresher and snappier than it was before, and I've been able to get rid of the tenuous and oft contrived plot points that were bugging me from the original script but that, at the time, I was too lazy to do anything about. I've even been able to use the phrase, 'That's the badger!' and include my friend Sarah's cat, Bob, in a cameo role.
A copy of 'Ginnungagaps' arrived from Lulu. Actually, due to some technical error, it was only half a copy, but it has given us an idea of what we can expect from the self-publication of 'NKJ', and what we need to do in order to improve layout especially as Andy's collection of illustrations is gathering apace.
Other news...
...after harvesting some pink fir apple potatoes from the allotment, I can now report they are neither fur-like, appley and are only a little bit pink, and I am marginally disappointed they didn't end up looking like replicas of the pink Duracell bunny...
...I have harvested the first Malarkey Manor hops, and feel I have connected a family hopping tradition to the next generation, some of my family on my mum's side having been hop-farmers...
...Andy has made damson jam from damsons purloined from the edge of the park down the road in a surreptitious way at 6 o'clock the other morning...
...the hall, stairs and landing are complete in their redecoration, and the Manor looks tres posh et chic and I have done much swanning up and down the hall and stairs thinking, 'Isn't this rather lovely and civilised? Yes it is!'
...Mrs Slocombe has stopped moulting and is back in lay; Mrs Pumphrey has started moulting and is off lay. I love it - relay egg-laying!
...the bee-hive is a happy bee-hive.
Wednesday, 1 September 2010
September Song
There's something about the beginning of September that makes the spirit soar in a special way. I don't know exactly what it is - after all, September 1st signals the end of Summer and the onset of Autumn, and my didn't it feel autumnal this morning? Although the sun is now shining, at dawn there was a gasp of chill in the air. What my Gran used to call ' a proper hopping morning.'
As Heather said, 'It's one of those mornings where it's nice to wake up and feel cosily snug under the duvet rather than having to fling it off with a 'Phew, I'm too hot.' '
I have hops to harvest this year. I keep going into the garden and looking at the scrambled mass of them all over the fence, thinking, how do I go about untwining these? I had to arrange them in an artistic way along and around the fence because they ran out of upwards fence height back in June. But now I have to do some gentle untangling to keep the bines in lengths long enough to drape across the kitchen beam in order to achieve an 'authentic country kitchen experience.' Oh, I know by Christmas they will have dried out enough to start dropping on the floor and into any cooking I happen to be doing atop the stove thereby causing me to mutter, but I have a beam and by golly I am determined to swathe it with our own Malarkey hops.
I've already harvested masses of lavender which is hanging hither and thither in bunches to dry, and today I shall be taking the dried flowers from their stalks, looking at the ensuing bucket full of product and thinking, 'Blimey, there's a lot of lavender bags to be had from that lot.' But I have plans to use some of it to make scented reflexology powder.
What is it about the start of September? Is it memories of 'back to school' and being taken into town to buy shiny new shoes and shiny new stationery that you feel loathe to use because you don't want to spoil their perfectness? Is it the new season, the anticipation of the colours, the harvest, the easing off of sun lotion and bug repellent application? Is it the fact the first Christmas catalogue arrived in the post yesterday? (That got put in the recycle bin pretty darn quick, I can tell you!)
I think September offers the promise of new beginnings. A bit like New Year, but with more sunshine and lighter evenings and less post- Christmas excess and Winter gloom to deal with. Although Nature is slowing down in September, there is still that feeling of newness - children starting new schools, new classes, adults picking up new hobbies and training at Adult Education.
People going back to work after holidays, the familiar rhythm and pace of life picking up and moving on.
And so I celebrated the start of a new September beginning by giving my feet a jolly good buffing this morning. Well, I start my reflexology course in 3 weeks; I feel inclined to have my tootsies in tip-top order for then. I've tidied the account books and sorted out some new vegetarian recipes to try. The decorators are galloping on apace in the hall, stairs and landing. The smell of fresh paint lingers er...interestingly with the aroma of the rice and lentil pilau we had for dinner last night. Blimey, I've even made my own garam masala mix from scratch using the pestle and mortar and a lot of elbow grease.
And now I need to crack on with sorting out Nearly King Jimbo. I've had a tentative enquiry about the purchase of a few copies from someone who has an idea to give them as Christmas presents. The birth of Andy and Denise Publications Inc maybe?? Who knows...
As Heather said, 'It's one of those mornings where it's nice to wake up and feel cosily snug under the duvet rather than having to fling it off with a 'Phew, I'm too hot.' '
I have hops to harvest this year. I keep going into the garden and looking at the scrambled mass of them all over the fence, thinking, how do I go about untwining these? I had to arrange them in an artistic way along and around the fence because they ran out of upwards fence height back in June. But now I have to do some gentle untangling to keep the bines in lengths long enough to drape across the kitchen beam in order to achieve an 'authentic country kitchen experience.' Oh, I know by Christmas they will have dried out enough to start dropping on the floor and into any cooking I happen to be doing atop the stove thereby causing me to mutter, but I have a beam and by golly I am determined to swathe it with our own Malarkey hops.
I've already harvested masses of lavender which is hanging hither and thither in bunches to dry, and today I shall be taking the dried flowers from their stalks, looking at the ensuing bucket full of product and thinking, 'Blimey, there's a lot of lavender bags to be had from that lot.' But I have plans to use some of it to make scented reflexology powder.
What is it about the start of September? Is it memories of 'back to school' and being taken into town to buy shiny new shoes and shiny new stationery that you feel loathe to use because you don't want to spoil their perfectness? Is it the new season, the anticipation of the colours, the harvest, the easing off of sun lotion and bug repellent application? Is it the fact the first Christmas catalogue arrived in the post yesterday? (That got put in the recycle bin pretty darn quick, I can tell you!)
I think September offers the promise of new beginnings. A bit like New Year, but with more sunshine and lighter evenings and less post- Christmas excess and Winter gloom to deal with. Although Nature is slowing down in September, there is still that feeling of newness - children starting new schools, new classes, adults picking up new hobbies and training at Adult Education.
People going back to work after holidays, the familiar rhythm and pace of life picking up and moving on.
And so I celebrated the start of a new September beginning by giving my feet a jolly good buffing this morning. Well, I start my reflexology course in 3 weeks; I feel inclined to have my tootsies in tip-top order for then. I've tidied the account books and sorted out some new vegetarian recipes to try. The decorators are galloping on apace in the hall, stairs and landing. The smell of fresh paint lingers er...interestingly with the aroma of the rice and lentil pilau we had for dinner last night. Blimey, I've even made my own garam masala mix from scratch using the pestle and mortar and a lot of elbow grease.
And now I need to crack on with sorting out Nearly King Jimbo. I've had a tentative enquiry about the purchase of a few copies from someone who has an idea to give them as Christmas presents. The birth of Andy and Denise Publications Inc maybe?? Who knows...
Monday, 23 August 2010
Is it Christmas yet?
Of course it isn't, and I shouldn't even be mentioning the 'c' word yet, because, despite the lashing rain, the swirling wind and the dark satanic clouds plus the fact I am now sleeping 'neath the duvet after weeks of sleeping on top, there is yet another week of August to go, and I'm full of hope for an Indian summer.
But the reason I mention Christmas is that Andy said at the weekend (in between bottling his vast quantities of wine and baking some rather delicious digestive biscuits) that he thought it would be a good idea to self-publish 'Nearly King Jimbo' and give copies to our family and friends as Christmas gifts. As if they haven't suffered enough.
Anyway, I said that I thought that would be a good idea, too, having come to the conclusion a while ago that it is unlikely I am going to be published through the conventional manner of being taken on by an agent, who then engages two or more publishers in a wild bidding war thereby elevating me to the higher eschelons of the writing world where I get to be driven around in the back of a Lexus and win all the best new-comer awards for the year 2011-2012.
Yes, the only way I'm going to see my work in print is to DIY it. So Andy is going to explore the various self-publishing outlets and then spend many evenings faffing about with the manuscript until something resembling a book emerges.
And this brings me to a teeny tiny problemette.
'I'll have to re-edit the script,' I said.
'Do you have a copy?' said Andy.
'Oh yes,' I said, blithely, for although my old lap top, which contains the full script is now dead and therefore has trapped the aforesaid full script FOREVER inside its flippy floppy hardly discy drive thing, I was pretty bloomin' certain I had printed off a full copy when I was touting the book around agents a couple of years ago. And I said as much to Andy.
'Did you save a copy on a memory stick?' said Andy.
'Errmmmmm....well, possibly....not....' I said, because I am notoriously bad at performing such technical tasks. Besides, I didn't expect my 5 year old laptop to go clunk and give up the ghost when it did.
Andy gave me his rebuking look. I went in search of the full paper script I was certain existed somewhere.
I found half a paper script. Up to the bit where Nearly King Jimbo is being a farmer and the pigs are discussing how nice it had been to have potato wedges with their pizza the night before. (Nearly King Jimbo wasn't terribly au fait with how to feed farm animals at this point.) I also found the synopsis.
'Pants,' I thought. I handed all my memory sticks to Andy to explore; he also searched his own computer in case by some miracle he'd downloaded the whole script when he'd put it on Authonomy for me.
It appears not. It appears that I shall have to re-write the second half of the book again. 'Pants,' I thought, especially as the second half involves a character called Mrs Bobbinflaxenfluff (awkward spelling) and a scenario involving the annual Titbury Weaving and Creative Knitting Association competition (complex plot twist involving an angora goat), and Nearly King Jimbo helping Alice choose a dress (not pink) for the prize winning exhibition evening (Alice is a very difficult person to buy non-pink dresses for).
Andy didn't exactly say, 'That'll learn ya to save things on memory sticks,' but I knew he was thinking it.
Anyway, Andy is going to illustrate the book so it becomes a joint effort. He is, as you know, a very talented cartoonist, and has already done a drawing of one of the characters, a Mr Jobble, who rides a tricycle. The drawing looks exactly how I imagined Mr Jobble to be - a cross between Captain Mainwairing and Su Pollard.
So I need to crack on with the writing which I shall call editing to make it sound like I haven't really lost half the script. But still there is a niggle that I HAVE got a full copy somewhere. If only I could remember where...
'I say,' says Mrs Miggins, flicking through a hefty sheaf of neatly typed papers. 'This is quite entertaining in a simple and absurd way.'
'It's even got chickens in it,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'And I like the bit where Alice teaches Nearly King Jimbo how to deal with a goose attack.'
'Yes,' agrees Mrs Miggins, 'and in theory it should work. I wonder if he'll get a chance to try it out?'
'Well, let's read on,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Digestive biscuit with your dandelion wine?'
'Don't mind if I do,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Pass me the next page and I'll read on.'
Mrs Slocombe sticks her head around the library door. 'I'm cleaning out the nest box,' she says. 'And I've run out of shredded paper for the bedding.'
Mrs Pumphrey looks around. 'Will this do?' she says, finding a sheaf of neatly typed paper in her lap.
'Lovely,' says Mrs Slocombe.
Five minutes later, the paper shredder Andy inadvertently got as a Christmas present three years ago, grinds itself into action...
But the reason I mention Christmas is that Andy said at the weekend (in between bottling his vast quantities of wine and baking some rather delicious digestive biscuits) that he thought it would be a good idea to self-publish 'Nearly King Jimbo' and give copies to our family and friends as Christmas gifts. As if they haven't suffered enough.
Anyway, I said that I thought that would be a good idea, too, having come to the conclusion a while ago that it is unlikely I am going to be published through the conventional manner of being taken on by an agent, who then engages two or more publishers in a wild bidding war thereby elevating me to the higher eschelons of the writing world where I get to be driven around in the back of a Lexus and win all the best new-comer awards for the year 2011-2012.
Yes, the only way I'm going to see my work in print is to DIY it. So Andy is going to explore the various self-publishing outlets and then spend many evenings faffing about with the manuscript until something resembling a book emerges.
And this brings me to a teeny tiny problemette.
'I'll have to re-edit the script,' I said.
'Do you have a copy?' said Andy.
'Oh yes,' I said, blithely, for although my old lap top, which contains the full script is now dead and therefore has trapped the aforesaid full script FOREVER inside its flippy floppy hardly discy drive thing, I was pretty bloomin' certain I had printed off a full copy when I was touting the book around agents a couple of years ago. And I said as much to Andy.
'Did you save a copy on a memory stick?' said Andy.
'Errmmmmm....well, possibly....not....' I said, because I am notoriously bad at performing such technical tasks. Besides, I didn't expect my 5 year old laptop to go clunk and give up the ghost when it did.
Andy gave me his rebuking look. I went in search of the full paper script I was certain existed somewhere.
I found half a paper script. Up to the bit where Nearly King Jimbo is being a farmer and the pigs are discussing how nice it had been to have potato wedges with their pizza the night before. (Nearly King Jimbo wasn't terribly au fait with how to feed farm animals at this point.) I also found the synopsis.
'Pants,' I thought. I handed all my memory sticks to Andy to explore; he also searched his own computer in case by some miracle he'd downloaded the whole script when he'd put it on Authonomy for me.
It appears not. It appears that I shall have to re-write the second half of the book again. 'Pants,' I thought, especially as the second half involves a character called Mrs Bobbinflaxenfluff (awkward spelling) and a scenario involving the annual Titbury Weaving and Creative Knitting Association competition (complex plot twist involving an angora goat), and Nearly King Jimbo helping Alice choose a dress (not pink) for the prize winning exhibition evening (Alice is a very difficult person to buy non-pink dresses for).
Andy didn't exactly say, 'That'll learn ya to save things on memory sticks,' but I knew he was thinking it.
Anyway, Andy is going to illustrate the book so it becomes a joint effort. He is, as you know, a very talented cartoonist, and has already done a drawing of one of the characters, a Mr Jobble, who rides a tricycle. The drawing looks exactly how I imagined Mr Jobble to be - a cross between Captain Mainwairing and Su Pollard.
So I need to crack on with the writing which I shall call editing to make it sound like I haven't really lost half the script. But still there is a niggle that I HAVE got a full copy somewhere. If only I could remember where...
'I say,' says Mrs Miggins, flicking through a hefty sheaf of neatly typed papers. 'This is quite entertaining in a simple and absurd way.'
'It's even got chickens in it,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'And I like the bit where Alice teaches Nearly King Jimbo how to deal with a goose attack.'
'Yes,' agrees Mrs Miggins, 'and in theory it should work. I wonder if he'll get a chance to try it out?'
'Well, let's read on,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Digestive biscuit with your dandelion wine?'
'Don't mind if I do,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Pass me the next page and I'll read on.'
Mrs Slocombe sticks her head around the library door. 'I'm cleaning out the nest box,' she says. 'And I've run out of shredded paper for the bedding.'
Mrs Pumphrey looks around. 'Will this do?' she says, finding a sheaf of neatly typed paper in her lap.
'Lovely,' says Mrs Slocombe.
Five minutes later, the paper shredder Andy inadvertently got as a Christmas present three years ago, grinds itself into action...
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
The Running Chicken and Nearly King Jimbo
Before I get on with the main business of the day, I need to report upon the progress of Mrs Poo because you may have smelled chicken cooking on Monday and I don't want you think that we, well, you know, did the practical self-sufficiency thing with her.
Intensive nursing has been eased off as she is now drinking for herself. Her day, then, goes thus:-
a) I collect Mrs Poo from her cage in my writing room and carry her to the garden. This gives me a chance to squeeze her underbits to check for possible stuck eggs (no egg laying for 5 days now).
I then drag her cage (2 feet by 4 feet, just about fits through the two doors of the inner lobby) through the kitchen and into the garden, leaving water and straw in my wake so Mrs Poo has access to her facilities throughout the day. A kind of Cluckinghen Palace mobile home.
b) Mrs Poo has free range of the garden. Because she is hobbling about like a drunken octagenarian at the moment and eating very sparsely ('It all seems like so much effort,' says Poo), the veg on the patio and in the raised bed are safe from chicken massacre. I leave her to potter in the garden all day, making occasional visits to check she hasn't got stuck down the drain/behind the greenhouse/in the water barrell/escaped on a bicycle.
c) Sometimes I will pop out with a tit-bit of food I think might tempt her. Sometimes she gives it a half-hearted peck; mostly she looks at it, then looks at me and says, 'What? No caviare?'
d) Occasionally I have to dive out into the garden and remove her from where she is leaning against the side of Cluckinghen Palace (South Wing) and Mrs Slocombe is sticking her head through the fence and relieving her of more of her feathers. 'DON'T STAND THERE AND LET HER DO THAT!' I shriek. 'YOU'LL BE OVEN-READY BY THE END OF DAY, YOU STUPID CHICKEN!'
e) At about 7 p.m, Mrs Poo will climb into her cage and sit on her nest. This is her saying, 'It's time for bed,' so Andy and I carry her, Queen of Sheba-like back into the house, though the kitchen and into my writing room where she sleeps. We check her crop for fullness, just to make sure she is eating, and her crop is usually a good two thirds full. Not fit to bursting and sticking out like the other hens, but sufficient enough that she isn't slowly starving to death.
This morning I saw Mrs Poo running across the lawn. Actually running. I think I wasn't supposed to see her running because when she noticed I was watching her she stopped suddenly and did a bit of limp. And now she is sitting next to the water barrell with a bit of a look in her eye. I hope this means she is starting to feel better. This chicken pandering is starting to take its toll. On me.
Anyway, the main business of the day is to inform you that I have opened another blog page entitled 'Nearly King Jimbo.' This will be eventually be attached to the Much Malarkey Manor web-site as part of The Library page. The Library is well under construction. It has many bookshelves and a comfy chair with a cat sitting on it. The cat is Lilith, Tybalt's dear-departed sister. If you want to sit in the armchair you don't need to shoo her away. She is a spirit cat so just sit down and she'll go right through you like a vindaloo with extra jalapenos. Andy got a huge book through the post yesterday all to do with creating web sites and other such interwebbley-nettley things that quite frankly make my head hurt.
But he seems to be enjoying it, and says he's learnt at least two new things from it and he is only up to page 94.
The new blog will contain the second book I wrote in this 'My Year As A Writer' adventure. I am going to publish it chapter by chapter, and posted an introduction and Chapter I yesterday. So if you're interested or bored or curious or the cat litter tray needs cleaning out and you need a handy displacement activity, the Nearly King Jimbo Blog can be accessed at www.mmmlibrary.blogspot.com
Happy reading!
Intensive nursing has been eased off as she is now drinking for herself. Her day, then, goes thus:-
a) I collect Mrs Poo from her cage in my writing room and carry her to the garden. This gives me a chance to squeeze her underbits to check for possible stuck eggs (no egg laying for 5 days now).
I then drag her cage (2 feet by 4 feet, just about fits through the two doors of the inner lobby) through the kitchen and into the garden, leaving water and straw in my wake so Mrs Poo has access to her facilities throughout the day. A kind of Cluckinghen Palace mobile home.
b) Mrs Poo has free range of the garden. Because she is hobbling about like a drunken octagenarian at the moment and eating very sparsely ('It all seems like so much effort,' says Poo), the veg on the patio and in the raised bed are safe from chicken massacre. I leave her to potter in the garden all day, making occasional visits to check she hasn't got stuck down the drain/behind the greenhouse/in the water barrell/escaped on a bicycle.
c) Sometimes I will pop out with a tit-bit of food I think might tempt her. Sometimes she gives it a half-hearted peck; mostly she looks at it, then looks at me and says, 'What? No caviare?'
d) Occasionally I have to dive out into the garden and remove her from where she is leaning against the side of Cluckinghen Palace (South Wing) and Mrs Slocombe is sticking her head through the fence and relieving her of more of her feathers. 'DON'T STAND THERE AND LET HER DO THAT!' I shriek. 'YOU'LL BE OVEN-READY BY THE END OF DAY, YOU STUPID CHICKEN!'
e) At about 7 p.m, Mrs Poo will climb into her cage and sit on her nest. This is her saying, 'It's time for bed,' so Andy and I carry her, Queen of Sheba-like back into the house, though the kitchen and into my writing room where she sleeps. We check her crop for fullness, just to make sure she is eating, and her crop is usually a good two thirds full. Not fit to bursting and sticking out like the other hens, but sufficient enough that she isn't slowly starving to death.
This morning I saw Mrs Poo running across the lawn. Actually running. I think I wasn't supposed to see her running because when she noticed I was watching her she stopped suddenly and did a bit of limp. And now she is sitting next to the water barrell with a bit of a look in her eye. I hope this means she is starting to feel better. This chicken pandering is starting to take its toll. On me.
Anyway, the main business of the day is to inform you that I have opened another blog page entitled 'Nearly King Jimbo.' This will be eventually be attached to the Much Malarkey Manor web-site as part of The Library page. The Library is well under construction. It has many bookshelves and a comfy chair with a cat sitting on it. The cat is Lilith, Tybalt's dear-departed sister. If you want to sit in the armchair you don't need to shoo her away. She is a spirit cat so just sit down and she'll go right through you like a vindaloo with extra jalapenos. Andy got a huge book through the post yesterday all to do with creating web sites and other such interwebbley-nettley things that quite frankly make my head hurt.
But he seems to be enjoying it, and says he's learnt at least two new things from it and he is only up to page 94.
The new blog will contain the second book I wrote in this 'My Year As A Writer' adventure. I am going to publish it chapter by chapter, and posted an introduction and Chapter I yesterday. So if you're interested or bored or curious or the cat litter tray needs cleaning out and you need a handy displacement activity, the Nearly King Jimbo Blog can be accessed at www.mmmlibrary.blogspot.com
Happy reading!
Thursday, 26 February 2009
Up the Garden Path
Checking my biorhythms this morning I discover I am on a fairly even keel emotionally and intellectually (we shan't talk about physically, not after my bang on the head) which is just as well given the up and down nature of today so far.
Firstly, I slept very badly last night. No idea why but it meant I surfaced with a headache and inability to walk in a straight line. This meant I crashed into the willow tree (which was still in residence in the kitchen) and got covered in clouds of yellow pollen which showed up beautifully on my white shirt and pale blue cardi. Andy said, 'I've left a spade in the back garden so you can plant the tree if you like,' which, because I was in a bad mood, I took to meaning 'That tree had better be gone from the kitchen when I get home this evening...or...or...' Trouble is, Andy doesn't do threats so I am at a bit of a loss as to what to write now. My comment is therefore rendered unfair and unnecessary, and I apologise unreservedly m'lud. (Kissy-kissy, mwah, mwah!)
So I went into the garden to start work on 'Plan Bee Garden.' I dug up weeds and grass, and hacked at old shrub roots for three hours. I took clods of grass to the back garden for the hens. 'Thank you,' they said, launching themselves at the greenery with obvious joy.
'You're welcome, 'I said. 'Have a bit of cabbage too.'
'Don't give Mrs Pumphrey cabbage!' yelled Mrs Slocombe. 'It'll make her fart!'
And much hilarity was had by all at the mention of the 'f' word.
I also planted the willow tree and it looks very cute with all its fluffy buds cascading artfully towards the ground. I stopped periodically to quaff water, paracetemol, one of the muffins my Mum gave me yesterday, to put some washing on the line and to stare at people driving up the road whilst using their mobile phones. I thought, I'll put some of the old potting compost that the hens have been rolling about in all winter onto the freshly dug borders. So I went into the greenhouse and scooped up aforesaid compost, now enriched with chicken poo. And I got sidetracked into collecting up the many hundred flowerpots we've accumulated since becoming allotmenteers. And in one of the pots, a big 12 inch one, I found 2 eggs.
Now yesterday, I happened to glance out of the kitchen window and I spied Mrs Poo engaging in what appeared to be flowerpot wrestling. She was inside this pot, flinging herself around like a loon. I thought, look at her. Barking mad. But now it seems this flowerpot has become Mrs Poo's alternative nesting box. I stood it up. I thought, I'll put a stop to that laying-eggs-where-I-like malarkey immediately. And then I went to clean out the Eglu.
As I stood up from giving the roosting bars a good scrub, I found myself eyeball to eyeball with Mrs Poo.
'Put my flowerpot back where it was,' she said. 'I need to lay an egg...NOW!' She meant business.
'I've just cleaned out your Eglu,' I say. 'Give me a second and I'll put some fresh bedding in the nest box.'
'Pah!' said Mrs Poo. 'I'm not sharing with them,' and she cast a glance at the other three who were stuffing down cabbage and parping like the Tihuana Three Trumpet Band. 'I have my own private facility now.'
And no word of a lie, dear followers of Much Malarkey Manor, that chicken STARED at me in a very menacing manner until I capitulated and set her flower pot at its previous jaunty slant on the floor. She got inside immediately and started rolling around inside it like a weeble in beachball. I shrugged my shoulders and set to putting fresh bedding in the Eglu.
As soon as I had completed my task, Mrs Poo raced from the flowerpot in the greenhouse and flung herself into the fresh Eglu Bed. She then proceeded to THROW the bedding around whilst making an appalling racket.
'Is that entirely necessary?' I said, crossly.
'YES!' she yelled. 'I might may my egg HERE! Or I might lay my egg THERE! I haven't decided YET!'
She's still doing it now, racing twixt greenhouse and Eglu, Eglu and greenhouse. I gave up and came indoors. The postman had been. With a copy of Good Food magazine. And a free gift of a jute shopping bag from 'Home Farmer' magazine. And the first rejection for Nearly King Jimbo (although the agent said she enjoyed reading it, it was very entertaining but not quite for her). And a notice from the waterboard saying they are reducing our water bill direct debit by 50%. I think, that makes a change.
So, a bit up and down today. I'm feeling weary so I'm going to have some toast and read a magazine now. And maybe go egg hunting later.
Firstly, I slept very badly last night. No idea why but it meant I surfaced with a headache and inability to walk in a straight line. This meant I crashed into the willow tree (which was still in residence in the kitchen) and got covered in clouds of yellow pollen which showed up beautifully on my white shirt and pale blue cardi. Andy said, 'I've left a spade in the back garden so you can plant the tree if you like,' which, because I was in a bad mood, I took to meaning 'That tree had better be gone from the kitchen when I get home this evening...or...or...' Trouble is, Andy doesn't do threats so I am at a bit of a loss as to what to write now. My comment is therefore rendered unfair and unnecessary, and I apologise unreservedly m'lud. (Kissy-kissy, mwah, mwah!)
So I went into the garden to start work on 'Plan Bee Garden.' I dug up weeds and grass, and hacked at old shrub roots for three hours. I took clods of grass to the back garden for the hens. 'Thank you,' they said, launching themselves at the greenery with obvious joy.
'You're welcome, 'I said. 'Have a bit of cabbage too.'
'Don't give Mrs Pumphrey cabbage!' yelled Mrs Slocombe. 'It'll make her fart!'
And much hilarity was had by all at the mention of the 'f' word.
I also planted the willow tree and it looks very cute with all its fluffy buds cascading artfully towards the ground. I stopped periodically to quaff water, paracetemol, one of the muffins my Mum gave me yesterday, to put some washing on the line and to stare at people driving up the road whilst using their mobile phones. I thought, I'll put some of the old potting compost that the hens have been rolling about in all winter onto the freshly dug borders. So I went into the greenhouse and scooped up aforesaid compost, now enriched with chicken poo. And I got sidetracked into collecting up the many hundred flowerpots we've accumulated since becoming allotmenteers. And in one of the pots, a big 12 inch one, I found 2 eggs.
Now yesterday, I happened to glance out of the kitchen window and I spied Mrs Poo engaging in what appeared to be flowerpot wrestling. She was inside this pot, flinging herself around like a loon. I thought, look at her. Barking mad. But now it seems this flowerpot has become Mrs Poo's alternative nesting box. I stood it up. I thought, I'll put a stop to that laying-eggs-where-I-like malarkey immediately. And then I went to clean out the Eglu.
As I stood up from giving the roosting bars a good scrub, I found myself eyeball to eyeball with Mrs Poo.
'Put my flowerpot back where it was,' she said. 'I need to lay an egg...NOW!' She meant business.
'I've just cleaned out your Eglu,' I say. 'Give me a second and I'll put some fresh bedding in the nest box.'
'Pah!' said Mrs Poo. 'I'm not sharing with them,' and she cast a glance at the other three who were stuffing down cabbage and parping like the Tihuana Three Trumpet Band. 'I have my own private facility now.'
And no word of a lie, dear followers of Much Malarkey Manor, that chicken STARED at me in a very menacing manner until I capitulated and set her flower pot at its previous jaunty slant on the floor. She got inside immediately and started rolling around inside it like a weeble in beachball. I shrugged my shoulders and set to putting fresh bedding in the Eglu.
As soon as I had completed my task, Mrs Poo raced from the flowerpot in the greenhouse and flung herself into the fresh Eglu Bed. She then proceeded to THROW the bedding around whilst making an appalling racket.
'Is that entirely necessary?' I said, crossly.
'YES!' she yelled. 'I might may my egg HERE! Or I might lay my egg THERE! I haven't decided YET!'
She's still doing it now, racing twixt greenhouse and Eglu, Eglu and greenhouse. I gave up and came indoors. The postman had been. With a copy of Good Food magazine. And a free gift of a jute shopping bag from 'Home Farmer' magazine. And the first rejection for Nearly King Jimbo (although the agent said she enjoyed reading it, it was very entertaining but not quite for her). And a notice from the waterboard saying they are reducing our water bill direct debit by 50%. I think, that makes a change.
So, a bit up and down today. I'm feeling weary so I'm going to have some toast and read a magazine now. And maybe go egg hunting later.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Publicity Stunts
The animations for 'Nearly King Jimbo' are gathering apace. Andy is rapidly proving himself to be a creative genius in this field and I have suggested he sets up a company called 'Andy Mations'. Or possibly 'Andy Matronixs'. Or possible neither, he said as he politely declined my suggestions.
Over the last few evenings he has been working on the piece of cartoon to go with the episode where the character of King Andy is revealed to have a bee living in his ear. It is very entertaining. There are frisky feelers, wax and a drumkit, all inside a real ear. It looks very convincing! The piece to accompany the Archbishop of Titbury von Streudelheim making a right Royal cock-up of the Coronation also looks good, with clever use of light and shade. Neither of us are sure of the shot showing the Archbishop sitting in an armchair watching cricket on the TV though. From a certain angle it looks as if there is some dubious activity happening in his lap region and I'm not talking crocheting doilies for the communion table here. Andy agrees he may have to review this piece of cartooning before we 'go public.'
And going public got me thinking about my own performance of the script. Now, I used to be a great fan of 'Jackanory' when I was a child. I liked it best when the storyteller sat and told you the story from the book and there were camera shots of the illustrations. I liked the voices the storyteller used for the different characters, too. But I would become agitated when the story teller started getting up and walking around whilst they were speaking. I especially remember Rik Mayall performing 'George's Marvellous Medicine' by Roald Dahl. He was all over the shop! And he had props. What was he doing? What was he trying to prove?? Very disturbing and I never felt the same about Jackanory again (even though I was an adult when this happened - I think I must have been watching it with my children when they were small.)
But I think I must be realistic about how I shall have to present my material to the children of today. I need to remember they have the attention span of a frog on a hot-plate so in order to hold their attention I need to 'perform'. Luckily, I was a drama teacher in a previous existence so have experience of how to keep 30+ children alert to what is going on before them. Obviously, some techniques do not lend themselves to the media of You-Tube, so throwing props or whiteboard marker pens at them won't be any good. But I can do voices. And mime. I once conducted 25 minutes of a lesson completely in mime. Admittedly, I did at one point end up head first in an upended stage block, but still the students kept with the spirit of the experience and mimed laughing at me.
And it occurred to me I'll need a gimmick if I am going to be a visual performer. Something that will become synonymous with my work. Like Terry Pratchett has his hat, Barbara Cartland had her pink things and Martin Amis has a chip on his shoulder. 'Oh, I wouldn't have a chimp on my shoulder,' says Mrs Miggins who has just dropped in to borrow the Stylophone. 'I said 'chip' not 'chimp',' I say. 'Besides, do chickens have shoulders?' 'No,' says Miggins, 'which is why I wouldn't have a chimp there.'
Actually, there's an idea. I could perform with a chicken on my shoulder. Or maybe I could gather them all around my feet and they could gaze up at me adoringly whilst I read the adventures of Nearly King Jimbo to them. Or I could make a pompom bee and have it sticking out of my ear as though it is flying around for a bit a fresh air. I could wear a crown and pretend to be the Queen. I still have the tiara I wore when Andy and I got married. I could sit on a little yellow tricycle like Mr Jobble - Tybalt could sit in the basket and pretend to be Mick the Dog. If only I could persuade him to bark it would be perfect. Or I could pretend to be Alice and bake real biscuits as I told the story and then I could use them as merchandise and sell them on e-bay or bid tv...
'I think you're getting carried away,' says Miggins. She starts to play 'Eidelweiss' on the Stylophone in an attempt to calm me down.
'I have to think about these things,' I screech as my office becomes a trying on frenzy of tiaras, hats, scarves, novelty t-shirts and scuba diving outfits.
'How long is this film going to be?' asks Miggins.
'About 40 minutes,' I say. (I don't know this for certain - it was the first portion of time to come into my mind.)
'And how much has Andy produced so far?'
'About 12 seconds,'
'I rest my case, m'lud,' says Miggins.
'You can't,' I say. 'I used that as a sign off yesterday.'
Over the last few evenings he has been working on the piece of cartoon to go with the episode where the character of King Andy is revealed to have a bee living in his ear. It is very entertaining. There are frisky feelers, wax and a drumkit, all inside a real ear. It looks very convincing! The piece to accompany the Archbishop of Titbury von Streudelheim making a right Royal cock-up of the Coronation also looks good, with clever use of light and shade. Neither of us are sure of the shot showing the Archbishop sitting in an armchair watching cricket on the TV though. From a certain angle it looks as if there is some dubious activity happening in his lap region and I'm not talking crocheting doilies for the communion table here. Andy agrees he may have to review this piece of cartooning before we 'go public.'
And going public got me thinking about my own performance of the script. Now, I used to be a great fan of 'Jackanory' when I was a child. I liked it best when the storyteller sat and told you the story from the book and there were camera shots of the illustrations. I liked the voices the storyteller used for the different characters, too. But I would become agitated when the story teller started getting up and walking around whilst they were speaking. I especially remember Rik Mayall performing 'George's Marvellous Medicine' by Roald Dahl. He was all over the shop! And he had props. What was he doing? What was he trying to prove?? Very disturbing and I never felt the same about Jackanory again (even though I was an adult when this happened - I think I must have been watching it with my children when they were small.)
But I think I must be realistic about how I shall have to present my material to the children of today. I need to remember they have the attention span of a frog on a hot-plate so in order to hold their attention I need to 'perform'. Luckily, I was a drama teacher in a previous existence so have experience of how to keep 30+ children alert to what is going on before them. Obviously, some techniques do not lend themselves to the media of You-Tube, so throwing props or whiteboard marker pens at them won't be any good. But I can do voices. And mime. I once conducted 25 minutes of a lesson completely in mime. Admittedly, I did at one point end up head first in an upended stage block, but still the students kept with the spirit of the experience and mimed laughing at me.
And it occurred to me I'll need a gimmick if I am going to be a visual performer. Something that will become synonymous with my work. Like Terry Pratchett has his hat, Barbara Cartland had her pink things and Martin Amis has a chip on his shoulder. 'Oh, I wouldn't have a chimp on my shoulder,' says Mrs Miggins who has just dropped in to borrow the Stylophone. 'I said 'chip' not 'chimp',' I say. 'Besides, do chickens have shoulders?' 'No,' says Miggins, 'which is why I wouldn't have a chimp there.'
Actually, there's an idea. I could perform with a chicken on my shoulder. Or maybe I could gather them all around my feet and they could gaze up at me adoringly whilst I read the adventures of Nearly King Jimbo to them. Or I could make a pompom bee and have it sticking out of my ear as though it is flying around for a bit a fresh air. I could wear a crown and pretend to be the Queen. I still have the tiara I wore when Andy and I got married. I could sit on a little yellow tricycle like Mr Jobble - Tybalt could sit in the basket and pretend to be Mick the Dog. If only I could persuade him to bark it would be perfect. Or I could pretend to be Alice and bake real biscuits as I told the story and then I could use them as merchandise and sell them on e-bay or bid tv...
'I think you're getting carried away,' says Miggins. She starts to play 'Eidelweiss' on the Stylophone in an attempt to calm me down.
'I have to think about these things,' I screech as my office becomes a trying on frenzy of tiaras, hats, scarves, novelty t-shirts and scuba diving outfits.
'How long is this film going to be?' asks Miggins.
'About 40 minutes,' I say. (I don't know this for certain - it was the first portion of time to come into my mind.)
'And how much has Andy produced so far?'
'About 12 seconds,'
'I rest my case, m'lud,' says Miggins.
'You can't,' I say. 'I used that as a sign off yesterday.'
Saturday, 24 January 2009
Recording...one, two, three...
Breakfast this morning was two boiled eggs on toast with black pepper. Read the papers. A calm and measured start to the day. Then Andy disappears into my writing room.
'Do me a favour will you?' he yells in a tone of voice that suggests a mild ticking off. Oh, oh, I think. What have I done? Left my toe toaster heater on? Malfunctioned the new printer so it has used up an entire cartridge printing random pages from the internet? Grown a fascinating new fungus in my waste paper basket after inadvertently throwing an apple core in there two months ago? I brace myself.
Andy reappears holding the first three chapters of 'Nearly King Jimbo' in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. 'Read a few paragraphs into this,' he says. 'I want a voice recording to go with the opening sequence of animation I've already done. Ah, that's all right then!
I obliged with the reading, a la Jackanory style. Andy works out that in order to animate the entire first chapter (about 4 pages of A4) he will need to produce 7,500 drawings. No, honest, I kid you not. And as 'Nearly King Jimbo' runs to 22 chapters we are talking in the region of 165,000 drawings altogether for the whole book.
Andy turns apoplectic at this point and ends up on the kitchen floor in a dead faint. He is resusitated with a cup of proper coffee from his proper coffee making machine and we have a think about other ways of providing visuals for the project. Now a while ago, Andy and I made a short film using some toy ducks and stop frame on a camcorder. It didn't take us long and was highly entertaining. So I say 'How about we make plasticine models of each of the characters and do it in the style of Wallace and Gromit?' 'How many characters are there?' Andy asks. 'Well,' I say,' there's Nearly King Jimbo, the Queen, King Andy, Alice, Farmer Seed and his wife Annie, Mr Jobble and his dog Mick, Lord Endov-Terrace, Tractor the Horse, the angora goat named Prince Jimbo of Titbury von Streudelheim, the Archbishop, the Lord Chancellor, Mrs Bobbinflaxenfluff, Lady Farqueharrison-Snood (pronounced Fartybottom-Food), Miss Delilah Snibbins and Mr Frankly Revolting.'
'I didn't ask you to name them all,' says Andy, a hint of weariness in his voice.
'Seventeen,' I say.
'Right,' says Andy. 'Seventeen plasticine models.'
'Some of them are animals,' I say. 'We'd need to do some pigs and hens and cows, but they are non-speaking parts. Except for the two pigs who talk about pizza at the end of chapter 10. And we'd also have to do all the people who attend the gala award evening at the end. It's a crowd scene,' I add, unnecessarily.
'Would you care to revise your estimation for the number of models we'd have to make?' says Andy (he is very patient, especially as he's had a traumatic couple of days at work).
I have a think.
'About 300??'
Andy rewinds the recording of my reading and plays it back. I sound like Barbara Windsor and Janet Street-Porter's love child. Only considerably less intelligent.
'Im going upstairs to my office now,' says Andy. 'I may be gone some time.'
'Do me a favour will you?' he yells in a tone of voice that suggests a mild ticking off. Oh, oh, I think. What have I done? Left my toe toaster heater on? Malfunctioned the new printer so it has used up an entire cartridge printing random pages from the internet? Grown a fascinating new fungus in my waste paper basket after inadvertently throwing an apple core in there two months ago? I brace myself.
Andy reappears holding the first three chapters of 'Nearly King Jimbo' in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. 'Read a few paragraphs into this,' he says. 'I want a voice recording to go with the opening sequence of animation I've already done. Ah, that's all right then!
I obliged with the reading, a la Jackanory style. Andy works out that in order to animate the entire first chapter (about 4 pages of A4) he will need to produce 7,500 drawings. No, honest, I kid you not. And as 'Nearly King Jimbo' runs to 22 chapters we are talking in the region of 165,000 drawings altogether for the whole book.
Andy turns apoplectic at this point and ends up on the kitchen floor in a dead faint. He is resusitated with a cup of proper coffee from his proper coffee making machine and we have a think about other ways of providing visuals for the project. Now a while ago, Andy and I made a short film using some toy ducks and stop frame on a camcorder. It didn't take us long and was highly entertaining. So I say 'How about we make plasticine models of each of the characters and do it in the style of Wallace and Gromit?' 'How many characters are there?' Andy asks. 'Well,' I say,' there's Nearly King Jimbo, the Queen, King Andy, Alice, Farmer Seed and his wife Annie, Mr Jobble and his dog Mick, Lord Endov-Terrace, Tractor the Horse, the angora goat named Prince Jimbo of Titbury von Streudelheim, the Archbishop, the Lord Chancellor, Mrs Bobbinflaxenfluff, Lady Farqueharrison-Snood (pronounced Fartybottom-Food), Miss Delilah Snibbins and Mr Frankly Revolting.'
'I didn't ask you to name them all,' says Andy, a hint of weariness in his voice.
'Seventeen,' I say.
'Right,' says Andy. 'Seventeen plasticine models.'
'Some of them are animals,' I say. 'We'd need to do some pigs and hens and cows, but they are non-speaking parts. Except for the two pigs who talk about pizza at the end of chapter 10. And we'd also have to do all the people who attend the gala award evening at the end. It's a crowd scene,' I add, unnecessarily.
'Would you care to revise your estimation for the number of models we'd have to make?' says Andy (he is very patient, especially as he's had a traumatic couple of days at work).
I have a think.
'About 300??'
Andy rewinds the recording of my reading and plays it back. I sound like Barbara Windsor and Janet Street-Porter's love child. Only considerably less intelligent.
'Im going upstairs to my office now,' says Andy. 'I may be gone some time.'
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