Irene, Jennifer and I have spent most of the day selling Goldenford books at the Annual Writers' Conference today. And what a good time we've had! So far it's proving to be the best Writers' Conference ever, in terms of conversations held with people and even books sold. Well gosh! Amongst the rather respectable sales we've done, I even managed to sell two copies of Thorn in the Flesh and two copies of A Dangerous Man. Hurrah! That's pretty good going for me. I now only have 2 ADM first editions left so will be moving on soon to attempting to sell some of my 2nd edition stock. Double gosh. I almost feel like an author, you know. Hell, it can't last ...


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Once, I would have persisted, pussy-footed around and been grateful for any crumbs of help that came my way. Being paid to put up with it made a difference, I suppose. Now, I think of D. and just decline. I've emailed to say they need some-one within the organisation who knows the ''protocol and personnel' better than I do and I'll be sure to be in touch should I reconsider.

All this declining is very liberating. I wish I'd thought of it before.


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I had lunch the other day with a couple of writer-friends. They both did the MA in Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths, of which I feel an honorary member since I get to sit in on some of the visiting authors' seminars and workshops, and one way and another you might say we're at the academic end of the writing trade: by definition we're writers who like talking and thinking about writing. But did we talk about the death of the novel, or the joys and sorrows of the writing process, or great writers we admire? Not very much: for the most part we talked about agents. And editors. And publishers. And agents again. Actors are just the same, I assume artists are too, and it's all contrary to what the more starry-eyed reader/audience-member/gallery-goer would like to believe. In between negotiating the minefield of talking honestly about my experience of agents and publishers without sounding infuriatingly lucky, I've been wondering why.

It's true that agents and editors are the gatekeepers: if you want more than half a dozen people to read your novel, you need an agent, to get you an editor, to get your work out there.

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Breaking news for Surrey residents! The long-awaited adaptation of Louise Rennison's novel, Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging (well, we've been long-awaiting it, that's for sure!), directed by the fabulous Gurinder Chadha and due for general release in the UK from 25th July 2008, is having an extra-special screening.

See it first on Sunday 13 July 2008 at 2pm at the Empire Cinema, St Nicholas Centre, St Nicholas Way, Sutton SM1 1AZ. Sutton station is only 7 minutes' walk away. Tickets are £10 and all proceeds are in aid of The Mayor of Sutton's charity: The Royal Marsden Hospital, Children's and Adolescent Unit, Sutton.

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A day in. When I haven't gone out at all, and I've only had a couple of quick phone conversations just rearranging appointments. Bliss. And there's an evening in tonight, so even more bliss. What more could you want?

Really enjoyed seeing Jane W last night, though was rather amused by her parting comments that the day's writing I was planning for today wasn't really like a proper job or hard work or anything. Hey, I wish! In an emotional sense, I imagine it's much like saying to a mountain climber about to tackle a mountain they haven't yet climbed: hey, enjoy the climb, and as you do it for fun then it's no great effort, is it? Ah well ...


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NEW BOOK

NICKY JONES - MY LIFE IN POEMS will be launched at the end of July.

Nicky has taken the unusual step of writing her autobiography in the form of poems. Each poem tells of a significant event in her life, something which led to change and growth. This is not an autobiography in the conventional sense. The poetry stands alone, but the poems are linked with a short paragraph of prose, thus setting the scene and filling in any gaps in the story. Using the poems as a tool, Nicky takes a warts-and-all look at the things that have happened to her. Married four times, she tells of her determined search for true love, and also of her spiritual search, which led to peace of mind and a greater understanding of what it means to be human.

Reviews:

Nicky Jones has a magical way with words. Her frankness and honesty, sensitivity, and compassion, and sense of humour manage to draw the reader into her poems, so much so they can easily relate to her life. Catherine Johnson. Lecturer & Teacher.

Nicky Jones’ poetry is vibrant and engaging. Her work manages to artfully catch snippets of her life, which she then infuses with universal meaning. The joy is contagious. Gianni di Miele. Poet.

Nicky Jones captures what all poets strive for - to tell a story and relate to others.This bookis what poetry is all about. Cyndi Dawson: Performance Poet.

Please leave your email address in the newsletter section on the homepage if you would like to know when the book is available to buy.



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It has now been fifteen days since I last worked.

Usually I love being at home doing nothing. It is wonderful to earn enough to survive on a couple of day’s work a week and have the freedom to laze about the flat reading, watching DVDs, drinking wine before dinnertime. Yet, because I have literally no work lined up at any point in the future, every thing I do is tinged with an edge of anxiety and guilt. I should be doing more to find freelance camera work rather than waiting for phone calls from existing employers. But cold calling companies is the most depressing and generally pointless action I can think of. So I put up with the anxiety and guilt, because it is easier.

Wimbledon is on. I hate Wimbledon. Hate it hate it hate it. Which is strange because tennis is my favourite sport and Wimbledon is the greatest sporting event on our planet.

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I have spent most of the day puzzling over what I’m supposed to be doing about the Personal Tutors’ Handbook – I suspect I am about to get into a managerial vortex from which there will be no escape. The boss has asked me to map out three different options for what the Handbook should look like. What??!? I have no real idea what that means, even though I smiled with enthusiasm when given the task (oh fool, fool!). And I suspect that, much like double-entry bookkeeping and the inner workings of the combustion engine, I never will have any idea what it means, no matter how much it’s explained to me. You see, I was off sick for the lesson in management-speak and I’ll never catch up now. Besides, there are some things that my head simply blanks out, possibly for the sake of its own intellectual survival. “Mapping” is, I feel, one of these. I also highly doubt that I’ll come up with three options – ye gods, I’ll be lucky to make a half-decent attempt at one. Sigh ...

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It's always interesting when artists talk about arts other than their own. Last Sunday I was listening to the poet Rowan Williams (yes, the one whose day job is running the Church of England) talking about favourite music on Private Passions. If you're reading this before next Sunday, it's well worth a Listen Again. At one moment, talking about the rhythm in music and poetry, he points out that, 'We are creatures built on stress and slack: systole and diastole.' Many would realise that rhythm - a pattern of stresses - is innate in us because without a heartbeat we'd be dead. Not for nothing is the standard slow-dance track set at seventy beats per minute, as are our resting hearts. But Williams isn't saying just that: he's saying that we are created by and for a two-beat rhythm. Our hearts actually go stress slack, stress slack, stress slack, and so does our breathing, and the whole of our body's pulse, and the more I thought, the more I saw how much of the nature of storytelling and its written forms, too, grows from that fundamental characteristic of homo sapiens.

First, it reminded me of one of the most persuasive parts of Christopher Booker's The Seven Basic Plots,

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After my rather down post last week, I have had wonderful messages of support and identification from so many of you. Thank you all. Good not to be alone, although I am sorry that we all have these blue periods. It has got me thinking about this thing that we do, this writing thing: when I sit down to write, it is me facing myself, and all my demons.

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