Like salt and pepper, aren’t they?
As a boy, I used to adore maps. I’d pore for hours over Middle Earth, Narnia, Earthsea, The Land, Hyboria, Krynn, Lankhmar, the world of the Belgariad…need I go on? The list is probably endless.
What reader of fantasy hasn’t flicked from some unlikely name in a chapter to the front of a book, tracing a pot-stained finger over the map there?
As a boy, back before ‘the lay of the land’ meant the local town bike, in my first attempts at writing, there were always maps. I’d lie on my bed or sit at a table, and just free flow, jagging coastlines and mountains with pencil or pen, building worlds.
Later, in my early to mid teens, an enthusiasm for Dungeons & Dragons encouraged this art, and I wonder how many of us share this talent? How many of us are amateur cartographers without even knowing...?


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The lovely Luisa sent me the following link to a blog about what life is is like once you have a book published...



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I'm going to try a link thingy today - hope it works!...

Forgot to mention yesterday that when I went into Waterstone's in Guildford, I was thrilled to see five copies (five!!!) of Pink Champagne and Apple Juice on the shelf. At eye level too, good grief. (Normally any of my books are placed on the bottom level, no matter if that is alphabetically correct or not, or in a box behind the counter as the bookshop is so traumatised by actually having them in at all ...) Not only that but they were actually facing outwards. A miracle has occurred indeed. I was utterly ecstatic! However, my joy was dashed a couple of hours later (if you remember, I'd been writing, m'dears ...) when I came back downstairs to discover that they'd been reshelved so it was strictly spines only. Bugger. Oh the agony.

I then spent a few seconds searching my conscience, found it was out to lunch, so took one copy of Champers and placed it face outward on top of Graham Hurley's latest. Well, bloody hell, he's a bestseller - the bugger doesn't need the sales. I most certainly do!

Fuelled by that deceit, I have done the same today in Godalming Waterstone's with Jacquelynn Luben's A Bottle of Plonk, though I'm sorry to say I couldn't do it for Irene Black's The Moon's Complexion as the darn thing was too tightly shelved, and groaning and pulling the whole shelf out might have caused too much of a kerfuffle. Even for me. Still, at least I'm doing my bit for the Goldenford cause. In my fashion.

Talking of which, I suspect this may be just me, but bookshops are a nightmare rollercoaster of agony and ecstasy for me at the moment ...

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Some time ago I learnt that perky GMTV presenter Lorraine Kelly studied Russian at university, and in fact listed Crime and Punishment as one of her favourite books. So I sent her, via her agent, a copy of my book, A Gentle Axe, which features Porfiry Petrovich, the magistrate from Dostoevsky's masterpiece.

I thought nothing of it. But during my extended break from blogging, a letter arrived, with the London Television Centre frank mark on it. Of course, I got wildly excited, imagining insanely, that some producer wanted to buy the TV rights. I'd completely forgotten about sending the book to Ms Kelly.

Instead, and perhaps even better, the envelope contained the following letter...


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The Incredibles!

I have read three incredibly good books over the course of the past two or three weeks. Now, I'm not really one for reviews but I did want to mention them here.

They were all great for very different reasons. The first, The Winter of Enchantment, by Victoria Walker, is a wonderful children's book; a rediscovered classic. Highly recommended by me. Here's what the book's publishers, Fidra Books, have to say about it:

"Out of print for thirty years and incredibly difficult to get hold of, The Winter of Enchantment is an iconic and elusive book written by the author when she was just 21. It tells the story of Sebastian who travels back from his Victorian world to a magical world of Melissa, Mantari and the wicked Enchanter. The reissue of this book has been clamoured for by many, including writers such as Garth Nix and Neil Gaiman."
The next I read was American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. A book as vast, entertaining, odd, creepy, powerful and wonderful as America, its people and the gods they brought with them - which is what it's about. Brilliant.

And finally, last night I read Sarah Salway's Something Beginning With. It is an odd book, utterly readable and expertly written. It's funny, whimsical, sad, honest and feels very real. It's the first book I've read cover to cover in as long as I can remember. Yup. It's that good.

The only down side to mentioning and reading these excellent novels is that it reminds me of the ones I can't wait to read but struggle to find the time for. There are some books, for instance, that I'm avoiding until I'm not writing because I know they're going to influence my style. I do want to read them though.


***

And I'm just wrapping up the WIP. I've a couple of bits to check and go through but I reckon, (gulp!) that it's about done.

Nearly.

Maybe...



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Makeeda, a Londoner of Ghanaian descent, has great friends and a fun life, even if her parents are a bit strict and she's sometimes jealous of her cousin Tanisha. But when she meets and falls for fit DJ Nelson and Tanisha encourages her not to tell her parents, things begin to change for Makeeda.

I found this book a complete delight from start to finish. Makeeda is a sweet, lovable character (though she does make mistakes), and her actions were always completely believable. When she starts to get in touch with her roots, it provides lots of laughs as well as being fascinating. I loved her good friends, too, especially Bharti. Her little sister was priceless, and her not-so-good friends (Laura and Afua) were three-dimensional and in some ways not that bad, although you could completely see Makeeda's point of view about them. The best thing about this book for me was the description of everyday life and love in Northwest London. A brilliantly entertaining read.

And you can win your own copy if you enter our giveaway! Details here.

Chicklish


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Well I've done it after years without any qualifications... I've enrolled at night school. I am hopeful my sentances will get tighter and my comic pieces will last longer and make you chuckle more.
Anyway here's a little poem I am making up while I type.

I've got lots of things to write.
An lots of things to say.
Oh no! My mind's gone blank now.
I'd better leave it till another day.

Hang on! I know I am not witty.
And some would say it's not even a ditty.
In the end I am just me.
I'm all that I can be.
I write for pleasure.
Without half measure.
It just leaves what you can see.

Oh by the way I have just finished writing another chapter in my book. Hope it gets some laughs.
That's all for now. Joe

The misconception that we writers are all loaded is a particular pet peeve of mine.
Now, I wouldn't turn down some money, but I'm not actually in this to get rich. I enjoy what I do and any money I make from my endeavours is a bonus...

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The day has finally dawned.
In just over two hours I'll be taking my little man by the hand and walking him in the gates of his nursery school towards the exciting yet scary world of education...


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Ooh, and here's today's:

It must be my forties (oh Lord, what then will the fifties be like?...) but I do seem to be finding nature rather more interesting than I found it in my twenties, or even my thirties, though I had softened towards the concept of flowers by then. Anyway, yesterday, I was much amused by a moorhen (should I get out more?) and here is the result:

Protection remembered

A moorhen
plucks its cautious way
across grass,

red beak
carving a slow path
through air,

claws, larger
than its head,
strutting a surprised

and elegant dance
towards denuded bushes.
Yes, my friend,

sometimes I too wonder
where my cover
has gone.


Which somehow brings me nicely into today's counselling appointment, which was all very jolly and we talked a lot about the University, the bliss of people-free days over the weekend and the desirability of enjoyment. However, it must indeed be my week of being invisible - after yesterday's lunch date cancellation, I was running late to my appointment due to Guildford's appalling car park system and a machine that kept spitting my change back at me (so much so that I gave up entirely in the end and drove off to find another car park instead ...) so dashed to the loo when I got to the clinic, whilst giving my name to the receptionist. Anyway, by the time I came back and sat in reception, I think she must have forgotten I was there (I always sit where no-one can see me - which must in itself be revealing), so after ten minutes, I did this soft sheep-cough sort of thing, which is English Women speak for "I'm here and you've forgotten me, haven't you? but I'm too polite to actually say anything so I'm coughing like a sheep to let you know I'm still here." The next moment, there's a slight gasp and she's on the phone to Kunu telling her I've arrived. Hurrah!

But even then, all wasn't plain sailing, as once in the counselling room, I noticed my usual glass of water wasn't on my side-table, but Kunu had no less than four (four! are we expecting a drought?...) glasses of water lined up on hers. I thought she might remember, but after fifteen minutes she hadn't, so I had to be bold and ask for it. We then spent the next few minutes collapsed in uncounsellingy laughter as we agreed that this must be the third occasion I've been forgotten so perhaps Kunu has broken the "where's Anne? I can't see her" run. Here's hoping, eh. Mind you, as long as Lord H remembers I'm here and who I am, I'll be happy.

Post-Kunu, I sat in Waterstone's for a while (what bliss! I do love it there) and wrote a couple of pages to The Bones of Summer, which I shall type up later and two poems. One of which is below (goodness, yesterday's night creatures walk was sooo great!):

The Moth Trap

The warden smoothes his hand
across the blue tarpaulin,

catches a September Thorn
drawn by the piercing glow

of the moth lamp. Other insects
hover near the trap: midges;
smaller moths; three hornets

more confused than angry. ‘Look,’
he says. ‘Look at the wings,
the angle they make against my hand.’

And I do look, though for years,
before the beginnings
of my memory, I have been afraid.

I look and see the grey-brown
body, smaller than half my thumb,
the cornered wings, raised

a little, as if ready at any moment
to launch into the woods’
consuming darkness,

the small dark eyes
almost fearless. And I think

I have never seen anything
more beautiful,

the Thorn not the only creature
caught by the moth trap

tonight.


Talking of last night, we saw deer, bats, moths (as you can see!), and heard a tawny owl and a barn owl. Might have been nice to see a fox or two as well, but hell you can't have everything. And the sight of the geese flying into the lake to roost was utterly fantastic. Wouldn't have missed that for the world.

This afternoon, I've also had my regular Clarins facial with the oh-so-relaxing Sarah. She's so incredibly soothing that I keep falling asleep. It's great. And I look all glowy and chilled right now. A state of being which I suspect won't last long, but hell it's good while it does.

Tonight, Lord H & I are off to see "Whipping it Up" in Woking (or should that be "Whipping it Up in Woking"?) - never say we don't do culture, missus. And it should be a laugh - a farce about the government with Richard Wilson. You can't really go wrong. One hopes.

Oh, and I've just finished Henry Shukman's poetry collection, In Doctor No's Garden. There are two or three stunningly good poems in it, but I'm not convinced by the rest. Too many words, my dear Mozart (or some such phrase) ... but what do they mean? Really, if you want the energy, electricity and literary style I think Shukman was going for, you're best off with the incredibly good Neil Rollinson. Every time. Hush my mouth.

Today's nice things:

1. Counselling
2. Writing
3. The theatre.

Anne Brooke
Anne's website