So, after writing this last blog for a while, I must clear up the bedside clutter and clean some floors before we pack for Italy. It's been a really hectic August, what with having to disassemble my plans for the Winter just after I'd made them, so I can spend two months volunteering in Spain, the camping trip and D's job search. Not to mention the new lodger. At least we'll know someone is clearing the letterbox. The temporary postman is too harrassed to push things all the way through.


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A couple of weeks ago I read (as mentioned here) and loved Lizard by L Schick.I contacted her immediately to see if she'd like to be interviewed here and I was thrilled that she said yes. And I'm even more thrilled to be able to show you all what she had to say...


Welcome to the blog, Leonore – I’m delighted to have you here.
It's a comfortable blog, I'm delighted to be here, I might stay.

I absolutely loved your book, Lizard. Can you tell us a little about it?
Thank-you. This makes me very happy. It is a novella - which by Wikipedia's standards is a story under 50 000 words. It is about a metamorphosis, but never a complete one.

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Yes, we're here! And we have Internet, which arrived the day after we did, miracle of miracles. Bristol is lovely, although rather damp and half the temperature (celsius) of where we moved from. It's delightful, confusing, disorienting, I am finding that my English isn't quite what I thought it was... they say that after 5 years in a country where your mother tongue isn't the native language, you are no longer a native speaker of that language. I can understand that now. I like to think it makes my writing more "colourful"!

I won't write too much more now, just to say that it is lovely to be in a place where people's default expression when they meet you on the street is a smile. I like that. I am sure there will be other things I find harder, and many aspects of Israel that I miss. Give me time, I will moan. And will take pictures of our new home when our stuff arrives on Tuesday.

Other things to report:...

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For the past week I've been on a strict routine for the new novel, rising at 6.30am and writing for two hours before the rest of the house is awake. I'm at the stage where what matters is getting black on white, putting in the hours until I have the story lodged so firmly under my skin I'm dreaming of the characters and can't wait to get up and at 'em. For now though I will admit it is hard work, especially the early rising. This morning there was an exciting bit of news to reward my bright start to the day.

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Five unexpected events that have occurred since last I blogged:

1) A Barba Do Tio Alonso arrived in the post - Uncle Alonzo is a fully-fledged Brazilian at last! Now all I need is someone who speaks Portuguese to translate for me...

2) Following a generous gift of fresh-from-the-tree damsons from a lovely neighbour, I have successfully cooked two different damson-related desserts from scratch! Recipes to come in later posts.

3) I have started driving lessons again. No fiddling about with manual cars for me this time, though; it's automatic all the way! I have decided that I possess neither the patience nor the robust mental disposition necessary to cope with a manual car. Yes, I've heard all the arguments - 'What if you have to drive someone else to hospital in their car?' being one of the most popular. Frankly, if my control of a manually operated automobile is all that stands between the critically ill individual in question and certain death, then they might as well start picking out hymns... ;-)


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So far, most of my posts on this new blog are about Matthew. Can’t resist this next one though. I’ll justify it by using it for a short story.

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The other day I took the Black offspring to their athletics club and watched them hare around the track. Their ability and determination never cease to amaze me.
I should point out for the sake of transparency that I am possibly the least sporty person I have ever met. Pouring myself another glass of wine is more than enough to exhaust me for the day.
I blame my Mother of course. She locked me in our house from the age of six and didn't allow me out until I had an offer from a Russell Group University safely under my belt. To be fair, we lived on a sink estate where every third teenager had an aerosol can up their sleeve and our next door neighbour left his upstairs window open so he could escape from the police with balletic ease.
My kids however, live such ludicrously middle class lifestyles that they are more likely to meet their doom at the bumper of a badly driven Rangerover. Thus they, unlike their Rapunzle like mater, are allowed out into the world and have consequently built enough muscle density to run.
And run they do. Like Greyhounds. Only cuter.


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Well, this is a new one: an inspirational rejection.

'Thank you for letting us see "The Prison," but we've decided to pass.'

Ok, that starts off quite normally...

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1) Writers are extraordinary. I don’t think so - most of the writers I know have ordinary jobs, have a mortgage and/or kids and spouse. I read Heat, I watch lots of telly and I do the school run. I like Pizza, I don’t hoover behind the sofa and I worry about the Credit Crunch. I’m just like anyone else. In fact if I ever get published, that will have to be my hook!

2) Everyone has a book in them and therefore the potential to be a writer. Erm, correct! I’d agree that everyone does. But if this book is to be publishable, is to be page-turnable, then no, not everyone has the where-with-all to produce such a tale. We each have our own unique story, some narrative that defines our lives, and this autobiographical prose is often what a virgin writer puts on paper. But whether this should be made public in all its self-indulgent glory is quite another matter. Mine was written 4 years ago, a novel set in Paris, in the Eighties - Cue Monet, Metro stations and Merlot. Cue unimaginative characters based on people I once knew, speaking with Carry-on style French accents.


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