So I've spend a fair few days celebrating the fact that, in the week of 20th April, A Secret Alchemy was the fourteenth bestselling paperback fiction in the UK. Serious celebration, it's been, to top off the pleasure of seeing stacks of it next to The Times it in every W H Smith in the country. Even my agent, who has seen just about every variety of success and disaster the book trade can create, is very, very pleased. And all for that 'difficult' second novel, which has also just had its first advance review for the American incarnation, in Publishers' Weekly:

"Historical sections, filled with allusion and mythology, make breathtaking drama ... Darwin's at her most powerful exploring Anthony's faith or Elizabeth's understanding of women, love and marriage in her time... a satisfying end ties the threads together."

And then today I had a bit of a revelation about the absolutely opposite end of the peculiar spectrum of experience we call being a writer. Anyone who's been hanging around this blog long enough will know that one of the recurring themes is about the difference, and interaction, between process and product. I'm a contrary soul so, because so much of talk about how-to-write, let alone what-editors-want, is in terms of product - what you want to have at the end - I spend a lot of time banging on about how process must come first, and then the product may not be what you set out to produce, but will work, be right, have integrity.

But actually, of course, if you want to produce a coherent story, what's really going on is a constant interaction between product and process.


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With only 4 chapters left to edit (some, admittedly, on the long-ish side), I thought it a good time for another post. I've learnt so much during this edit, mainly, my propensity to overwrite (having nearly lost 40,000 words from the draft has made that painfully clear!!!). It's an exciting feeling, approaching the end, even if I have written a novel to coincide with a worldwide recession and as far as publishing seems concerned lately, it's all doom and gloom! Onwards...


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I've posted a few pics of grandkids going camping.

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When I think back over the last four years, which is how long I’ve been writing seriously, certain episodes flash into my mind - certain events in my personal literary world which have significantly shaped my journey to publication. As most of you know, a journey which I have not yet completed.

The first is the day I sat down at the computer and started to write. My youngest had started school several months earlier, and after years of toddlers group and afternoons in the park - all of which I wouldn’t change for the world – part of my brain suddenly twitched. I needed to write. And write I did. Polished a bit, puffed out my chest and then I remember, like it was yesterday, interrupting my husband on the toilet (he’s going to kill me for writing this.) I knocked and ignoring his indignation, prised open the door a couple of inches and slipped through a sheet of A4.
“Read this,” I said, nervously. “Do you think it is any good?”
Silence. Prompting from me. More indignation then: “It’s good. I like your turn of phrase.”
Phew! He hadn’t laughed. I went back to the computer

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Well, by “my first signing” I don’t mean the very first time I’ve ever signed my name in my book – I have done that a few times in the privacy of my own home. I mean a real signing – as in, sitting at a table in a bookshop and hoping strangers will not be so terrified by my lack of make-up-putting-on skills that they spin round and exit the shop.

The event was at Waterstone’s, Eastgate Row, Chester, which is rather apt, because the first scene of the book takes place more or less right outside the door. This didn’t occur to me when I was writing it, because that was so long ago now that even finishing the book seemed impossibly distant, let alone the idea of it being on sale...



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I looked and looked at the exhibition postcards but couldn't take to a photo of crumpled gold foil wrapping papers or a miniature medieval map of Iceland. I'd like to go there sometime, though, to take a plunge in those hot lakes. I came away feeling that recent months of gallery-going hadn't done much to help me empathise with such introspective artworks. My feet ached and Waterloo Station seemed far away.

But all that was soon forgotten. What a wonderful surprise, to come across this spendid show of Polish wildlife photos, in a perfect setting: under the trees near the National Theatre.


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What is this urge that’s taunting me to get dressed and visit the local shop for goodies, for stuff that isn’t food? I’m not hungry; I’ve eaten real food today – not traditionally with two veg or anything, but not covered in chocolate or candy either! And now I’m being attacked from the inside; there’s an army of suggestions insinuating themselves deep in my mind alongside a tricky little prompt: you can pick up some bargains for the week ahead and save money. How wily is that?

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If you ever wanted a reason to write, Jack Kerouac is a very good one. Watch this movie http://creativewriterpacks.blogspot.com and I challenge you not to want to tap those keys, or pick up that pen Š and write, NOW.

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Is there anyone out there who doesn't exhibit the traits of a Prima Donna and who would get stuck into a book idea, that isn't their own? The book isn't written, and the tale is untold. We have designed the book jacket, outlined the story, supplied a diagram of the plot... but you have to write the 90,000+ words that breath life into it... interested? Go to: http://www.shopcreator.com/mall/creativewriterpacks/ and http://creativewriterpacks.blogspot.com/ and think about it carefully. It's all on the websites, get writing now!

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CAMUS AND THE TORTURED WRITER
I was 27 when I read The Plague, by Camus, a story in which a character called Joseph Grand, a 22 year old municipal clerk, is denied workplace promotion. As a result of his inadequate means, he lives in a sparingly furnished apartment. He has difficulty asserting himself and is uncomfortable communicating with others, yet aspires to write a book. The interesting feature of Mr Grand is that he never gets passed the first sentence of his book. (I apoligise if you know this already)
I am now 61 and I have belatedly developed the GRAND JOSEPH CREATIVE WRITING PACK, inspired by the difficulties that Joseph Grand encountered. I realise there are millions of talented writers out there who are in the same position when trying to write a book. I hope that would-be writers of all kinds will find our pack helpful in beginning, and finishing, the novel they've always wanted to write.



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