Blogging again

New look, new blogging, at the imaginatively titled Emily Gale.

For news about my books, please visit:

www.emilygale.co.uk

A Time To Blog

I've been blogging for about three years. I started it because I was struggling so much with finding a balance between raising young children full-time and writing, and I needed to get some of that frustration and confusion out. Some of my posts have been about my children, some about writing, some about trying to make the two harmonious. I've blogged about Tupperware, fancy dress parties, emigrating, Ugg boots...maybe too much on the Ugg boots. I got a publishing deal - nothing to do with this blog - and the book came out in November 2009. Being published continues to make me feel excited, proud, terrified, and slightly mad - the mad bit is about trying not to compare success, plot, title, cover, awards, reviews, sales figures, etc, with any other author. In this information-overloaded age, this is a hard thing to do, I find. But that's a different matter - I've just been meaning to say it here and didn't get around to it. I also had in mind a post about how writing a novel is similar to potty-training a child...but perhaps that one is best left unsaid.

My point is that I need a break from blogging. It's not serving any purpose at the moment, other than to make me feel guilty for not feeding it. I'm nearing the end of a first draft - and the first draft of a second novel is, as they always say, pretty scary. The second draft beckons with cohesion and theme and hook, but I need every ounce of strength to get there. Christmas nearly finished me - now I want the New Year to begin with the most important things being attended to.

Thanks for reading.

Happy New Reading Year (another bunch o' five)

5 YA books I can't wait to read in 2010





















Swapped By A Kiss / Luisa Plaja
This much-awaited sequel to the fabulous, warm-hearted and funny Split By A Kiss features feisty Rachel who, suspicious of her boyfriend David's commitment to her and feeling sick to death of being in her own skin, suddenly finds herself swapping bodies with Jo (the main character of the first book). I love Luisa's writing, I love her concepts, I love how good she is at snogging scenes, and I love how unschmaltzy her themes are underneath the generous and funny storylines.

Della Says: OMG! / Keris Stainton
Della kisses her long-term crush at a party...and then her diary disappears! Enough said, right? I've been reading Keris' blog for years and know her teen writing well; I'm sure this is going to be a huge hit. I'd read Keris' shopping list though, she's that entertaining.

My So-Called Afterlife / Tamsyn Murray
Exciting year for this author, with a teen book out as well as the first of her new series, "Stunt Bunny". Here's the blurb for My So-Called Afterlife: "I knew it was time to move on when a tramp peed on my Uggs..." Meet Lucy Shaw. She's not your average fifteen year old - for a start, she's dead. And as if being a ghost wasn't bad enough, she's also trapped haunting the men's toilets on Carnaby Street. So when a lighting engineer called Jeremy walks in and she realises he can see and hear her, she isn't about to let him walk out of her afterlife. Not least until he's updated her on what's happening in her beloved soaps. With Jeremy's help, Lucy escapes the toilet and is soon meeting up with other ghosts, including the perpetually enraged Hep and the snogtastic Ryan. But when Jeremy suggests Lucy track down the man who murdered her, things go down hill. Can Lucy face up to the events of that terrible night? And what will it cost her if she does? A wonderful debut novel which, as well as being laugh-out-loud funny, is full of insights, compassion, and love.

When I Was Joe / Keren David
I have it on very good authority that this is smashing. Here's the blurb:
When Ty witnesses a stabbing, his own life is in danger from the criminals he s named, and he and his mum have to go into police protection. Ty has a new name, a new look and a cool new image life as Joe is good, especially when he gets talent spotted as a potential athletics star, special training from an attractive local celebrity and a lot of female attention. But his mum can t cope with her new life, and the gangsters will stop at nothing to flush them from hiding. Joe s cracking under extreme pressure, and then he meets a girl with dark secrets of her own. This wonderfully gripping and intelligent novel depicts Ty/Joe's confused sense of identity in a moving and funny story that teenage boys and girls will identify with - a remarkable debut from a great new writing talent.

My fifth choice is the as-yet untitled debut novel by Steph Bowe, the fifteen-year-old author of popular blog Hey! Teenager of the Year. Steph sounds so smart and witty on her blog and tweets that I feel sure her book is going to be fabulous. She once had me in fits just by writing out a few tiny extracts from her 12-year-old diary. Stay tuned!

Bunch o' Fives

Over at the impressive Persnickety Snark (reviewer of YA books with a special interest in Aussie authors), Adele has been putting together the FIVE CHALLENGE, featuring lists of 5 bookish things in various categories (great covers, great debuts, best YA bloggers, etc). Inspired by that - and fuelled by a very great need to Get Over Myself (heady combination of vile PMT and homesickness) - I'm putting together some lists of my own. These are really just a Pollyanna-esque attempt to cheer myself up, but if any of my readers happen to find something of interest, all the better. So, here goes with today's list...


5 books I discovered and adored in 2009:


The Slap / Christos Tsiolkas "a forensic examination of the Australian suburban family and contemporary debates about morality and raising children" It's told from the point-of-view of eight people who were present at a bbq when one man smacks another man's child (won the Commonwealth Writers Prize 2009 for best novel in SE Asia and South Pacific): utterly gripping, clever, sad, hard-hitting.

A Kind of Intimacy / Jenn Ashworth - a daring black comedy, compulsive, hilarious and macabre, told by unreliable narrator Annie, who is morbidly obese, lonely and hopeful, and in love with the boy next door.

Everything Beautiful / Simmone Howell - witty, edgy, saccharine-free YA about a girl sent away to a Christian "holiday" camp to reform her character. Fat chance; but the angry, intriguing, wheelchair-bound Dylan provides a reason to stay.

Girl, 15, Charming But Insane / Sue Limb - I don't know where Sue Limb has been all my life, but I'm glad she's in it now. Funny, funny, funny stuff - and then I cried on the last page. Super teen lit, guaranteed to cheer you up.

Butterfly / Sonya Hartnett - grab-you-by-the-throat prose, this is a masterful story with a teen protagonist who thinks she's found love and acceptance with the older woman next door when she stuffs up her friendships with her peers. This is not YA-lit specifically.





Typically, the 5 came to me quickly and then another 5 and then another (this was a great reading year, that makes me happy). But first come first served n all.

Tomorrow: 5 books I can't wait to read in 2010.

Free Book!

Please help free a copy of my book from the confines of a cardboard box. Go here for details.

Circle of Life

One of the (many) ways I reveal myself to be a Proper Pom is the way I squeal at native wildlife - though I have improved slightly since last year when I got very excited about possums (the equivalent of tourists in the UK taking squillions of photos of grey squirrels), mainly because the buggers have eaten the strawberry plant and keep pooing on the garden furniture. I'm all outta love for them but when The Australian's dad (aka The Really Really Australian Australian) rescued a cicada from the jaws of my cat the other day, I went into full Squealing Pom mode. "Look at it!" I breathed. "It's...amazing." It was a green grocer cicada. The reason I was so impressed is because all last summer I heard these big boys making their incredibly loud "song" underground (their noisemakers are called "timbals" and it's like their ribs contracting...I think...I'm not very good at science.) I'd get down on the grass and put my ear low and my word it was loud - but I never caught a single glimpse of one...until dear old Shadow brought one home to play with. 'Course we let Bert the Green Grocer go and kept the cat in to give the little guy a chance...whereupon it was seized by a bird. Oops. Sorry, Bert, but it's the Circle of Life n' all...




I realise I can't compete with Mufasa, but if you're stuck for something to do you could do worse than watch me do a Virtual Reading over here.

Patience

We've done "books are like babies" to death, now let's try "books are like carrots". This is what happens when you want to see the results of your efforts so badly that you harvest prematurely... Cute effort, but basically no good to anyone in the long-run (after we'd killed ourselves laughing and taken a photo, we left it to wither on the kitchen bench). So next time you think your manuscript is ready...think of my carrot!

Now you can see why I dedicated my book to my children "who are much better at waiting than I am" - it wasn't them who pulled up the carrot.

Threads

I don't write book reviews these days, but I wanted to mention Threads by Sophia Bennett because it's the first book I've read in ages, which makes me want to shout from the rooftops: I'M ME AGAIN!

I think I'm just recovering from the author's version of cold feet before a wedding. The build-up towards my own book being released reached silly proportions (in my head, I mean) and I found I could neither concentrate on my work-in-progress nor delve into any of the many books that have piled up recently. It seemed like the best dream in the world - becoming a published author - was being blighted by my worst nightmare - not being able to READ!

But Threads has cured me. Captivated, inspired and cured me. I won't go on too much because, as I say, I don't do reviews, but suffice to say that if you know a girl aged between 10 and 14 who likes books and / or fashion, get them this for Christmas. I feel like that's a more English version of telling you to buy my book for Christmas (um, please do that, too, um, if you like).

Not only does Sophia Bennett have a style and wit that would please any reader, she also has an uncanny ability to make you want to update your wardrobe. Reading about her characters' quirky dress designs reminded me of Molly Ringwald in Pretty In Pink, cutting stuff up and sewing it back together all funny-like. To someone who has virtually no original sense of style, Sophia's teenage characters had me wide-eyed and willing to be influenced...of course they didn't actually come shopping with me today, so they can't be held responsible for the maxi-dress in Aegean blue, that makes me look like an entire Greek Island, or the tunic dress that anyone going to a 60s night is more than welcome to borrow. But it felt good to be bold - a girl can only wear so much black.

One For The NaNoNaySayers

A good-writer-friend of mine (she's a good writer and a good friend) recently asked me if talking about my novel as a NaNoWriMo project worried me at all. I said "no", with the gusto of a writer who discovered the benefits of NaNo a little way along the line, as if I have to make up for the times I've privately thought that NaNoWriMo was a bit like "rushing your homework". Because, I have to admit, when I first joined a writers' forum and the subject of "writing 50k words in a month" came up, I dismissed it. I'll go further than that - I thought it sounded a bit naff. It didn't go along with the romantic vision I was still clinging onto, of brilliant wordsmiths squeezing out word by painful word.

Of course, by that point, I'd written four first chapters. I'd written slightly fewer second chapters, and still fewer thirds. I was very very good at starting things and very very bad at keeping them going. I was, let's face it, a bit pretentious and fairly naive.

About a year on I received a massive slap in the face (metaphorical) about a book I'd sweated blood over. I was pregnant at the time and resolved not to let it get me down - I make that sound a little easier than it was. It was then that I thought: right, I've got a month until this baby comes - I'm going to let my hair down. I meant as far as writing goes, so I signed up for NaNoWriMo, and resolved to write a first draft in triple-quick time - something funny-but-dark, because that's the sort of thing I love. My main aim was to please myself.

In one way I failed - I didn't make it to 50k and I didn't get my NaNo winners badge. But I made it to 35k, with a few days to spare before the baby arrived. And boy I'd had fun. I loved my characters. I hadn't a clue where it had all come from, but it was there - November 2006, the story unfolded before my very eyes / very fast-typing fingers. I was a complete convert. Kind of like an ex-smoker. NaNo was The Best. How had I lived without NaNo before? What was wrong with all those people who didn't understand what a great thing NaNo was?

But herein lies the truth of the matter: the 35k words I wrote during that November 2006 are not the same words as the ones now in a real-life printed book in-all-good-bookshops-blahblahblah. The book is about 65k words and I couldn't possibly say how many of the original 35k survived. The point is that NaNo gave me the freedom to indulge - to believe that for One Month Only, writing was my priority. That really can't be the case for most part-time writers - it's very difficult to fit writing in around full-time jobs (I'm including full-time parenting there, obviously) - but many of us can throw caution to the wind and devote 30 days per year to it. Really go for it. It's only writing the same number of words as many professional writers would do, only we're not quite there yet, so we have to squeeze the hours, instead of the words.

What all long-toothed writers know is that writing a book is not about the first words that come to mind, but what we do after those first words have come to us, been put down on paper, rested a bit, and then undergone one of the most painful tortures known to WriterKind: rewrites. That's where you'll find the blood, sweat and tears.

So if you still think NaNo is a bit like rushing your homework, think again. There's nothing tacky about devoting a month to a first draft. It's what you do with it afterwards that counts.

My Number One Fan

I get different reactions when I say I write for teenagers. Some people are very excited, because they know what a lively and varied genre it is, and they don't care who sees them reading a book that's marketed to folk much younger than they are. Sometimes people are not really sure what to say - maybe they would never consider reading teenage fiction, or they don't know any teenagers, and it's just a bit so what? to them. That's fine, too. Others look at me as if I've done something a bit selfless - as if writing for teenagers is doing said teenagers a big favour. As if I could have been writing for adults, but instead I went out of my way to do something for the kids. Just because I'm nice.

I'm not nice. Well, not like that. I didn't write my book as a favour to anyone, or to teach anyone anything. I wrote Girl, Aloud to please myself. It was the most fun I've ever had writing. I love writing about teenagers - if we all have an inner child then mine is 15, and she's very pissed off that I grew up and had children and started baking and joining school committees (she's glad I have stuck to my no-ironing policy, and that I still let her eat cola bottles and listen to 80s music). Maybe I wrote it for her.

Recently, the very impressive Steph Bowe of Hey Teenager of the Year tweeted some of her old diary entries from when she was 12 (she's now 15). I laughed out loud at them - they could have been straight out of a Louise Rennison book. I thought: 'Hey, I should dig out my old diary and revisit the Old Me.' And when I did, it gave me a bit more insight into why I love writing from the point-of-view of teenage girls - I was dull. Really, really dull. No juicy extracts here. My inner teenager needs me to write her some better stories because she spent a lot of time sitting at home worrying and stewing and imagining what life was like instead of actually living it.

It's possible I'm being unfair to my old self. I wasn't very good at keeping a diary - maybe on the days that I didn't write in it I was kicking up my heels...but that's not how I remember it. I'll quote one line that sums it all up:

29th November 1990
"...my social life has been soooo full this month (ha) I just haven't had time to write. I went to one party. Yes! Me! I actually went! It's true! IT WAS CRAP."

So, when I write for teenagers, it's not in an "I'd like to teach the world to sing" kind of way. At 34, I'm simply not over being a teen, so I go back there again and again (in between baking and being on committees). I do it for me.

That said, when I ask myself what the best outcome of having my book published would be, it's simply this: that a teenager other than my inner one has enjoyed it.

Holy Marigold(s)

It's 7pm on the day I gave up housework to see how that might affect my writing life...and it's a monumental disaster, people. I thought that if I stopped mopping the floor or hanging up the washing I'd maybe free up the odd minute for my book - okay, that was a bit optimistic considering the fact that I have a 2 year old at home full-time and that any time he sees I'm not occupied (and, no, typing on my laptop does not count as 'occupied' in his eyes) he says all too sweetly: "Would you like to meet my game?" but I had this fantasy that giving up housework would leave me feeling lively and refreshed at the end of each day and ready to devote my evenings to the novel without feeling as lacking in inspiration as a wrung out J-cloth.

I am exhausted.

The day started well - instead of coming back after the nursery-school-run to get on with chores, I took The Boy out for a babyccino. That was nice. Not exactly 'relaxing' (the babyccino came with a tiny teddy biscuit that was missing an ear...The Boy went nuts about the asymmetry, even when I suggested that we call the bear Van Gogh) but definitely more fun than stacking the dishwasher.

We did the shopping. I was still feeling kinda reckless - the breakfast things were still out for god's sake! - and felt sure I'd be raring to go on the novel by the time I'd put the children to bed.

But it was just after I'd made lunch for three children and sat down for a sarnie myself when the itch started...no, not the lice again, I wanted to DO something. I knew the children wouldn't let me write (noise I can deal with but hanging off my arms is a struggle) so I decided to...make 24 savoury muffins and some puff pastry pizzas. Oh my GOD! What was I thinking?? It was 28 degrees today and there I was sweating away in the kitchen, pouring hot butter all over my right boob (not for fun, I might add) and creating an almighty mess. I told myself I was just testing my anti-housework-powers to the max - ha, I'm not gonna clean you up! I sneered at the kitchen, now sticky with muffin dough.

Then the goods were baked and I knew I had to get out of there before I started cleaning. "Come on! We're going swimming!" I announced. And then I pushed the children and the towels in the misshapen Phil n Teds about 3km uphill to the pool. Did I mention it was 28 degrees? Right, so by the time we had our swim, walked 3km home, and gorged on savoury muffins and puff pastry pizzas, I felt WORSE than I feel after a bog-standard day of housework and childcare. Disaster!

I looked around at the house - bits of paper everywhere, toys-toys-toys, a swarm of ants on a stray bit of muffin crumb, clothes, dishes, aarghhhhh! I couldn't bear it! And yet I had The Experiment to consider, so I casually picked up a couple of things, hoping I wouldn't notice, hoping it wouldn't count. I tried to rope the children in; they tried, they really did (especially when I paid them in gingerbread) but it was no good, I HAD TO GET IN THERE! Before I knew it, the floor was completely clear and I had to admit to myself that I had failed. FAILED not to do HOUSEWORK!

Am I sick?

All I know is that I'm completely knackered and that The Australian is about to walk in from work expecting an almighty mess...and I've got nothing to show for my efforts but a fairly large quantity of savoury picnic treats.

Reader, somehow, without my noticing it, I have become a bit more Van Der Kamp than I intended. I thought I was Scavo! Or, at the very least, Mayer. Tell me there's a cure.

Before

Housework Ban to commence at 00.00 hours.
Ben linen: clean
Hair: de-liced (nb. no actual lice located...may have been hoax)
Floor: toy-free, raisin-free, Playdoh-free
Dinner tonight: crackers, and some salami we'd forgotten about from...a while ago
The Australian: tetchy
The children: oblivious
Me: ripping off my marigolds with my teeth

Brace yourself, Household, for what happens when: Mummy Goes Experimenting!
...mwah-hahahahaaaa.

Nobody Does It Better

I've tried to embrace Australian Idol, really I have, but gawd-blimey-guvnor it's dull as ditchwater compared to the brilliant/awful/brilliantly awful British X-Factor. Thank you, YouTube (nasty ITV.com won't let me watch the show from Oz). And I can only agree with Simon Cowell when he says, at the end, that it's a bit like watching The Exorcist for the first time: you know you shouldn't put yourself through it but do you want to watch it again? Of course you do.

Pre-Publication Infestation!

Egads! A spanner in the works only hours before The Experiment II is due to begin. Or rather, not a spanner but a nit. A nit with no wit, crawling in The Girl's golden locks...and so I must avail myself of one of those blasted combs and wash all linen. And try to find the Czech word for 'nit' so I can explain to our houseguest why we suddenly smell like a laboratory. For logistical reasons all this will take place tomorrow, and so I officially declare that the Housework Ban will commence on Tuesday.

Gawd, just when my life was starting to look a bit more glamorous.

Two Things I Thought I'd Mention

1. Girl, Aloud will now be available from November... What's that you say? The November that's in just two weeks? Why, yes indeed, that's the November I mean.

2. Inspired by the talented and successful writers I know who claim they don't do any housework, I'm giving it up as an experiment for one week, starting on Monday. I will post before and after photos for your viewing pleasure. When I informed The Australian of my plans, he ran out of the room, yelling "No no no, I don't wanna hear it!" Which seemed to me to provide even more motivation than the thought of a possibly elevated word count. I've a feeling he's going to regret giving the children ALL of his old Lego in one go.

Fun times ahead.

The Experiment

It was gratifying to discover that I have the ability to stay away from the internet for a whole week. (There's a point to this; I'll stop bigging-myself-up in a sec.) I'll be honest: it was really really really really hard. I gave up meat for 10 years but a week without Facebook was tougher.

The soaring word count helped (10k in total), as did the fact that I used my friend Sam as a replacement for Wikipedia. Of course the downside is that I now know precisely how much time I waste each week on the Net, and should probably give it up for good. Or maybe Monday - Friday, like my wheat ban. God, what is it with me and bans? Could be a throwback to my Catholic upbringing: confession, mini-Lent, absolution.

But it's over. If I do it again it won't be for a little while. Think how many wedding photos of people I don't really know I'd miss! And all the blank spaces in my manuscript where I had to write "Google this". Giving up for good is not an option. So I've started to make a list of other things I could give up in order to create more time for writing.

1. Housework. Obviously. Maybe houses eventually become self-cleaning, like hair. Has anyone tried?
2. Showering...not only would this give me approx. an hour a week, it would also act as a social barrier, giving me more time to myself.
3. Cooking. We could live on KFC "mashies". I bet the Great Writers of Yore would have made such a sacrifice for their Art.
4. Social Life. I've put this at the bottom because in reality this would only free up an average of five minutes per week.

Don't even think about suggesting "the telly" - there's a new series of House for pity's sake! My writing isn't that important...

Yo-yo. Bye-bye.

I am a yo-yo.

I can't tell you how that compares to being, say, the walrus, or a rock, or an island, but there's something about about my wiring that makes any promise I make to myself or any mood I manage to get myself into become very intense but inevitably short-lived. Up, down, up, down, happy, sad, happy, sad, industrious, workshy, healthy-eating, binger, chilled-out, laid-back...unlike my long-(well not that long)suffering partner, I don't do consistent.

If that sounds like I'm having a go at myself, I'm not - one thing I've learned in my thirties is that Work With What You've Got is a very liberating thing indeed. I work well when I set myself small but intense challenges. This is as true for writing as for anything else. Recently I've been hating the amount of aimless web surfing I've been doing while I'm in this tricky, halfway part of my novel. A bit of Facebooking and Twittering and Blogging is a great way to unwind before a big writing session, but when the number of words I write on either one exceeds what I've racked up on the book, and when I know I'm only looking for excuses, I need to get unstuck from the rut.

So for one week, starting this evening, I'm going to pretend I don't even have an internet connection. No looking through the wedding photos of people I don't really know on Facebook (come on, you've done this, right?), no staring at Twitter trying to think of something pithy to say and kicking myself every time a tweet from Grace Dent or Caitlin Moran pops up because I would need to spend a lifetime at Funny School to get anywhere near their 140-character stand-up routines, no thinking out loud on Blogger, no Googling my novel, no Googling people I haven't seen in years. Complete ban.

Binge dieting isn't such a good idea, but binge writing can be a very fine thing indeed. See you in a week.

Choose Writing. Choose Life.

Go to Help! I Need A Publisher! and read a better version of what I've been trying to say recently, by Nicola Morgan.

I don't know about you, but I need to examine my work- (or lack of work-) habits and make resolutions several times a year...okay, several times a week...just to get the books written. That's not a sign that my passion for writing is deficient but just an indication that like so many I have numerous commitments, and I have to keep giving myself permission to make writing a priority - for an hour or two, as often as I can. Those commitments include some things I *think* I should be doing but which probably don't matter very much in the scheme of things (see Nicola Morgan's vacuuming behind the fridge example). But they also include things that must come before writing - give yourself permission to write but remember to give yourself proper, guilt-free permission to not write. Tonight I will be doing just that - watching a film with the man who has put up with my shit for exactly seven years today. Not writing a single word.

Happy Anniversary to The Australian.

And happy writing - or happy not writing - to all of you.

Weirdest Place You've Done It

Like a lot of...er, people...I used to think there was only one place I could do it: in my bedroom with the curtains drawn, completely alone, with a cigarette on stand-by for afterwards.

But now I can do it almost anywhere.

I am of course talking about writing. Back in the days when I thought it was the surroundings and props (kind of wish I hadn't started this now) that would help The Muse to appear, I had the time and space to believe that was true. I needed total quiet. I needed black coffee and cigarettes. I needed a computer.

Now I think that those requirements were like an extra army of excuses for why I hadn't written that day. I didn't want to write badly enough.

Never was this more obvious to me than this Thursday, a non-stop rainy day during which I took my son to an indoor playcentre. I also took a notebook. The place was absolute bloody mayhem - kids screaming, mothers desperately trying to have an adult conversation while their little ones howled about being hit in the face by a plastic ball, and a very worrying smell drifting down the stairs from the loo. In three hours I wrote more than I'd have managed in three weeks with my former dark-silent-room scenario. When you want to write badly enough, you can do it anywhere.

Here are some poets who do it in strange places - including Benjamin Zephaniah who did it while stuck in a lift with a drag queen.

Please share your weirdest case scenarios.