Too many ghosts...

I'm listening to Bruce Springsteen's latest album as I write this. Not altogether sure I like it. It's an odd mishmash of styles and I think I read that a lot of it was old material that hadn't made it onto other albums. I've also bought the new Suzanne Vega and like that a lot. Anyway, enough of music. I have just returned from a trip back to my hometown of Liverpool. I hadn't been for a couple of years and every time I visit, my Scouser friends try to persuade me to move back permanently. One thing I love about Liverpool, apart from the wit and the creative energy of the city, is the amount of green space. Sefton Park, Calderstones Park, Otterspool and Greenbank Park are all close by in my old area of South Liverpool. In Hillingdon, where I currently live, parks are in short supply. In fact, unless you drive, you can't get anywhere to have a decent walk. There are plenty of recreation grounds, patches of dog-stained land surrounded by flower beds full of crisp packets, beer cans and struggling, scraggy rose bushes. Not terribly enticing.

If I take a bus, I can walk by the Grand Union canal, but once you pass the end of the moored houseboats, it gets a bit desolate and dangerous-feeling. I only walked there alone once and was constantly alert for lurking hoodies with knives and mugging on their mind. Perhaps it's having survived two knife-attacks and one gun-point assault in the past that has made me so nervy, but I can't relax unless I know there are plenty of people around. No walking along gloomy towpaths and sinister city streets for me.

Here's a photo taken in Greenbank Park. My old school playing field was over the road. I think it's been built on now.

Sefton Park houses the famous Palm House: http://www.palmhouse.org.uk/what-we-do-history-and-renovation.php  completed in 1896 and surrounded by statues of the famous, including the gardener Le Notre  (1630-1700):

and Christopher Columbus, captured in stone as if forever searching for the next New World:

Although I was born and brought up in Liverpool, I had never set foot in the Palm House before last Wednesday and was surprised to find this colourful knitted patchwork giraffe amongst the plants: that's my friend Claire trying to spot its head amongst the foliage:

When I find myself back on the streets which witnessed all the angst of my teenage years (including the time when, aged 17, I decided to end it all, swallowed a bottle of aspirin and ran to the Prom to hurl myself over the railings and drown dramatically in the grey-green waters, only to find the tide was out and my poetic ending would have consisted of being sucked down into the hideous, glutinous mud), something strange and sickly comes over me, a kind of vertiginous nostalgia.

I see myself in shrunk-in-the-bath Levi's and black polo neck; in mini dress and blue patent shoes; in navy gym slip and emerald green school beret. With pigtails, ponytail or waist-length red hair; with horrid, unflattering specs and braces on my front teeth. I see my little, curly-haired sister, hear her laughing; see my father in his tweed jacket and trilby hat, camera round his neck, sucking one of the peppermints that he was never without, and my mother with her softly waved, strawberry blonde hair and freckles, her wonderful blue eyes (why didn't I inherit them?) sparkling as she makes a slightly smutty joke that gets us all groaning, "Oh, Mum!"

Ghosts of myself flicker around every corner like pieces of the jigsaw of my life; like feathers dropped from passing seagulls whose cries take me right back to nights when the booming of ships' sirens in the night would remind me that I was not alone and that soon, dawn would come to remove the monsters from inside the wardrobe. A few weeks after my mother died, the gardener was mowing the lawn when he looked up and saw my mother waving to him from the bedroom window. I wonder if she is still there, haunting our old house? We sold it in 1996 but it's changed hands several times since then and is currently up for rent. There are too many ghosts of my own past in Liverpool. The place calls to me. I feel it in my gut. But I know I must resist.

Going back would not be healthy for me. It would negate all the efforts I made to leave, to hitch-hike down to the Big Smoke (where I soon discovered the streets were paved, not with gold, but with chewing-gum) and make my fortune: well, at least achieve my dream of working in publishing. I must resist the pull of the ghosts, yet, is the lilac tree still there in the back garden, with the vaporous shade of my dad's striped deckchair beneath its boughs? And our old cats, Sandy and Cloudy: do they still haunt the rockery, springing out at the shades of long-dead mice? See what I mean about not being healthy? I would die of nostalgia if I ever went back to live anywhere near my old home. No wonder they call it home-sickness. It's a sob in the soul, a moan in the memory, a tug on the ancestral umbilical cord. And yet...

The End of the Line

I live in a place where, it is said, old lags come to hide and grow old and die. Hillingdon is an anonymous, end of the road, out in the sticks place. I don't know who would choose to live here unless they were brought up here, or are studying at Brunel, or working at Heathrow. I have met a few ex crims round here, including Mad Mick the Murderer, someone who used to play chess in gaol with John McVicar and some others who it's safer not to mention. Just last week, a Mafia boss was flushed out who had lived here undetected for twenty years.

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/aug/08/sicilian-mafia-boss-arrest-uxbridge-domenico-rancadore

It's that kind of place. Nondescript, suburban, where nobody really knows their neighbours. Where every street culminates in a grotty main road full of cheap curry houses, nail bars full of illegal Thai and Vietnamese girls who by night turn tricks in the flat above, and estate agencies that vanish as fast as they have appeared.

Here, I cannot wear the clothes I used to wear in north London. I can't be myself. I would get stared at and mocked in my beautiful embroidered velvet coat. It has remained in the wardrobe for six months, ever since I last wore it to go to an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. Acceptable clothes here mean duvet jacket, leggings and boots. I can do acceptable, but I'd rather not.

But tonight, I went out loud and proud in my gorgeous velvet coat and purple dress for a pre-birthday meal. I met my friends in a local restaurant where the acoustics were so bad that we had to bellow in order to converse, being drowned out by a table full of twenty teens next to us. Looking round, everyone was in their teens and twenties. We were by far the oldest. But the food and wine were good and I was enjoying myself until...

Until I came back from the loo to find the friend who was treating me to dinner (apart from the £20 I'd thrown in for a second bottle of wine) having a stand-up row over the bill with the waitress, who looked most distressed. After the waitress had departed, I asked what was wrong and was told that my friend had objected to the fact that the card machine automatically added the tip on. I didn't see the problem, but she was irate and it meant we left on a sour note, with the staff, who had been so sweet and so willing, glaring after us.

As usual at weekends, the tubes weren't working and, this being the end of the Metropolitan line, our North London friend, who had borne the brunt of the replacement bus service to get here (two hours door to door from NW to West London), decided to get the express bus to Shepherds Bush. The rest of us planned to go to a music gig at a pub that started at 9 pm. By now it was 10 pm. We nobly agreed to see our friend onto the bus first.

Bus stations aren't beautiful at the best of times. They are places of brutal architecture, of gales blustering round sharp corners, of mumbling winos and slumbering junkies and people who would rather be any place but here. They are like holiday resorts at the end of the season, when sex and heat have gone into hibernation, leaving behind echoing footsteps of desolation and lost lovers and a wind that wraps dead leaves and chip papers round your ankles. They are the hub of shattered dreams, broken sleep and soon-to-be-slit wrists. They are not places to celebrate your birthday in. Yet 35 minutes later, we were still standing there like loonies, waiting for the bus that never came because, when I checked the timetable again with wine goggles that were starting to defog, I discovered that the last express had left at 9 pm.

The non-express came and I got on it, together with the Primrose Hill pal who wouldn't see his bed before midnight. I am now back home, with it having been banged home to me even more forcibly than usual that I am not an end-of-the-line person. I didn't hitch-hike from Liverpool to London in 1967 to end up living in the place where old criminals come to die. Me and my velvet coat have bigger plans than that. Beam me up, Scotty!

Approaching the Denouement

First, let me say it's my book I'm talking about here, not my life! I have been working so hard that my muscles are protesting, my wrists aching and I can hardly raise my left arm above my head. I've just passed the 70,000 word point and have, to my surprise, gathered all my main characters together in one room, Poirot-style. I didn't intend it to happen, but, if you're a writer, too, you know how your characters can gang up on you every so often and take over the action!

So now I have to write the showdown - dialogue, emotions, tears and slaps. I am so involved that I am right there in the room with them, dodging the flak. I think this is the only way to produce authentic-sounding fiction. Author as method actor.

I still find writing without the backing of a publisher a scary prospect. Yet, when I recall all the piddly little royalty cheques - only one was every over £1000 and most were considerably less, in fact I think my last one was £27! - I cheer myself up by thinking that even if I only sell 50 books, at least I'll get a larger share of the profits. Some of my early contracts only gave me a 6% royalty. 6%! That meant the publisher kept 94% and I'd done all the hard work. Yes, self-publishing's got to be better than that.

What the editors want in 2014

Literary Agent Andrew Lownie publishes this very useful round-up every year, using his personal contacts to get the inside gen on what's hot and what's not. I haven't had time to read it all yet, but I'm hoping somebody, somewhere, might be in the market for my latest offering... *crosses fingers*

http://www.andrewlownie.co.uk/2014/01/13/what-uk-fiction-editors-want-2014

Short story competition

Haven't felt inspired to write a new blog entry lately as I have been working flat out on the novel I started six years ago and have suddenly decided to finish. It's the first time in decades that I have written a book with no commission and no publisher lined up, not even an agent to handle it. Gulp!

Anyway, I was reading my daily publishing business newsletter that plops into my inbox and came across this info about a monthly short story competition. The cash prizes aren't great, but hey, anything's better than nothing! I did notice a typo in the website's details - you story' instead of 'your story', which doesn't inspire much confidence. Also, I couldn't read the Terms and Conditions, so who knows what could be lurking there. However, you can read previous winning stories so at least there's some free reading material there!

The March Global Short Story Competition is open for entries.

Begun six years ago, the competition runs every month with a £100 first prize and a £25 prize for highly commended writers.

The competition, which has topped £10,500 in prize money handed out, has had entries from more than 50 countries over the years.

Each month's competition is judged by Fiona Cooper, an author in North-East England, where the competition's organisers Inscribe Media are also based. The competition can be entered at www.inscribemedia.co.uk

The curse of the voucher

We all like to get something for next to nothing and about a year ago, having been badgered by friends who were forever telling me about the wonderful bargains they'd got from Group or Wowcher - cheap holidays, shoes, even computers - I signed up. And soon realised that buying deals wasn't always a case of what you see is what you get.

I have had a couple of excellent, good value spa days; in fact, I shall be having another next Monday in a central London hotel. I've bought enough Oral B electric toothbrush heads to last for the next two years - the toothbrush will probably die before I run out of brushes for it. I have a year's supply of antihistamines for my itchy eyes and drippy nose. All truly useful and good value.

On the other hand, the size L thermal leggings would have been too small for a stick insect and the torch refused to shine. I got the latter replaced, but had to wait weeks for it to be processed, and as the leggings came from Taiwan, I decided it was easier to pass them on to a very tiny friend.

Just lately, having filled my bulging cupboards with everything I could possibly need, apart from a deaf, mute man with a tongue like an anteater and a PhD in computer skills, I launched myself into self-improvement, shelling out £49 for a £499 course in how to build your own website, with a company called Skillsology. The blurb on the voucher site claimed that the course was 'suitable for beginners'. Huh! I reckon I could have done them under the Trades Description Act because, once I'd redeemed the voucher on the company's website, which meant I could no longer claim a refund from the voucher company, I was told that before I could download the course, I had to fill in an on-line questionnaire.

It turned out to be no ordinary, simple, dumbed-down questionnaire, of the 'did you find our p&p charges excellent, good or poor' type. There were 43 questions, they were timed - you had 30 minutes in which to complete them - and you weren't allowed to change your mind and go back, you had to plough on. I looked at Q 1. It was pure technological gobbledygook. I clicked a random answer. Q 2 also made no sense. I only understood one word in three, as the rest referred to things like WX3Z26 protocol, or some such thing. By the time I found myself staring in bemusement at Q5, 20 of my 30 minutes had already elapsed and I had collapsed. I realised I had as much chance of designing a successful astronautical reverse wormhole thruster as I had of correctly answering even one question correctly.

Almost in tears by now, I emailed Skillsology, complaining that the course was absolutely not suitable for beginners and asking if it was possible to get my fee refunded. That was a few days ago. So far, they haven't bothered to reply.

Meanwhile, this morning a friend forwarded a voucher offer for a course on how to format your e-books for Kindle, including designing a cover. Only £29 and sounds just what I need! But then, so did the website one. Let's face it, I'm about as techy as an amoeba. There is no hope. I shall end up like my mum, who gave up on televisions once remote controls were invented. Thank heavens video recorders have bitten the dust. I was still trying to work out how to use mine when they invented the DVD! Though I'm not as bad as someone I know - male, too - who, unable to work a mobile phone, goes out with a walkie-talkie phone. Tin can and a piece of string, here I come!

Bell, Book and Kindle

For the last week, I have been reading a 'real' book. By that, I mean one with a hard cover (£1 in the Sally Army charity shop and the third in Carol Drinkwater's superb Olive Farm series, if you're interested) - one with paper pages to flutter with one's fingers. I tell you, even though it was heavy to hold in bed and my hands outside the bedclothes got very cold, I found it a wonderful, affirming experience and it made me realise that, despite the convenience factor of an e-reader, I shall always have plenty of room in my life for books made of paper.

Of course, not everyone would agree that paper is good and e-reader is bad, so, class, let's discuss the relative merits and disadvantages of paper book versus electronic book. Ding-ding... Start now.

BOOK
Pros
The smell, the feel, the ability to whip back and forth through the pages to find something you want to check or re-read. From a writer's point of view, the sense of triumph at holding your book/baby in your hand, the end product of all those months of hard work. When you look at your groaning bookshelves, the feeling of ownership: indeed, in years gone by, books were bling, a show of conspicuous wealth. They were so expensive to buy, not being mass-produced the way they are nowadays, that they really were jewels in your bookcase. The interesting, sometimes beautiful covers and, in some cases, the pictures inside. The ability to annotate the pages (in pencil, please!). The chance to get them signed by the author. The opportunity to stick a decorative label inside, indicating ownership, if you are prone to lending books out.

Then there are all the other things a book comes in handy for. To prop your magazine against while reading at table. To use as a doorstop. To build a step to help a rickety pet mountaineer onto the bed. To hide illicit love-letters in. To press flowers or a dusty four-leaf clover. As an aide-memoir, to take you back to the phase of your life you were in when you first read the book, which might even bring back an elusive memory of being read to as a babe in bed, from that very book... the smell of Johnson's baby powder and your mother's sweet perfume. And let's not forget the stains that books acquire. Warped, wiggly pages from where you dropped it into the swimming pool in Mallorca when that gorgeous boy pushed you in. The muddy paw-print from a long-deceased pet. Tear-stains between the pages of your poetry book, from when you mourned a departed lover by reading Christina Rossetti, or No Worst, There Is None, by Gerard Manley Hopkins, to a sad accompaniment by Leonard Cohen (try Bird on a Wire, or Suzanne).

I'm sure you could think of many more, so, class, let's move on to...

Cons:
Weight and size. That's all I can think of. You easily couldn't slip Fifty Shades into your handbag, though you might just manage a Mills & Boon.

Tinkle-ding. Are you awake at the back? Sit up and pay attention for now we come to the digital era.

E-READER
Pros
Small, light and brilliant for travelling as it can hold your entire holiday reading library, meaning you can stuff more shoes and bikinis into your suitcase. (Pause... sound of brain being cudgelled. Bam.) Oh yes, you can increase the print size, which can be a very good thing as I have sometimes been put off reading a novel because of the tiny, eye-straining font size. And some of them come with the ability to increase the brightness of the screen, so you can read in bed, or at night on a plane when they turn off the lights, without disturbing partners and neighbours. You can also read red-hot erotica without anyone knowing. I still giggle when I think of how I pasted the cover of a geometry book onto Lady Chatterley's Lover so we could all read the dirty bits in class.

Cons
E-readers are expensive. They can break, or get lost or stolen. You can't navigate through a book as easily as flipping through paper pages. I wanted to re-read a couple of pages of The Goldfinch and my Kindle flatly refused to take me back there, to my immense frustration. (I promptly despatched the book to The Cloud and will look out for a paper copy in the charity shops.) There are no page numbers and, on mine, no option to put them in, so your only method of seeing how far you've got with the book is to look at the stupid percentage sign in the bottom corner, or the other figure telling you how many minutes you are from the end of the chapter. Who cares about that? And doesn't it depend on how fast you read? What a stupid piece of technology.

You can't scribble on e-book pages. You can't turn down the corners of the pages to mark the dirty bits, or the place you were up to. Instead, you have to use a virtual bookmark consisting of a little triangle in the top right corner, rather than a splendid marker of your own choosing (mine has a wonderful description of my star sign, Pisces, on it and a long red tassel). You can't smell e-book pages, or listen to the breeze ruffle them as you recline in your deckchair on a summer day. They are not alive in the way paper pages are. You would never remember what you were doing at the moment you were 42% of the way through Chocolat.

Many e-readers display books in black and white only, so you miss out on the wonderful covers and if there are illustrations or photographs, you cannot see them in all their glory.

Books don't have to be re-charged. E-readers do, which means you have to check if you've got enough battery power to get you from London to Brazil, and you mustn't forget to pack the damn charger for, if you forget it, you will end up buying a real book at the airport, this negating the entire raison-d'etre of an e-reader.

Now we have come full circle, it looks as if the e-reader Con list is as long as the paper book Pro list. But does that mean the paper book has won and the Kindle or Kobo should be banished? Or will technology eventually prevail and all books become historical relics?

Before I toll my bell to banish to Hell whichever of these two word-purveyors is the work of the Devil, let's pause for a moment. Could it be that there is, and always will be, room for both to exist comfortably side by side? I think so. I hope so. E-readers will come and go, in various shapes, sizes and states of development. There will be those who embrace the e-reader wholeheartedly and give away all their books to the charity shop. There will be those who scorn the cold, grey piece of hardware and continue to lug their latest reading material around with them and buy another Billy Bookcase from Ikea when their groaning shelves can't take one more volume.

And there will be those like me, who tread the middle ground; who love their paper books like old friends and still add new ones to their collection, but who recognise the convenience of an e-reader and so divide their reading time between paper and screen, according to where and when they are doing their reading.

Right, class, I'm putting my bell away now and you are free to go. No, not you, Sanjit. I need you to show me how to set up the wi-fi on my Kindle.