The Distribution and Logistics Manager Would Like to Say Hello

A year ago, I sat in the dining room of my draughty Victorian house and typed the words that were going to change my life.

“The fire crackles contentedly in the grate. The sound of one child practising the lute for his school concert drifts across from the music room, while the happy laughter of the other two tells me that they have finished their homework without being asked and are now having a jolly good game of outdoor chess.”

And so it went on. As an MTW newbie, I was as keen as mustard and getting ahead with my April blog. I was looking forward to an ACW Writers’ Day, still driving the children to school and college every morning and feeling rather pleased with the healthy amount of freelance writing work building up.

I can’t remember what inspired me to create my annoyingly successful writer. I entertained myself by making her as pretentious as possible (who plays the lute?) Of course, her children would be beautifully behaved. They would never leave all their belongings strewn across the floor, argue over whose turn it was to sit in the comfy chair or forget to do their homework until we were driving down the A12 at 8.40.

I giggled to myself as I created someone who was the polar opposite of myself. Weed-free immaculate garden? Yeah right! Writing studio? Dream on! Bookshelves groaning with the fruits of my labours? As if! And who has an agent? It was fantasy, pure and simple. People seemed to like it. My favourite comment, which made me spit out my tea, was this. “As I was reading the first few sentences, I was thinking, ‘What the heck is she trying to prove?’ and then you went on to say you were NOT Isabella M Smugge.”

For the May blog, I felt something serious coming on. Again, it was largely inspired by social media and the people who seemed bent on making the rest of us feel completely inadequate. There was Isabella M Smugge again, sharing her infuriatingly chirpy status with the world.

“Up with the lark! How blessed I am to live in this beautiful place, which sings to my creative soul. After a simple repast of fresh fruit and yoghurt, I trip across to my writing studio………” You get the picture.

My point was that we all live with sets of brackets in our lives. Often, those “look at me, my life is perfect” posts on social media mask deep unhappiness. I posted and thought no more of it.

That Tuesday morning, 7th May 2020, was one of the most significant days of my life. Lots of you commented, many saying you’d like to hear more about Isabella. I knew she was simply a two-dimensional writing device, but when Tony Collins messaged me after lunch to say he agreed and could I think about putting a couple of sample chapters together, everything changed.

So here we are in February 2021 and Isabella is a person with a husband, three children, a Latvian au pair, a horrible mother, an estranged sister and a venal agent (absolutely not based on Tony). She has a life, issues, character traits and seems unable to write anything without adding a hashtag to it.

Often, I read an article about a well-known writer, or look at the photograph on the jacket and think, “How wonderfully, delightfully glamorous your life must be.” For the sake of veracity, let me share the highlights of the last week with you.

Monday. The day that my copies of Isabella from Instant Apostle are meant to be arriving. Awake early, fretting. Drink two mugs of tea made by husband. Wander around house unable to settle. Reassured by husband. “Just accept that they might not come today, and that’s fine. They’ll come tomorrow.” Arrange and rearrange piles of book wraps, postcards, stickers and bookmarks on dining room table. At 10.30, decide to go to the village and do glass recycling to clear head. Return at 10.45 to see husband and second-born son leaping around in the hall, waving their arms and shouting, “They’re here!” Gibber with excitement. Fall upon boxes gasping, “Look! Look, my books, look at them!” Set everything up for the unboxing video. This goes against the grain for two boomers such as ourselves, but with the fire lit and a thick layer of cosmetics applied, off we go. I intend to be calm, gracious even, but the sight of the books causes me to become slightly unhinged and to start sniffing them. The rest of the day is spent in signing books and passing them to my husband for packing and labelling. My dear friend Danni has messaged several times asking if they have arrived and reminding me that if I don’t drop hers off first, there will be consequences. My husband suggests that after we drop the review copies at the Post Office, we might like to drive down Dallinghoo Road and deliver there, before going round the corner to Danni’s. “No,” I assure him. “She’ll kill me. Seriously.” I am terrified at the thought of actual people, that I actually know, actually reading my actual book. Normally a well-mannered person, Danni seizes the packet from my hands, rips it open and clutches Isabella to her chest. I gibber some more. “You might hate it. And that’s fine. That’s absolutely fine. Just be honest with me.” I can’t remember her reply, but it was forthright. We go home. I see a piece of partially eaten cheese abandoned by the fruit bowl. Turns out my husband was rootling around in the fridge searching for nourishment when the courier arrived. In all the excitement, the cheese got left.

Tuesday. Awake to many messages and notifications, a la Isabella. Everyone is saying they like the book. Phew. More orders have come in. Mr Leigh and I package up a vast number and drive around the countryside for five hours delivering them. Left to myself, I would have been zigzagging around from one settlement to another in a completely illogical fashion. He has a route planned out which works perfectly. Return home to yet more messages, orders and notifications. The first two people have finished the book and message me. “You can’t leave it like that!” I can.

Wednesday. More of the same. Strap Wendy, Susan and Joy’s copies to the back of a tortoise and dispatch them. Package up more books and set off again for a massive drivey round. During this journey, elect husband as Distribution and Logistics Manager. First reviews start to appear. Sit gazing at them trying to take it in. I have written a book. Like, a real one. Discover that at some point in the last six months, I’ve asserted my rights under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act to be identified as the author of the work.

Thursday. Find out I’ve “turned” several people. One only reads romance and yet is devouring Isabella. Another doesn’t read at all, but started flicking through and is now engrossed. Yet another has never read a novel in the forty years his wife has known him and is drinking in Ms Smugge’s adventures.

Friday. More orders, more reviews, more complaints of tiredness due to taking book to bed to read one chapter and being unable to stop. Enjoy Wordy Chat during which Maressa waves her copy around to the chagrin of Wendy, Susan and Joy who are still waiting for theirs (review copy, Maressa. Good plan).

Saturday. Must do tax return. Must write long overdue article. Do neither of these things.

Sunday. Wake up to hilarious message from friend which ran thus. “Now look here. I went to bed to read one chapter and stayed up till one thirty! Duty Churchwarden this morning, so tired.”

I haven’t really had a chance to process it all yet, but I do know that none of this would ever have happened without ACW. Encouragement and advice behind the scenes, generous sharing of experience and time, ludicrous conversations about gold cutlery and musical biscuit tins and of course everything underpinned by our faith in our wonderful God. What a week.

The Distribution and Logistics Manager would like to say hello.

Image by Pixabay

Ruth is a novelist and freelance writer. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, published by Instant Apostle, comes out on the 19th of this month. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities and blogs at Big Words and Made Up Stories. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at ruththewriter1.