More than Writers

  As a new writer I was told very firmly that you never, ever, ever look for your own illustrator. You leave that all up to the publisher. And as far as I’m aware, for a traditional publishing model that hasn’t changed. In fact, Julia Donaldson admitted, on her online course about writing , that she and Axel Scheffler had never had a direct conversation about their work, until creating that course. The publishing world, however,  has changed and if you self-publish, hybrid-publish or write for a different kind of media, you might find yourself working directly with an illustrator. What key things might be helpful to know? I would love to hear your experience in the comments.   Q: How do I choose an illustrator? A (Traditional Publishing): You don’t. Leave it to your publisher. A (Self-Publishing): There’s many ways. You can start by finding another book which matches the style and genre you’re looking for and try to get in touch. LinkedIn is one place you can s...

  As I prepare to visit South Africa probably for the last time after a forty-year association, I have been reflecting on closure. This journey is important to finalise banking matters after the premature death of my daughter in 2020. It will be a journey tinged with sadness yet so many happy memories of my children growing up will linger. The bible teaches us that there is a season and a cycle for everything. It is difficult to grasp when you are young. Childhood seems to go on forever as you long to be a teenager. In your twenties you dream of either babies or a career. Time passes so quickly so before you know it, you’re in the ‘twilight’ years. It’s strange isn’t how one theme carries over to many areas of life.   My garden is going through my summer closing down procedure. The pots are washed. The greenhouse and potting shed have been tidied. Half-hardy and delicate plants have been put inside. Just a little while longer and the dahlias will be cut back and dug up for st...

In September, we embarked on a new season in parenting: both our children now attend the local high school, a bus ride away from our home. Basking in the new-found freedom from wet, windy school runs (you could set your clock by the three-o’clock-downpour), on my days off, I can now remain decadently pyjama-ed until after the children have left the house. On a Wednesday and Thursday, though, both myself and my husband have to leave for work at 7:30, leaving the children with the weighty independence of having to lock up and leave the house, alone at 8a.m. In reality, Son 2 leaves at 8 and Son 1 at 8:10, on the understanding that he has much longer legs and it isn’t the done thing to arrive at the bus stop with your younger brother. Thursday is complicated by the sheer number of bags required by the youngest to equip him for his day: on top of his ordinary school bag (if you have ever seen a Year 7 child at high school, the bag is often bigger than them), he has to take his sports kit...

  I found out that the bus times have been changed. Not surprising, I suppose. After all, I hadn’t been on the bus to Plymouth for almost three years. Now there’s only one bus an hour. Which meant I left home at 3.30 pm to catch the 3.50. The usual half hour journey to the city had been altered, too. Extended in fact, to pick up passengers in places with which I had no previous acquaintance. The bus stop where we were expected to alight was at one end of Royal Parade, and my onward bus stop was at the other end. I began to regret volunteering to bring a weighty supply of courgettes with me. And those lovely blue drinks for the children that their mother would never have bought for them. There’s so much fun in being a grandma, you know! Anyway, I had to pop into Dingles for the loo. This cannot be described as a convenience because it’s on the sixth floor. I headed for the escalator. The peace was suddenly disrupted. A girl of no more than twelve galloped across my path, hooting and...

  Confused by self publishing options? You're not the only one. How many of you have written a book but left it sitting somewhere in a file buried deep in your computer, or even in a dusty drawer somewhere? Hands up! (I’m joining you on that one.) Sometimes there are good reasons for not pursuing publishing. Sometimes we’ve written it for fun, for joy, just to scratch our own itch . Sometimes we’ve written for practice and we know we’ve improved a whole load since so dusting it off probably isn’t the best idea. But what about when we really want to get it out there? For so many people the world of self publishing is confusing and even overwhelming. As I work freelance in this area, I see people who feel they cannot get their head around the possibilities and the technology – and that’s absolutely fine. We’re not all built to embrace tech, and sometimes we just need a little help. So I thought today I’d list some of the main self publishing options that are out there. When you Goo...

Here is the result of becoming complacent owners of a six month-old puppy. When we first had Flossie, everything was put out of reach. Many things still are up high. But until last night, Flossie had not shown any interest in electric leads at all. Gradually I became complacent leaving plugs in sockets with the switches turned off.  Yesterday morning I discovered the lead from the adapter to my laptop has been completely demolished. It is a very neat demolition job, each section measuring about an inch. I’m afraid my first words to Flossie were not commending her on her mathematical abilities. I don't know how long it took her to create the damage, but I do know I spent much of the day trying to source a new adapter with its attached lead, so far without success. In a similar way, I went out of the room about two weeks ago leaving four balls of wool safely in a drawstring bag. I was gone for less than three minutes and came back to a huge web of tangled wool covering half...

  Over the last month I have started to feel as if I am living my writer’s dream. Every day I get up and go to my study (I have a study now!), where my vintage Singer sewing machine table holds all that I need: laptop, notebooks, a box of refills for my Cross ballpoint, a crocheted doll of me in my old work uniform. An old sampler we picked up in a knitting shop encourages me with its message: Be Thou Faithful. Sounds from the harbour drift up from the bottom of the hill and the white houses opposite shine in the morning light. I sit on the bed to read but I’m actually watching the boats come and go. Last month, we took the enormous step of leaving our home, our town, our sons, and my career, to move to Cornwall so that I could do a Creative Writing MA at Plymouth University. So here we are. Back in May, I wrote about the death of a dream. That dream was of promotion at work. But it wasn’t to be. To be honest, I’m glad. This is the dream that was waiting to be realised inst...