Rattle Tales Anthology

Rattle Tales host lively story telling evenings in Brighton, and invited me to read at one of their evenings last October. I'm chuffed they've included my flash fiction in their second anthology, alongside stories by Rattle Tales dynamo Erinna Mettler, Paul McVeigh, and 23 other Sussex writers. For a couple of quid you can download the book here or you can order a printed copy here.

My voice(s)

Beat The Dust invited submissions for their latest literary experiment. They asked for pieces of 500 words or less, taking as the start point an end line you thought good.

I took my line from Jenni Fagan's excellent novel The Panopticon and wrote "Again".

It struck me how the voice I used was at once my own voice, and not my voice. It's how I speak, sometimes. It's not how I speak usually. It is my voice. It's in my head. It feels comfortable, natural. It's not how my mum sounds, but my dad and brothers do. When I go home, back to where I was raised, that voice, a blending of Essex and East London, a sweary shorthand, feels very usual. Now it's published, and I read it back, I feel awkward in case someone thinks it's a patronising kind of mimicry. If you meet me now I probably won't sound like that. If we have a few drinks in the pub I may well do. (I won't ever say "nothink" though, I hate that erroneous "k"). My dad is originally from Ireland. He speaks with a British Essex accent but if he meets up with his family his Irish accent reappears. When I was young it sounded like another language. It's interesting, is it a fake accent or is it his voice?

Seeing as how it's a piece of fiction anyway it shouldn't make any odds. But it does, to me. Hence this post.

I really appreciate the work Melissa Mann does with BTD. I like how she invites us to play and stretch and keep on pushing our words. It's an interesting journal. Oh, and I LOVED choosing my five fave intros. There would be a different five today probably.

Failure

I entered the Mslexia short story competition this year. My favourite writer, Janice Galloway, was the judge, so it was a must. It’s an excellent competition in an excellent magazine. I sent what I consider finished, polished, strong work, and got nowhere. Ah well, that’s the way it goes. I put a flippant post up about it on Facebook, and was heartened by the responses I got, both on the post and in private messages. Many writer friends entered this competition and didn’t make it either. Amongst them are a couple of poets who have collections published, short story authors, again with published collections, and a few published novelists. Professional writers with awesome CV’s entered and failed. That they shared this with me was enormously helpful so I thought I’d share it here in the hope it helps someone else too. I know the quality of these women’s writing. They are damn good. So, let’s remember that another judge may have picked a different final six. What resonates with me may not with you. It’s easy enough to weed out bad writing, but when you have, say, thirty stories all containing good quality writing, it will be about what speaks to the individual reader. If I read the stories belonging to the writers I spoke with on facebook I’m fairly sure I would favour one over the others despite knowing they are all fine writers.

A writer who has judged several competitions told me she only ever sees the entries the first readers have decided should make up the long-list. Who knows, Galloway may have adored my words if she'd ever got to read them, but my genius went unrecognised in the initial sifting process. (Yeah, ok, unlikely, but hey, it's my thought, I can have it if I want.)

 I’ve won competitions before, and I’ve obviously lost them too. Winning is a delightful, validating, endorsement. Losing is a huge blow. It makes you question your worth as a writer. One of the things that was discussed on my Facebook page was that some of the writers had gone back over their entries and were truly surprised to not be able to see obvious edits they could make. I do a great line in self hatred, and the first thought on losing is usually that the story isn’t good enough, and that one was delusional in thinking it might have stood a chance. That’s nonsense, the same story that flops in one place can, and does, succeed elsewhere. That’s not to say improvements can’t be made. Do re-read with a critical eye - change what leaps out, then look for somewhere fabulous to submit to. Keep going. Remember why you write in the first place. I don’t write in the hope of winning competitions, I write because I have this impulse to fictionalise things. It’s part of my being. If I can then share those words and communicate with people, then all the better. If I can get recognition for it, well, better still. Financial recompense would be amazing. I’d love to win ALL the competitions and be published everywhere, but even if I never win anything again, I’m going to keep on writing. Don’t lose sight of the heart of your words. Oh, and to the person who told me (kindly) it might be off-putting to potential publishers to mention failures, I don’t believe that is true.

In his superb book "The Antidote" Oliver Burkeman has this to say about failure:

Fortunately, developing a healthier approach to failure may be easier than you'd think. The work of the Stanford University psychologist Carol Dweck suggests that our experiences of failure are influenced overwhelmingly by the beliefs we hold about the nature of talent and ability – and that we can, perhaps quite straightforwardly, nudge ourselves towards a better outlook. Each of us can be placed somewhere on a continuum, Dweck argues, depending on our "implicit view" – or unspoken attitude – about what talent is and where it comes from. Those with a "fixed theory" assume that ability is innate; those with an "incremental theory" believe that it evolves through challenge and hard work. If you're the kind of person who strives mightily to avoid the experience of failure, it's likely that you reside near the "fixed" end of Dweck's continuum. Fixed-theory people approach challenges as occasions on which they are called upon to demonstrate their innate abilities, and so they find failure especially horrifying: to them, it's a sign that they tried to show how good they are, but didn't measure up. The classic example is the young sports star encouraged to think of himself as a "natural" – but who then fails to put in sufficient practice to realise his potential. If talent is innate, his unspoken reasoning goes, then why bother?
Incremental-theory people are different. Because they think of abilities as emerging through tackling challenges, the experience of failure has a completely different meaning for them: it's evidence that they are stretching themselves to their current limits. If they weren't, they wouldn't fail. The relevant analogy here is with weight training: muscles grow by being pushed to the limits of their current capacity, where fibres tear and reheal. Among weightlifters, "training to failure" isn't an admission of defeat – it's a strategy.
Happily, Dweck's studies indicate that we are not saddled for life with one mindset rather than another. Some people manage to alter their outlook simply by being introduced to the fixed versus incremental distinction. Alternatively, it's worth trying to recall it next time failure strikes: next time you flunk an exam, or mishandle a social situation, consider that it's happening only because you're pushing at the limits of your present abilities.

You can read a little more here.  I'm hoping to learn how to see failure as an essential part of life, and stop being so afraid of it - I'm definitely more of a fixed theory person and am hoping to persuade my mind to allow me to become more of an incremental kinda gal.

Matt

It's hard to believe that there have been five years without Matt. I'm lucky, he's still in my heart, and my head, I can read his words and listen to his music, I can still conjure him, but damn, he's missed. This is track 7 from his album Evenings of Ordinary Sand - 15 Yayli Tanbur Taksimleri, and it'd be good if you took the time to listen (if you feel like it). Matt played the Yayli Tanbur beautifully. Not only was he the best bass player I've ever heard, he also adored more unusual instruments too, the oddest being the trumpet marine. The illustrations are his too.

Julian Barnes - Levels of Life

Divided into sections entitled The Sin of Height, On the Level and The Loss of Depth, this is Barnes on death. I was going to write "having lost his wife to cancer" but know now how much he would hate that woolly sounding phrase, so - Barne's wife Pat Kavanagh died four years ago after being with him for thirty years, and this book is an exploration of loss.

I'm not even going to attempt to write a review, I'm just going to say that Barnes is a superb writer, and this stunning book should be read by everyone. Here in clear, precise prose is the truth of the griefstruck. Essential.

The Antidote by Oliver Burkeman

I don't read self-help books although I have done in the past, when I was young and far less cynical. I loathe positive thinking. I think it's at best delusional, and at worst severely damaging. The early part of this year was pretty fucking tough for me. An endurance. At work one day I picked up the Burkeman book, intrigued by the subtitle "Happiness for people who can't stand positive thinking", and had a flick through. It looked actually useful, and I surprised myself by buying it. To be honest, initially I was most struck by the notion of stoicism and the acceptance of negativity. It fitted with where I was in life, and I took some comfort from what I read. I tried to use it to help me get through each day. As the situation around me improved and I was able to start thinking about getting back to writing, the parts about failure chimed loudly with me. I hope to be able to utilise some of the things I've learnt very soon.

Those of you who know me will be aware I usually wear a skull in some form - jewellery or clothing or a scarf etcetera. My love of skulls began when working at The Museum of Mankind. There was an amazing Mexican Day of the Dead exhibition which I adored. The acceptance of death seems the most sensible thing we can do in order to appreciate life, yet it's hard to find the balance between awareness and fear. So often we blank it out as much as possible so as not to frighten ourselves senseless. I wear skulls to remind myself I am mortal, and also, because they are so darn cute. Burkeman has an excellent chapter on death. 

I feel like I need to refer back to The Antidote - as I read I highlighted pertinent sections and found I'd nearly highlighted the entire book. It's a guidebook to life, and I highly recommend it.

Fiction trio

These are three of the books I have read recently.

"Infinite Sky" is a YA treat.  One hot summer Iris's mother leaves Iris, her dad, and brother, and shortly afterwards a group of travellers set up camp in the family's field, much to her father's annoyance. What makes this novel stand out is how Flood depicts the ennui, struggles, and hopes of youth so brilliantly in this tale of star crossed lovers. 

The Night Rainbow is another sun-drenched story. Set in rural France and narrated by five year old Pea the novel manages to be charming despite its dark shadow of death. Pea plays outside with her little sister so not to bother their sad Maman. And Maman doesn't know that Claude, a man viewed with suspicion by the other villagers, is paying very close attention. A perfect Book Club read, King captures the innocence and wonder of childhood beautifully.

Spellbound proves "Lad Lit" doesn't have to be shallow - this is a bright and engaging collection of short stories that have real depth. Willans respects women, and that comes through strongly. (I imagine he has plenty of female friends.) These “stories of women’s magic over men” combine pathos, wit, and humour, with a sprinkle of romance, love, and cynicism. 

Instructions For A Heatwave by Maggie O'Farrell

Instructions For A Heatwave by Maggie O'Farrell has just been published by Tinder Press and is simply wonderful. As I read I had that delicious feeling of sinking into the novel, trusting the story to unfold beautifully, knowing I was in the hands of an expert. The huge difference between short stories and novels is how one can relax with a novel and savour it over a period of time. It becomes something to look forward to in a day, a treat, whereas a short story has to be read in one go - there's an urgency to it, an immediacy.

Set in July 1976 when the UK was in the midst of a heatwave this tells the story of the Riordans, a family who reunite when Robert Riordan, a retired banker, goes out for his morning paper and doesn't return. 

Festering bad feelings between sisters Aoife and Monica come to a head, their mother, Gretta, a familiar Irish matriarchal type (who reminds me of some of my aunts) reveals long held secrets, son Michael Francis and his wife have a relationship at breaking point, and Aoife has carried a secret of her own all her life. O'Farrell reveals their truths with perfect timing. And oh, the pictures she paints are glorious. Her writing is gorgeous, the words slip by, effortlessly creating images and racking up the tension as if in a thriller.

"The beach and water shimmer and refract in the heat; seaweed dries to rocks; sand cracks and powders in the sun."

And aren't you seeing that beach now?

Highly recommended.

Louis CK is absolutely the most fun I'm having right now

Source: google.com via Sara on Pinterest

Born Weird by Andrew Kaufman

The latest fiction from Andrew Kaufman is substantially longer than his much loved "All My Friends Are Superheroes", but Born Weird thankfully shares a lot of the charm and quirky goodness that made his debut such a bookshop favourite (and a genuine word-of-mouth hit). 

The five Weird siblings, Richard, Lucy, Abba, Kent and Angie, don't know they were "blursed" (blessed and cursed) at birth by their grandmother, Annie - "The Shark". The special powers she bestowed haven't enhanced their lives in the way she intended, and as adults each of them struggles. 

Predicting her own demise, Annie instructs Angie to gather her brothers and sisters in Annie's hospital room at the moment of her death, when she will remove the powers. What follows is a very filmic romp as Angie attempts to round 'em up in time. I can see this as one of those cool indie movies; it's very Little Miss Sunshine.

Along the way there's the mystery of their father's disappearance to solve, dodgy haircuts courtesy of the mother who fails to recognise them, a car chase, a pregnancy, a couple of love stories and a fake town. It's a big hearted, entertaining and charming read, which is just as we'd expect.

Snapper by Brian Kimberling

Tinder Press is a new literary imprint from the Headline group. They will publish 10-12 books a year, starting this spring, and according to its associate publisher, Leah Woodburn, their books will be “... books to treasure, books you will want to keep—and our production values will reflect this. We will produce beautiful hardbacks and innovative e-books for first format, followed by paperbacks with strong mass-market appeal.”

The list looks interesting and includes Maggie O’Farrell’s next novel. 

They sent me a proof of Snapper by Brain Kimberling which bears the tagline “Birdwatching’s no line of work for a man…”

Kimberling was “a research assistant for a major study of Indiana songbirds” as is his narrator, Nathan Lochmueller, and Snapper is really a collection of Nathan’s stories in which he tells us anecdotes from his adolescence and life as a young man, closing with a story in which he is about to become a father, and thus, presumably, an adult.

Weaving throughout the stories is the character of Lola, a gorgeous young woman whom Nathan idolises and occasionally gets to be with before she floats away with yet another unsuitable suitor. 

In my time reading for PANK magazine I’ve come across hundreds of submissions by American males which involve guns, hunting, drugs, beer and women. They are staples of American short stories, and I suppose that’s my main problem with this collection, it felt very familiar. However, thinking on, if you don’t read for an American literary journal then it’s unlikely you will have read umpteen similar tales. Crucially these stories are well-written with a powerful sense of place. The author seems to have a love/hate relationship with his home and conveys well both the beauty and the ugliness. Kimberling’s knowledge of birds can be fascinating, but, I confess, at times I felt a little bored. 

The stand out story for me was “Box County” which opens with the line, “Uncle Dart and Aunt Loretta didn’t just come from Texas, they brought it with them.”

It’s an exploration of the difference between the Texan racism of Uncle Dart and the burning hatred of the Southern Klansmen he finds himself entangled with. It has much to say about home and belonging, family, and nature. 

I think this is one of those books that didn’t quite chime with me but will hold magic for others. 

Not really a best of the year with salt

This is not really one of those end of year best lists as it relies solely upon my rubbish ability to recall what I have watched, read, listened to and thought for a whole year. So, instead I'll call it a "thing" - tada:

Keith Ridgway's Hawthorn and Child is my most memorable read of 2012. My review is here and I love that despite reading it in August I am still thinking about it in January.

Honourable mentions to Kerry Hudson's Tony Hogan Bought Me an Ice Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma which fair fizzes off the page, and Jenni Fagan's superb The Panopticon (review here).

2012 began with me adoring Nicki Minaj. She seemed poised to be the smartest, coolest rapper/singer/hip-hopper in the universe. But then… that didn't happen.

I don't know what I did before Spotify, making my own playlists makes me so damn happy. I surprised myself by listening to my "Beans. Cheese. Toast." playlist far more than "Hip Hop Happiness" or "Goodness". Turns out you can't beat damn fine pop. I did really like Mark Lanegan's "Blues Funeral" - it sounded proper. And I rediscovered my love of Pearl Jam.

Telly was Elementary, The Mentalist, Chicago Fire, Home and Away and Neighbours (always) and my absolute fave - Sons of Anarchy. Edit - Oh, and Homeland of course. I am ever so slightly obsessed  with how awesome Clare Dane's nose is.

I took these snaps on New Years Day when I went for a walk on Littlehampton Beach - it was a day bright with possibility and made me feel entirely content. I wish you all a wonderful 2013.

sunseaseasun

Life gets pretty fucksy at times. It's hard. It's not always what we hoped for, not the way we dreamt it could be. I like to reference Dave Grohl, guru of all literary types, when he said "You just fucking play the hand you're dealt." That's all we can do, right? So, I don't have much time for writing, and that makes me feel a bit weird. I process life by writing so not writing means, perhaps, that I absorb a lot of what's happening without dealing with it in my usual way. I've been looking for other ways to stay strong and finding enormous solace in nature. Look at the sea. The moon. Stars. Trees. Flowers. These are the things that help me breathe. And the Prosecco. Hoho. Anyway, I took a couple of photos/snaps in Worthing and they are pretty damn gorgeous. Thought I'd share.

Worthing sunset

Laura Lamont's Life In Pictures by Emma Straub

This is a thoroughly enjoyable read; a book one can sink into and enjoy. We join Elsa Emerson as she lives through the years 1929 - 1980.  Brought up in a theatrical family, we witness as she transforms from little Elsa from the country, to Laura Lamont, Hollywood movie star. The heart of the story is Elsa’s attempt to reconcile both parts of herself, Elsa and Laura, and come to peace with the losses and loves of her childhood. All this takes place against a back drop of film sets, glamour, silk dresses, leading men, money, opulence and fame. The story attempts to also dig beneath the glitz to show the seedier side of life in pictures; characters develop drink and drug problems, actors fall in and out of favour with their all powerful bosses, sex is traded, lives are ruined.

Straub writes well, though she overdoes the references to the two sides of Elsa/Laura. It became a distraction to me to note how many times we were told this was an issue.

The trouble with a book spanning over fifty years is that huge chunks of time must be skipped over. Laura’s love affair with studio boss Irving Green is sweetly told, and her family relationships are interesting. She forms a friendship with kooky actress Ginger, and a close bond with Harriet, the nanny, but there’s no depth. Neither is there weight in her relationships with her mother, sister or children. The novel doesn’t stand up to scrutiny but sometimes it’s best to just enjoy, and so I did. It is a delicious read.

Everything is not ok...

I can't tell you how much I love this image. It was in the weekly brain pickings (You do subscribe to brain pickings, right? It's wonderful - always full of chewy, interesting things.)

Anyway, everything is not ok but some things will be, so this seems pertinent right now. My life is not how I'd wish it to be. It is not how I ever imagined it. I am not ok. But, ya know, I will be. Probably.

Alys, Always by Harriet Lane

I've just finished reading Harriet Lane's debut novel, Alys, Always. There have been many positive reviews and this is a book with a buzz and a big promotional push behind it. Lane was, maybe still is, a journalist, and I suspect she is rather well connected. She writes beautifully. By which I mean she describes things excellently. Looking through the cooly appraising eyes of her first person narrator, Frances, we see, as she does, the objects and decor, the books and foods, the lives of her family, colleagues, friends, and the Kytes, and they are brought to life for us in this way. 

"My parents have set up a picnic table in the garden. 'Isn't this glorious?' my mother says, unpopping foldable chairs and disregarding the rather stiff breeze that is sending the paper napkins fluttering like giant yellow butterflies into the euphorbias." 

It reveals so much about the mother it's really wonderful. Yet at other times the prose  seems overdone.

“Just for a moment, as I stand by the sink peeling a long rosy spiral from the yellow flesh of an apple, I think about all of this and what it means to me.” 

Do we really need both the "rosy spiral" and the "yellow flesh"? Perhaps we do. I'm a far plainer writer, more likely to write "…peeling an apple…"

The story opens interestingly enough, with Frances driving home from her parents and coming across a car accident. She keeps the dying driver company whilst she awaits an ambulance, and becomes the last person to speak to Alys Kyte, wife of famous author Laurence. From this moment on Frances becomes involved in the Kyte's lives. 

I'm baffled by the praise heaped on what seems to be a rather shallow novel. Touted as a psychological thriller it's really not. I was waiting for a twist or reveal to force me to rethink the whole thing, but it never came. It's a not terribly exciting story about a woman who aspires to be more, and have more, but she's not exactly awful about it. It's more a case of worming her way into people's affections with flattery and faux interest. Hardly thrilling. There's a weird bit where she becomes a reader for the same woman that Alys was a reader for, and the whole part feels entirely bolted on as if an editor advised there should be some additional stalky creepiness. 

The prose is delicious but is steeped in the kind of ultra middle-classness that made me think of those times a Daily Mail columnist bemoans the high price of cashmere or something and the whole of twitter mocks mercilessly. As for Frances, well, she's so chilly it's impossible to warm to her. It's ultimately a novel that I found difficult to care about.

By the way, I have no idea why some of this post is double spaced and one quote is highlighted white. I've tried to look at the html but can't make head nor tail!

How The Trouble Started by Robert Williams

Robert Williams is the author of Luke and Jon, a young adult/crossover novel which I loved. How The Trouble Started is his second novel and can be found in adult fiction, however, there is a definite continuation of theme and style in this story of guilt, isolated children and single parenting.

Donald, the first person narrator, is 16. He lives with his mother in Raithswaite, a place they moved to after “the trouble”. We immediately learn that at 8 Donald was involved in an incident in which a 2 year old died. We don’t know how it happened, or how culpable Donald was. He returns to school afterwards but the harassment he and his mother consequently receive results in their move. Donald’s mother is resentful, veering from silent admonishments to loud, angry outbursts in which she rages at Donald for everything and anything. She demands he doesn’t discuss what happened with anyone for fear of reprisals. The incident is the silent burn between them, and the barrier between Donald and the rest of the world.

Inescapable guilt overwhelms Donald to the extent he learns to perfect “vanishings”; imaginary lives in which he is a whole other person, not the boy who killed a toddler. He attempts friendships but feels too awkward and different. In a wonderfully achy part of the story Donald describes his one and only visit to his two schoolmate’s houses. His sense of wrongness is reinforced by the luxury of their homes, the warmth of their parents. 

“Even their mums made me feel out of place. They were bright and friendly, coming back from the shops with bags full of expensive things, handing out treats like it was Christmas.”

After that he distances himself from them and, apart from Fiona, (the only sympathetic female character) a neighbour who he occasionally walks and talks with, is a loner.

When he sees 8 year old Jake in a playground, not fitting in, not dressed in the right clothes, he talks to him and they form a friendship of sorts - Donald making up scary stories, taking him to a spooky deserted house, buying him a can and sweets - and we worry about his intent. 

The fragility of life is never far from Donald’s mind, or ours. The story is short (I pretty much finished it in one go) and as I read on I couldn’t predict how it would conclude, I only knew that I had a worried feeling throughout and I wanted to know how it would end. Taken at face value Donald is extremely naive and his actions become increasingly hard to justify. 

When we learn the truth of the “trouble” it’s satisfyingly murky and neither Donald or the reader is sure which of two memories is the real one.

Williams is excellent at capturing kids that don’t fit; the alienated, the sad, the guilty. His mothers are absent even if they are physically present (in L&J the mum is dead) and neglect their sons. Boys are left to deal with the cruelty of the world, of school and other kids, alone. Occasionally an older man (teacher, neighbour) will show some much needed kindness. With his clear prose and easy voice Williams is able to touch on huge subjects like mortality, memory, guilt and intent without it ever feeling laboured or difficult. 

“… every second I was alive he wasn’t. That every time I looked at the sky, stroked a dog, ate a cake, ran a race, drank a drink, read a book, went to sleep, cleaned my teeth, combed my hair, woke up, sat down, stood up, he couldn’t. And all the things he couldn’t do, his mum and dad were there to see him not doing them.”

Wonderful.

James Meek - The Heart Broke In

I've just finished Meek's "The Heart Broke In" and enjoyed it far more than I expected to. It's curious how one makes snap judgements about authors based on nothing at all. I thought I'd dislike this for no reason I can think of. It's a page-turner of a read; I was always engaged enough to want to know what happened and how it would resolve.  It's one of those sprawling (550 pages) family stories where years pass and we watch the characters evolve. Some of them felt a little sketchy and obvious, mouthpieces for the author to say something about morals, time, mortality, parenting or love. The scientists, the rockstars, the newspaper editor, the postman, the TV presenter - each of these was a clear type.

 Bec and Ritchie's soldier father was killed for not betraying a snitch, the repercussions of this heroic act resonate through the years and provide a core for the novel. Ritchie the rockstar is unscrupulous and utterly delusional about his own goodness. Bec the scientist works selflessly to cure malaria and yet behaves badly to Val, a newspaper editor who sets himself up as moral policeman. Alex (once a hobby musician) is a scientist, as is his dying Uncle Harry. Harry's own son is rather a cartoon Christian, bringing his family up under Bible rules. Meek attempts big things with this book - it doesn't get bigger than Science VS God does it? So it's a commentary on power, media, sleazy old men and young girls - who is exploiting who? And it succeeds in having enough of a story to tie all these huge issues together. Enjoyable but not dazzling.

Just Beneath at The View From Here

I am delighted that my short story Just Beneath has been published by The View From Here. It's a story I read and think, yes, that's my voice. I'm proud of it. A rare feeling - usually I cringe when I see my published words. Anyway, I'll stand by this one and say it represents who I am as a writer. 

Notes

I used to write about some of the stranger, funnier, or more demanding bookshop customers I had. They were always very popular posts and I enjoyed sharing them. Then a couple of pals told me another bookseller/writer had begun blogging about her customers and asked how I felt about it. I said I didn't have ownership on amusing anecdotes, and I felt not much of anything about it. I couldn't see that it was any kind of a problem. Then this person got a deal to publish a book of these ha ha customers. We have some mutual bloggy/writer pals but we're not acquainted in any way. I haven't read the book or her blog. Yet I stopped writing my own bookshop blether because I became self-conscious. I suppose I worried that people would think I was copying her (yes, even though I have blog evidence that I was doing it way back when.) Curious. 

Anyhow, I've just been tidying my desk and come across piles of notes. One includes an exciting message to myself:

THIS UNLOCKS THE NOVEL
Wince at the light
How do you know
How do I know

You may be surprised to hear that this note has not unlocked my novel. In fact I have no clue what it means at all.

Other notes are things I've jotted down about customers. All true.

Scary man shouts that the order I've just given him can't be his as he was told it would take 3 weeks and it's only been 4 days.

A man grabs my hand and kisses it. He leaves a wet patch on my skin and I feel sick.

A man hands my colleague a book. Colleague zaps book and asks if customer would like a bag. Customer shakes head. Colleague asks if he has a Waterstones card? Would he like a stamp card? Customer shakes head and doesn't open mouth. As customer leaves he leans over desk, opens mouth to reveal a froth of plentiful white saliva and spittle, and gurgles, "Goodbye".

Customer asks for a copy of "The Girl With the Dragon Toe".

A woman says she's been harassed by building society staff who called the police when she told them she would smash their windows. She says she always gets in trouble because of her anger. She asks me if she should go upstairs for a cup of coffee or go to church and sit quietly with a cup of tea. I recommend tea and quiet. She asks if I can find her a man. She has a black eye. She says she drinks too much and doesn't know how she got it. She says I am a nice person and asks where I work. I tell her "Here, in the bookshop," and she says she thought I must be a professional carer as I'm making her feel so much calmer. She leaves smiling.

A man asks me to recommend a book. I ask what books he has previously enjoyed and he shouts, "Never judge a book by it's cover."

A skinny man talks with the slowest speech pattern I've ever known. He maintains constant eye contact, monotones, does not smile. 

An angry woman asks if we sell books on how to control anger.