I'VE GOT THE LOOK! (The ziggy zig zag challenge.)

I don't know who exactly started this, but a week or so ago I was tagged with "I've got the LOOK" by the wonderful Lyn Sofras.  She set me the challenge of talking about my latest work in progress. (Apologies for taking my time to fulfil my part of the bargain.) The idea is to search for the word "look" then post some of the surrounding text or paragraphs around the choice you have made.

As there is no such thing as a Work In Progress in my world at the moment, I immediately decided to put my own spin on the challenge. I am currently preparing an e-book for publication in paperback in the New Year, so I have decided to give you an excerpt from that book, LIFE CLASS. It didn't take me long to identify and select  a passage in which there is a lot of looking going on - but it's a variety of looking that is making my heroine extremely uncomfortable. Before I unveil the excerpt I'll first give an overview of the whole book.

LIFE CLASS is about art, life, love and learning lessons. The class meets once a week to draw the human figure. The story follows four of its members - from the respectable to the transgressive - who have all failed to achieve what they thought they wanted in life. They come to realise that it’s not just the naked model they need to study and understand. Their stories are very different, but they all have secrets they hide from the world and from themselves. By uncovering and coming to terms with the past, maybe they can move on to an unimagined future.

Dory says she works in the sex trade, the clean-up end. She deals with the damage sex can cause. Her job has given her a jaundiced view of men, an attitude confirmed by the disintegration of her own relationship. The time seems right to pursue what she really wants in life, if she can work out what that is. Love doesn’t figure in her view of the future - she’s always been a clear-eyed realist - yet her search for somewhere to put down roots turns into a chase after a dream.

Stefan is a single-minded loner. His only ambition is to make a living from his sculpture. So how the hell did he find himself facing a class of adults who want their old teacher back? Although love is an emotion he long ago closed of - it only leads to regret and shame - it creeps up on him from more than one direction. Is it time to admit that letting others into his life is not defeat?

 Fran - Dory’s older sister - is a wife and a stay-at-home mother without enough to keep her occupied. On a collision course with her mid-life crisis, Fran craves the romance and excitement of her youth. An on-line flirtation with an old boyfriend becomes scarily obsessive, putting everything she really loves at risk. 

Dominic is a damaged child. He has lived his life knowing all about sex but nothing about love. If he can only find his mother perhaps he can make sense of his past. But perhaps it is a doomed quest and it’s time to look to the future? By accepting the help and love that’s on offer here and now, he has a chance to transform his life.

Ultimately, LIFE CLASS is about love in its many guises.

Introduction to the excerpt:
Dory has lived in London since starting work in the path lab of the hospital, where she met her partner. Together they set up a private STI clinic. But the relationship has broken down and she has returned to her home town in the West country, where her sister, Fran, still lives. Fran has always been the bossy one in the family. It was her idea to enrol her sister in the life class that she herself attends.
Dory hasn’t done any art since school, and she has never drawn a naked model. Dory arrives for her first lesson late and flustered. The class has already commenced. The students are grouped around the model - a naked male model.

LIFE CLASS - CHAPTER THREE

Had it moved? Dory frowned, looked back at her drawing. Hard to be sure. But the more she studied it the more positive she became. Back to square one. She rubbed out her first sketchy attempt to reproduce this area of the figure. Pencil poised she raised her eyes again and this time she saw the movement – the slight pulse and thickening – as it shifted a few millimetres. Well aware that it was a part of the body that men – poor things – had no conscious control over, Dory was still surprised. Had she thought about it in advance she’d have assumed that posing naked in front of a room full of strangers would have a depressing effect on the male genitalia.

Not that she was bothered; she’d probably seen more cocks than most of the people here had eaten hot dinners, so why should this one’s twitchings give her problems? It was what men did with it that caused the trouble. She just happened to be one of the professionals who had to deal with the fall-out. But men, sex and the day-job were off the agenda today. In her personal life, it could be that men and sex were off the agenda full-time. She gave herself a mental shake. Get on with what you’re here for.

Now, glancing at his face, Dory saw the model was looking at her. No. Not just looking, staring. Look at the rest of the figure, she told herself. Her gaze swept over his reclining form, identifying the patterns and shapes; her hand tentatively followed across the paper, attempting to reproduce the angle of the head, the slope of the shoulder, the splay of hand on thigh. It was then she noticed his reproductive paraphernalia was on the move again. Drawing from life was hard enough without this added distraction.

Dory had known she’d find the class challenging. The reality was even harder than she’d suspected and the model was in on the conspiracy to defeat her. She wished she could have caught her sister’s eye to share the joke, but even if they’d had an unobstructed view of one another, Fran was behind the model. Dory looked around; no one else had her grandstand view. The tutor was standing at an easel just a metre or so away, dark brows drawn together as he worked on his own drawing. Not much tutoring going on, Dory reflected. From his angle, even if unaware of the life model’s disconcerting stare, he must have noticed the waxing and waning of his genitalia. But what could he have done about it?

Typical of her to have been the sole latecomer, and then to find her new drawing-pad so tightly sealed in its crisp plastic wrapping that it gave new meaning to the word ‘rustle’ as she tried to extract it. Typical too that she should find herself in this full-frontal position. All the other students – some standing at easels, others, like her, straddled over low benches, called donkeys – had arranged themselves in a semi-circle behind or to the sides of the mattress on which the model reclined. She’d only had a moment, after making her apologetic late entrance, to exchange a quick smile of recognition with Fran, before a man quit his own easel and, with an audible sigh, approached her. For a split second she felt she recognised him, but immediately discounted the idea. There was no one amongst her acquaintance with shaggy dark hair like that, no one with a close-cropped dark beard.

After pointedly looking at his watch the man moved his own easel to one side then dragged one of the low benches forward to take its place. ‘Use this donkey,’ he’d said, giving her no alternative. ‘Here’s a board. You’ve got paper? I’ve asked everyone for an accurate drawing. Pencil.’
Thankful to be able to settle quickly, with minimal added disruption to the rest of the class, she was not about to object to her view of the model, even if she’d known it would give her extra problems. ‘Don’t get bogged down with detail.’ Again the tutor checked his watch. ‘Forty minutes left.’ With no time to feel intimidated, she just had to put pencil to that first virgin sheet of paper and start.

Apart from her sister there was no one in the class she knew. She was on her own in this private struggle. Story of my life at the moment, she reflected, wondering why she was even doing this. She had recently made a resolution not to allow others to organise her life for her and yet here she was doing something her sister had pushed her into. Typical of Fran to come up with an idea that she thought was a good one then steamroller it through......... 

 Last but not least, I'm supposed to tag 5 more ‘ziggy zig zag’ writers and let them know they've been tagged so that they too can share their current work in progress with the rest of the blogging community! I've chosen  a group of writers who are very different from me and from one another. I know they'll all bring something special to "I've got the LOOK"!

Kit Domino
Jo Lambert
Melanie Robertson-King
Carol E Wyer
Joanne Philips

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

I have been very lucky. The reviews so far received for TORN and for LIFE CLASS have been complimentary. My overall star rating is nearer to 5 than to 4.  That was until I made TORN free for a few days.

Now, I  understand that receiving bad reviews is a rite of passage, that making your book free is laying you open to this likelihood, and you have to take it on the chin.

So instead of creeping away wounded, I've decided to share it with the world.  But I've added another favourable review to counter-balance my 'stinker'.

Reader and Writer says:
Someone who gave this 5 stars mentioned the 'brutal language' at the beginning as setting the tone for the rest of the book, and I agree, it certainly does, but not in a good way. I'm no prude, far from it, but it annoys me when writers think the only way to create gritty characters and hard-bitten plots is to pepper their writing with expletives and ugliness. To me it just underlines the lack of creativity and ingenuity in the writing. Use swear words by all means, but understand they have far greater impact when used sparingly and appropriately.

The opening page is one big cliche - someone waking up with a hangover, regretting the night before, etc etc - is so, so unoriginal, neither do I want to be told about vomit. We know it happens. If you must describe a hangover, find something different to say about it. That's what creative writing means, for goodness sake.

Really sorry, some might enjoy this but it's not for me.

*

Fair enough.  Horses for courses. But what does someone else have to say? 

Susan Russo Anderson says:

TORN pulled me into the story of Jess from the very first paragraph. The book is a wonderful piece of prose from a gifted author with a unique voice. It is a romance with a twist, a slice from the life of Jessica Avery. On the one hand, TORN is about a thirty-something single mom who escapes a violently abusive relationship and the hassles of a stressful job in London, yearning for peace and stability in the country.

But on a deeper level, TORN is about the effects of abuse, the lurching starts and stops, the choices of an abused woman who in many ways is broken as she searches for a new life and a proper home for her child, stumbling along the way.

Listen to the rhythm of Ms. Allan's prose as Jess speaks:
"'Tonight marks a fresh start. A new life. And I'm determined to get it right this time.' With the words-and all the underlying unspoken implications-she felt the up-swell of elation, the utter conviction that re-making her life would be easy."

Jess's quest is more than she bargained for, however, and she falls into the arms of one man, only to fall into the arms of another.

TORN chronicles Jess's coming of age, if you will, her growth as a person, and the novel's scenes--those with her friends and with her child, Rory, who during the course of the narrative, has milestones of his own--include her romantic relationships with men in quite detailed and beautifully written prose. In fact, the sex scenes are masterfully written. A tightly-written novel, all the scenes, including those in the bedroom, have a purpose: they move the story along and illuminate the characters, especially Jess.

Ms. Allan has created a very complex character in Jess, totally believable, one who surprised and, at times, angered this reader, and the novel centers around her growth. And the minor characters, Danny, James, Rory, Sean have their own special voice. For those who want a compelling romance a finely written story told with rich prose, TORN by British author, Gilli Allan, is a must read.

*

So what’s New? And could it be 'The Next Big Thing'?

....with thanks to Chris Longmuir, who invited me to take the baton.

What's new? Well, apart from holidaying in lovely Cornwall a couple of weeks ago and being blessed with a spell of rare and gorgeous weather, and even more recently spending a few days in equally sunny Cambridge (which is also very lovely in its own right), I have just accepted the Next Big Thing challenge. But true to my very awkward nature, I have decided to cheat a little with the spirit of the question.

Yes, mine is ‘a big thing’, and it is what’s happening ‘next’, but it's more of a revival than something new. My third book is about to be published in paperback, with Create Space. As I have designed a completely new cover for this edition, I have decided to re-launch the e-version of the book with the same, new, front cover image. This all happens on September 22nd. So, in answer to the questions....

1: What is the title of your book?

TORN (first published as an e-book, May 2011).

2: Where did the idea come from for the book?

Torn grew from a momentary glimpse. I was the passenger on a car journey to Somerset. We passed a turning on the left - a narrow lane sloping steeply down to the huddled centre of a village. Though the road we travelled along was by no means a new road, it was apparent it had been built to by-pass the village.
As all this registered, the thought which sprang to mind was: "I bet those villagers were pleased to have the main road re-routed." But it was swiftly followed by the qualification: "Though I doubt the people who lived up here were so impressed!" I went on to reflect that real life is almost always a compromise between competing demands. Things are never black or white, with right or wrong answers. Although a disputed bypass was the initial ‘jumping off’ point for TORN, it was only one of many threads in the final story.

3: What genre does your book fall under?

Though I understand the need for labels, that doesn’t make it any easier to answer this question. I write contemporary women’s fiction but if you want to narrow me down any more than that, I'm afraid I am unable to identify a sub-genre. So I’ve invented my own - Reality Romance.

4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

This is a really difficult question because I have such a strong visual image of my characters. No actor I can think of perfectly matches the picture in my mind’s eye. But the best I can come up with are as follows:

Jamie Cambell Bower will play Danny Bowman. Jess wakes to find him in her bed after a New Year's Eve party. What on earth has she done?

We need to hop back in time to cast Timothy Dalton, in his prime - at around the age of 35 - to play the part of widower James Warwick. James gave up his career in advertising to take on his late in-laws' farm. Danny is his farm worker.

I’m glad I’m not a casting director! Although Emma Watson is still too young, is probably too tall and has the wrong colour eyes, she will play Jess. Single mother, Jessica Avery, is in her early thirties. She's left her 'ex' and moved to the country to find peace and a simple life, and to concentrate on being a mother. But an abusive relationship isn't the only element of her past she's trying to escape.

5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

She may have escaped her past but can she ever escape herself?
[Jess believes she has put her old life behind her. In the country it will be easy to live a ‘good life’. But in the face of temptation old habits die hard and she is torn - between the suitable man and the unsuitable boy.]

6: Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

After the demise of my first publisher I struggled for many years to find another or, failing that, to find an agent. I gave up in 2011.
So TORN is self-published, as an e-book http://www.amazon.co.uk/TORN-ebook/dp/B004UVR81Y and now as a paperback http://www.amazon.co.uk/Torn-Gilli-Allan/dp/1477517014#reader_B004U36DIG

7: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Approximately a year.

8: What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I have no idea. I leave comparisons to my readers.

9: Who or What inspired you to write this book?

Inspiration is a strange beast - who knows what is going on in the subconscious? I have various answers to the “Are your stories autobiographical?” question. There are always a few autobiographical elements in my books. These may be tiny, hardly more than flicker, or they may be large, but that doesn’t make my stories autobiography. When writing fiction, the real is made unreal, not because you are trying to disguise something, but because the people, places and incidents from true life won’t fit the story you’re making up. They have to be re-imagined.
Hands up - there have been a couple of incidents in my life which have directly inspired a whole book, but usually I am already in the midst of the process when a memory springs up, and I think “Oh yes, I could use that.”
So, if you really want to know, I did draw on memories of an old boy friend when writing TORN. I also used a remembered incident I witnessed in Streatham High Road. Beyond that I am unwilling to go.....

10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

TORN faces up to the complexities, messiness and absurdities in modern relationships. Life is not a fairy tale; it can be confusing and difficult. Sex is not always awesome, it can be awkward, embarrassing and it has consequences. You don't always fall for Mr Right, even if he falls for you. And realising you're in love is not always good news. It can make the future look daunting.

In a week’s time, on Wednesday 26th September, five writers will tell you about their own ‘Next Big Thing’.

Margaret James www.margaretjamesblog.blogspot.com
Paula Martin http://paulamartinpotpourri.blogspot.co.uk/
Kit Domino http://kitdomino.wordpress.com/
Suzy Turner http://suzyturner.blogspot.co.uk/
Bea Davenport http://www.blog.beadavenport.com/#home

Holiday in Cornwall

View From our bedroom window

Polperro

Mediterranean weather in Fowey

Misty Padstow

Tregirls Beach

Towards Polperro

Towards Polruan

Lansallos

Lansallos

Front and Back cover of the paperback.

I was trying to find an image which conveyed the sense that you can never take anything for granted. Even the most inviting prospect may have hurdles and snags.

Re-launch of TORN.

If you follow my blog you will know I have been battling with a cover design for the launch of TORN in paper-back. (It was not actually the design which caused me the headache but formatting it correctly so that it would fit the template.) I am also using the same front cover for a brand new e-version of the book. Here's a sneak preview.

Launch date the 22nd September! Put the champagne on ice.

And another Five stars!

I won't quote all of J. Wilkins review but here are some highlights!

LIFE CLASS: "I loved it. Gilli Allan is such an accomplished writer, and she manages to combine everything I love about modern fiction....... Although her characters are instantly likable and recognizable, the plotting is not in the least predictable. Gilli Allan always manages to be original whilst remaining rooted in reality. ....These two aspects, character and plot, are tightly wound together in such a way that the motivation of both is completely believable.

She is equally masterful with description...... [and] knows her subject thoroughly and anyone with more than a passing interest in art and sculpture will not be disappointed with the depth of knowledge. It's a gentle and thoughtful, often humorous story. I thoroughly enjoyed it and have no hesitation in awarding five stars."

http://www.amazon.co.uk/product-reviews/B007XWFURQ/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1

A New Review For LIFE CLASS

Lou Graham says: ....A lovely story exploring a group of people who are all from different walks of life but all joined together through their mutual interest in art.

There are lovely sub-story lines between the characters and I enjoyed how each of the chapters focused on one of the leading characters, yet you were not leaving the others behind. It is clear that each person is on a journey, whilst most don’t even realise it.

Well written with humour and emotion. It is a lovely gentle read. This book will engage you and you’ll want to turn the pages to reach the very satisfying ending.

http://lougrahamiiblog.wordpress.com/2012/08/29/life-class-gilli-alan/

I am halfway through preparing my book, TORN, for publication as a paperback, with Create Space. As you may or may not know, I enjoy art and design. I created my last two covers (LIFE CLASS with the aid of my son, TOM) and so felt I would like to have a go at it again.

In creating a cover for the paperback version of TORN, I have gone back to first principles and re-thought the whole thing. Create Space offer various templates, but these are limiting. If, like me, you want to do your own thing, creating a cover from scratch is a complicated process. It is not enough to come up with an image - as I did for e-publishing TORN and LIFE CLASS. Using the art programme on the computer you have to precisely calculate your sizes - front as well as back cover - incorporating a margin for trim and an extra margin for bleed. You also have to incorporate the spine width, which is a variable size according the number of pages. All this was a fairly tall order for someone like me, who is desperately untechie and wasn't even allowed to sit her Maths GCE. Add all that to the fact I was running in and out of the sitting room to keep tabs on team GB's progress in the Olympics!

However, by Friday night I though I'd cracked it. I'd produced a draft piece of artwork with front and back cover joined together. All I needed to do was finesse the final images (see above) and repeat the process.

Since then I've suffered failure after failure. I have my front cover. I have my back cover and spine. But I cannot stitch the two together. I create a template. I import my image and the template immediately shrinks, leaving not enough space to fit the second part of the puzzle - the front cover. I guess this is a sizing issue, and somewhere along the line I have got a calculation badly wrong. But I have checked and re-checked over and over again.

There is absolutely no guarantee that once I have succeeded in creating a single piece of art work, that Create Space will accept it, but until I have something to upload I can't check.

I've posted the covers images I've created for any comments. At the moment I'm in need of a bit of good cheer. I feel like I've been wasting my time - even more so than usual, as I have actually been working hard and actually trying to achieve something.

Phew! Another 5* review - this time from Karen Bryant Doering

Karen Bryant begins by saying:

"Life Class is an adult novel, in the sense that it is a grown up story, about love, life, relationships and the road to happiness and self-acceptance....."

She goes on to give a perceptive and thoughtful overview of the story before concluding...

"I admit to having a love for British authors who bring English villages to life. The author of Life Class, Ms. Allan, does not disappoint. Her characters are full of the rich personality so often found in small towns and she brings them to life with ease and finesse. The protagonists are realistic, warm and easy to relate to, making the story easy to get lost in. The narration does not interfere with the flow of the story keeping it on track and moving forward and the descriptions of village life and locale draw the reader in.

Life Class is a moving story that will tug on the heartstrings of all but the most hardened readers, simply because it is a story of ordinary people who live ordinary lives, just as the rest of us do. How they deal with the situations many of us find ourselves in and the decisions they make is what sets this novel apart from many of its genre. Its warmth and realism bring an extra measure of both heart and life."

Thank you Karen.

For the full review go to: http://www.amazon.com/LIFE-CLASS-ebook/dp/B007XWFURQ

"A Fascinating Story", says Jenny Twist of TORN, in her 5 * review

After her resumé of the story, Jenny goes on to say: "This is an impressive book. Gilli Allan is an accomplished and fluent writer. She uses language well and, so rare these days, correctly. Her characterisation is superb. I found myself getting furious with the shallow and selfish Jess who invariably puts her own desires first, but fell a little in love with both her lovers. The plot is quite different from anything I've ever read before. Most definitely NOT chick lit. But how would you characterise it? Often the best books fail to fall neatly into genres and this is one of them. Gilli pulls no punches and makes no attempt to prettify her characters.

An unpredictable story but an all round very good read."

Thank you Jenny.

For the full review go to - http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A2M7PC37Q1T9G1/ref=cm_cr_pr_auth_rev?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview

Another five star review - this time for LIFE CLASS - from Kim Nash

After reprising the story, Kim goes on to say....

"This is gentle, lovely story and Gilli Allan has such a fabulous way of writing, that you really do feel like you're there with the characters on the outskirts of the book looking in and sharing their most intimate secrets. I had great difficulty putting it down, the pages seemed to turn themselves as I became engrossed in the wonderfully developing plot.

It had a lovely ending which really put a smile on my face and gave me a really fantastic feel good factor for the rest of the day. It also made me think about things that people want from their lives, and that it's important to be doing something that you enjoy. Also that it's never too late to try to do something that you've always wanted to but never quite got round to doing for one reason or another. (I think I'd better start making a list!)

Delightful characters, charming places and colourful scenes made this a book that I thoroughly enjoyed, and I was sad that it had to come to an end. I could have continued to read about these people all day long!"

To read the complete review go to Kim's blogspot:

http://kimthebookworm.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/review-life-class-by-gillia-allan.html?spref=tw

“I’ve always wanted to write a book”

We’ve all been there. You’re introduced to someone new. And what does she reply to the fact you’re a published writer?

“I’ve always wanted to write a book. But I’m just too busy at the moment!”

The intimation is clear - writing a publishable book is easy, anyone can do it. All you need is the time. But maybe I’m being unfair. There are many people who want to write. And, although it’s not unknown, it’s an unusual writer who doesn’t want a mainstream publishing deal. Publication is validation of the creative impulse which made you give a year or more of your life to the book you’ve just finished. You want people to read what you’ve written. You want to feel you haven’t been wasting your time.

The original idea that I might actually try to write for publication was decades before digital was even a gleam in anyone’s eye. The idea came to me while I was ironing. I suddenly thought: ‘I used to write romances when I was a teenager, I’m sure I could knock off a Mills & Boon now.’ (Famous last words!) As soon as the ironing was put away I found a note book and pen, and started. I found a publisher almost immediately after I’d finished that first book, Just Before Dawn (although not Mills & Boon), but it was only after my publisher failed - two books later - that I began to learn what a hard business I’d got myself into. But by then I was hooked.

As every year passes, the road to publication has only got longer, harder and more stony. And when you think you’re almost at the door you’re faced with high brick ramparts. I know. I’ve beaten my head against them for long enough! And even if you’re lucky enough to get a mainstream publishing deal, it’s far from guaranteed to make you a living, let alone wealthy. Those who believe having a book published is the route to fame and fortune need to be put straight. For every J K Rowling there are many thousands who struggle, whose income from writing is only enough to feed the cat, whose contracts lapse and are not renewed. Anyway, you’re more likely to get a mainstream publishing deal if you are already famous and, preferably, young and good-looking!

Your new friend may say: “But self-publishing is easy these days. Look at Amanda Hocking.” Technically it is easy, but to create more than the tiniest ripple you need to work very very hard at the promotion and marketing side of the business. Either that or walk through a magic fairy dust storm. (And by the way, if anyone has a weather forecast for when and where the next MFD storm is likely to occur I’d be more than interested to know.

To be writer you have to be tenacious, resilient, a bit selfish and very obsessive! You write because you have to. And you’ve got to be like one of those wobbly men with a silly grin on his face. He can easily be knocked down, but he’ll spin and fall over and bump his head on the floor, then he’ll always bounce back up, the silly grin still in place.

So when that inevitable introduction happens, and you’re faced with the wannabe writer who thinks it’s all going to be so easy, clench your teeth and keep your hands tightly clasped behind your back. Instead of saying something rude or punching her on the nose, be kind, but tell her some of the above home truths. Most importantly, in my view, if she’s really truly serious about writing a book, she won’t wait until the children are off her hands, until she has more free time, until she’s given up the day job. She’ll start now. If she’s got it in her she’ll find a way. I would say that, wouldn’t I? It’s what I did.

Designing the cover for Life Class.

To tell the story of how the cover to Life Class came about, I have to go back further, to the genesis of the story. I’d attended a life class for years and knew that one day I would write a book with that title. But I had no idea about my characters ... or the plot ... or anything really! I decided that to kick-start my imagination, I needed to choose jobs for my characters. I began to consider my friends. I lighted upon a woman I knew who, at the time, did a very interesting job, a job which brought her into contact with people at a profoundly vulnerable point in their lives. Although the personality, biography and appearance of my heroine, Dory, is nothing like my friend’s, I gave Dory the same job, a lab technician at a sexual health clinic. The assumptions she might make about the people she met during her working day - maybe people she already knew in quite another context - could lead her into misjudgments and ethical dilemmas.

So I had my heroine, but I then I needed a hero. I had another friend who, at the time, worked as an admin assistant to a man who designed and sold fountains. It struck me that designing fountains was an unusual and interesting job. But I was thinking in terms of the artistic and creative side of the job. My friend put me right. Her boss was an engineer not an artist, dealing more in the science of hydraulics and water flow. But the spark had been lit. What I wanted, I decided, was more a sculptor than an engineer. In fact, when I thought about it, why bother with fountains at all? Fountains added an unnecessary complication. After all, a figurative sculptor is someone who himself needs to study the human form, but in a class set-up he would be more likely to be the teacher rather than a student. So there were my bare bones. Fortunately I knew two sculptors with whom I could do research. I could talk to them about their craft, their attitudes to their work and how they went about getting commissions, but more than that, I wanted to know how it felt to sculpt. I had dabbled in the past with clay, but wanted a more in-depth experience. So I signed on for a two day workshop with one of the sculptors I knew, Elisabeth Hadley. www.hadleysculptures.co.uk/ I loved it, and while doing the workshop I took a series of photographs. I also visited a foundry, where sculptures are cast in bronze, so that I had an overview of the process from beginning to end. When I’d finished writing Life Class and was preparing it for publication, I looked again at those photographs I’d taken during the work-shop. In one of them my own clay sculpture is seen in the foreground, the model is reclining in the background. I thought it might make a good cover. Although she is unrecognisable, I asked the model for permission to use the image.

This is the second e-book cover I have produced myself. I have an art and design back-ground and so, when I published TORN, I decided to try to do the cover myself. I enjoyed choosing an image, cropping it, manipulating the colour saturation and the size, then designing the layout and playing around with the different fonts. Although I ultimately did manage to come up with a cover I liked, it was technically quite difficult for me - a computer nincompoop - particularly as I only have the most basic ‘paint’ and ‘photoshop’ programmes.

By the time I came to publishing LIFE CLASS, my standards had gone up. I knew a little more about what was required and knew I should produce a higher quality image. After playing around with the work-shop photograph for awhile I was unable to arrive at a result I was satisfied with, so I talked to my son, Tom. Although he was very busy at the time (he is currently doing a Phd) he volunteered to help me. God bless the internet and computers, which makes it so easy to send documents and images back and forth. In fact, I think Tom enjoyed the respite from his ‘real’ work. He tidied up my effort and put the finishing touches to the final image. So that is how I (and my son) created the cover for LIFE CLASS.

Editing (or making that ugly ill-formed lump into a thing of beauty)

When I was fifteen, I found and reared a fledgling owl. I called him Timmy. I’ll tell you in a minute what this has to do with writing.

Editing is the best bit of writing because every time you do it you’re making your book better. But before you can start the editing you have to have the raw material to work on. Sorry to state the obvious! Writing doesn’t come easily to me. To get the original story out and onto the page is a slow, hiccupy sometimes painful process. It was when I was thinking about the creation of that first ugly, misshapen draft, that the image of my owl came to mind. In the wild, owls eat the whole of their prey, bones, fur and all. They then regurgitate a pellet of the indigestible part of the diet. So, if you’re rearing a young owl, you have to incorporate some of these elements, to keep this mechanism working.

Timmy lived in our garage; I often watched him, sitting up on a rafter, regurgitating these pellets. It looked very uncomfortable; it looked like it took a great deal of effort; it looked like Timmy would far rather be doing something else as he gagged, retched and eventually brought up a surprisingly large and steaming lump of matter.

It’s only after the horrible process of excavating that first draft out of myself, that the fun begins. It’s only when I read the whole thing through that I realise it’s not as bad as I first thought. But even if it is, the ideas about how to improve it start to flow. And it’s not just the way I’ve expressed myself that can be tidied up. New revelations come to me about the characters and their motivations - why did X say that and Y do this? Flaws in the plotline show up, but also the solutions. The story may even go off in new and surprising directions. All of this is like magic and is deeply rewarding.

After we released Timmy we’d leave his food out in the garden. He’d return every evening to eat. Then he stopped coming. One summer night, a year later, we heard a very loud and very close ‘tu-whitting’ . It sounded just like Timmy. My dad shone a torch onto a full-grown owl sitting in our beech tree. As we watched he flew down and perched on the top of the side door to the garage where Timmy had lived. I believe it was him. It was almost as if he’d come back to tell us he was all right.

And I’ve discovered since, Timmy wasn’t a boy. It’s the girls who go ‘tu-whitt’ and the boys who go ‘tu-whoo’.

"Write about what you know." But ... I write fiction?

‘Write about what you know’ is what we’re told, even when we’re starting out in the early years of education. But what does a child know? What real experience can children draw on? Their world is necessarily limited, their experiences - hopefully - benign. To a young child, the imagination can be almost more real than reality. My imaginary world was peopled with princes and princesses, knights in armour, fairies, witches and magic. My son’s was similarly fantastical, but his was a world of ghouls and ghosts and super heroes. His interest then progressed to Orcs and space marine, and their epic battles. When his teacher asked the class to write a story, his were a violent concatenation of explosions and crashes, of severed of limbs and decapitations.

My teenage imagination was drawn to the gothic - to houses riddled with secret passages and priest holes, to heroines held prisoner by evil relatives, to highwaymen, smugglers and pirates. So, to be set an essay about ‘what you did in the holiday’, was not only cripplingly boring, it was also divisive. I would have spent most of my summer in prosaic occupations - drawing, reading and writing, and taking our dog for a walk. Then holidaying nowhere more thrilling than Cornwall. But there were always those who’d been to the French Riviera or skiing in Colorado, who’d visited safari parks or gone sailing. Far safer and more interesting to invent something.

For most of us, it isn’t until you have at least 3 decades under your belt, that you begin to realise what is really meant by ‘write about what you know’. More importantly, you will probably have experience of one or more of life’s big events - falling in love, heart-break, bereavement, marriage, divorce, illness, the birth of children - and now have the maturity to draw something deeper from the life you have lived. But ‘write about what you know’ is still a misleading adage. If you were only ‘allowed’ to write truthfully about what you had personally experienced, you wouldn’t be producing fiction you’d be writing a documentary account of your own life, wouldn’t you?

Fiction is fiction because you’ve made it up. It’s a story! There are some writers who almost make it a point of principle to set their novels in countries they’ve never even visited. I admire their chutzpah but I haven’t their courage, or the energy needed to do the necessary research. I set my stories in a world I know, but seen through the distorting glass of my imagination. And I draw on events that have happened to me, but only after a passage of time has filtered the rawness of the emotions and the crowding, irrelevant detail. The experience is then tailored, nipped, tucked and embroidered, to fit my story.

But the advice to ‘write about what you know’ can also find expression in more subtle and nuanced ways. When writing about your imaginary characters, living in the imaginary landscape you’ve created, with their imaginary problems and their imaginary hopes and fears, you are mining everything you have absorbed about life, about people, about motivation and instinct. And to make your invented characters’ experiences come to life, you call up your sense memories of sight, sound, smell, taste and touch. These may be nostalgic - a hill top in early summer, the fields below gilded by a sheen of yellow buttercups; the smell of the hedgerow, of May blossom, Lady’s Lace and nettles; the feel of the chill, dewed grass against skin; the song of a skylark and a distant tractor. But the sense memories you’ve accrued through your life may equally be horrific, like the jarring impact of a car crash. You still recall the screeching tear of metal, the smell of petrol, singed rubber and asphalt and those long, cold moments of stunned silence, before the first cry of a baby.

Nothing is forbidden to the writer’s palette. Everything you have ever known, seen, felt, smelt, suffered, is there to be used, to turn your imaginary world into a world the reader believes in.

Another Fabulous Review for TORN

"I loved it!" says J Wilkins. "At last, a romance with some meat on its bones, and a set of teeth.

It’s a love story for grown-ups and it’s slightly unconventional themes and considerations bring it right into the here and now. This story of divided love and commitment with its gorgeous rural setting, was right up my street/field!

Jessica the ex-city trader has escaped a violent relationship and takes her small son to a country village, hoping to find some peace and stability. She meets two men; both at opposite ends of the social scale as well as in every other way. As she becomes involved in the lives of Daniel and James, she questions everything she stands for, hopes for and believes in.

Gilli Allan does not hold back in the sex department either. She delivers the goods with the same clarity and honesty as the rest of the narrative, but then it just wouldn’t work any other way. She writes with understanding and insight. Rich in character and visual enjoyment, it is very much a feast of contemporary county life with a good dose of reality.

The plot was clever, with all it’s emotional twists and turns, and the conclusion was just perfect, albeit a little bitter sweet...and yet all perfectly plausible. Find this review on Good Reads or on Amazon.

Inspiration or Perspiration

... Or maybe a bit of both?

I am definitely NOT one of those ‘bubbling geyser’ type writers, whose brains are full of stories just waiting to get out. Inspiration, if it happens, is very welcome. In its absence, the process of finding a new story to write can be slow and tortuous. I’ve described it as like carving a lump of granite with a teaspoon.

The seed that began my book, TORN, was a momentary impression which imprinted itself like a snapshot in my mind's eye. On a car journey to Somerset I was the passenger. I had just a split second to register a turning on the left and a lane sloping steeply down to the huddled centre of a village. It was apparent that the road we were on had been developed into the main road to by-pass this tiny village. At that instant, the random thought which went through my head was: ‘I bet those villagers were pleased.’ But it was swiftly followed by: ‘I doubt the people who lived here were so delighted!’ I went on to reflect that life is rarely black and white. There are always two or more sides to every question.

That was the light bulb moment, but other real experiences from my own life then fed into the developing story - an altercation on Streatham High Road; a party I went to, and its aftermath; an incident recounted to me by a friend who had taken her young child walking on a local hillside. Nothing ever remains exactly as it happened, but these re-imagined episodes begin to form a skeleton in my mind’s eye, around which I can begin to weave a story.

LIFE CLASS was a title waiting for a story. I had attended a life class for many years - so that was the research dealt with - and the name was just too good not to use as a book title. But I had no story.

So I began to think about the people I know. I lighted upon a good friend of mine who did a very interesting and sometimes amusing job. This was the crucial seed which set off the chain reaction and turned on the ‘what if’ part of my brain. If I gave the heroine of my story a job like my friend’s, she would be coming into contact with people - maybe people she knew - at very vulnerable, embarrassing and possibly life-changing moments. More than that, she might make perfectly reasonable assumptions about those people, assumptions which might colour her view of them and give her an ethical dilemma.

Life Class grew from those two elements - the job and the weekly class. Of course, from then on, other remembered incidents and experiences from my own life were absorbed into the story which, once I’d begun it, mixed into the cocktail, along with a generous helping of imagination.

But still it didn’t come easily. The only book which came really easily was the first complete novel I ever wrote - Just Before Dawn. That experience was one I have never repeated. It was as if I had a hotline to the fiction fairy. All I needed to do was open the channel and the story down fed onto the page from goodness knows where.

I wish I could find the route to the fiction fairy every time I write a book!

Write A Rainbow

When I write a book, the setting is almost as important to me as the characters. Although I use a ‘type’ of landscape I am familiar with, I will always reinvent it. I design hills and rivers, roads and settlements. And when it is finished I can see it, as if it is a film. I know its different moods; what it looks like in winter, in summer, when the sun rises, and when the sun sets.

Colour, atmosphere, texture are very important elements of the picture I have created. I love that honey light you get sometimes, particularly in the autumn, as if viewing the scene through amber sunglasses. I love the washed out colours of winter, those cool, pale greys, ice blues and sage greens. And, when I come to inhabit my landscape with my cast of characters, I need to know the colour of their eyes, their complexions, their hair colour and the colours and styles of the clothes they wear, before I can even begin.

But unless you are a literary writer, description has to be handled with caution - a little here and a little there. It is often said that ‘research’ should be like an iceberg. You do it, you know it, but not a lot should show above the surface. If you pile too much onto the reader, it becomes top-heavy and tedious. I feel the same about description. You can trust the reader to fill in what they have not been told. I recently read all the books in a series of UK based crime novels. I am not going to mention the author, he is very successful and I wouldn’t have read the books one after another like that, if I hadn’t enjoyed them, but.... It’s not that I don’t want to have a mental image of the important characters in the novel I am reading, I do, but there’s description and description! The author detailed the clothes of every individual - whether a significant player or a walk-on part. And more than once. I wanted to tell him: ‘Enough! I don’t need to know this. Just give me a hint!’

The other way to use colour is to think of it as a metaphorical concept. Every book needs changes in pace, light and dark, ups and downs, passion and serenity, anger and indifference, loss and success. Unless you alter the mood, your story will be ‘all one note’ and will leave the reader bored or unsatisfied. You could think of it almost like a symphony. The whole has to have a unity, but the lyrical passage has to be counterpointed against a dramatic movement, which is then counterpointed against a reprise or a rondo - the symphony coming, at last, to a satisfying crescendo. I am talking about every genre here - after all, the interplay of human relationships can have plenty of ‘colour’, with or without the added ingredients of adventure, murder, or an invasions by space aliens!

Joining up the Dots (or avoiding the boring bits)

The notion that I could write the book I wanted to read first dawned on me when I was ten. It was my fifteen year old sister who inspired the idea when she decided to write her own Georgette Heyer style Regency romance. Just a few pages long, my story was non-specifically set in the ‘olden days’. I no longer have it but retain a very clear memory. Three women, one a teenage girl, went by boat to visit a lighthouse - the type set on a rocky crag, surrounded by sea. Don’t ask me why, they just did.

The lighthouse was manned by three men, one a youth of sixteen. No sooner had the visitors arrived than the weather deteriorated, trapping them there. During the storm the youth went outside to secure the wave-tossed boat which had brought the women. He fell on the rocks, injuring himself. From then on he had to recline on a sofa while my young heroine tended to his not very serious wounds.

At this point my imagination gave out. I had a sense of the romance of the situation, but had no idea how to convey it. And anyway, there was an awful lot of boring domestic stuff to be waded through about the preparation of meals, walking from one room to another, going to bed, getting up, combing hair and brushing teeth. I continued to write ‘novels’ throughout my school days. Many were started, none finished. They all foundered on the same obstacle. Though by this time I thoroughly enjoyed writing the juicy bits - the smouldering glances, the smoochy dances, the kisses and embraces - I soon ran out of steam writing the connecting passages. And yet I felt guilty, as if it was cheating not to detail the passing of time by giving every dot and comma of my heroine’s life - her journeys back and forth on the bus, her visits to her mother, her shopping trips, her excursions to the launderette. I believed a ‘real’ writer was somehow duty bound not only to describe his character’s adventures, but to describe the minutiae of everyday life as well.

It wasn’t until much later that it really came home to me that these descriptions of the mundane are rarely needed. If it bores you to write a passage, it’s a fair guess that it will bore your reader. Of course you need to set the scene. You need to convey the passing of time. You need to evoke smell, taste, touch and to create a believable world in which to set your story. But unless a minor domestic detail is crucial to the plot - in which case it is cheating not to let the reader know it - then it’s unnecessary to follow your characters’ every move from waking in the morning to pulling the duvets up to their chins at night. You can trust your reader to fill in the blanks. Yet it’s surprising how many established authors still allow themselves to get bogged down in the trivial.

Last year I bought Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy. For the most part I enjoyed it. It was a good yarn, but.... In ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ I became mightily fed up with descriptions of the hero - Mikael Blomkvist - getting up in the morning, looking out of the window, having a shower, drying himself, getting dressed, walking into the kitchen to make coffee, opening the door, going outside, sitting on the veranda, drinking the coffee... ‘I get the picture!’ I wanted to shout at my Kindle.

I admit I may be exaggerating a little to make the point, and I apologise posthumously to Stieg’s memory, but you know what I’m saying. And the point remains valid. You don’t need to join every dot.

More Blog Apearances

I'm grateful to have been invited to visit the following blogs over the last few days. Thanks guys, for your kindness and your support.

http://booktrailershowcase.com/2012/05/09/the-tyranny-of-labels/

http://ros-readingandwriting.blogspot.com

http://lougrahamiiblog.wordpress.com/

Today I am interviewed on Kim the Bookworm Nash's blog.

Thank you for having my Kim.

http://kimthebookworm.blogspot.co.uk/

Another Five Star Review!

Sue Livingstone posted this on Smashwords & on the Famous Five Plus blogspot.

"Gilli Allan has put together a very intriguing tale. I found it difficult to put my Kindle down once I picked it up. I even found myself picking it up in the middle of the night when I was supposed to be sleeping because I couldn't stop thinking about the characters. Given Jessica's choice, I'm not sure I could make it, although in the end, it's the choice I probably would have made. I would like to see a follow up story to this to see how it all goes for Jessica.

Very well written Gilli. Fantastic read!! Go buy the book now! Go, go....scoot!"

Thank you Sue.

Today is Launch Day for Life Class!

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007XWFURQ or http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/156989

Hooray! It's been a rough road to get here and I am aware there is work still to do in promoting my book, but just for the moment, I feel I can relax ... just a little bit.

Today I have been delighted and honoured to have so much support from other writers. You can find me answering questions, or just generally wittering on, on the following blogspots.

http://janicehortonwriter.blogspot.co.uk/

http://margaretjamesblog.blogspot.com/

http://lizbaileywritingtips.blogspot.co.uk/

http://nickywellsklippert.wordpress.com/2012/05/01/centrestage-gilli-allan/

http://famousfiveplus.blogspot.com/

http:/ britishromancefiction.blogspot.com/

http://bookwormink.co.uk/1/post/2012/04/an-announcement-from-author-gilli-allan.html

http://dizzycslittlebookblog.blogspot.com/

Thank you guys. I am very grateful for your help.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.....

I woke this morning, my mind still pleasurably caught up in the dream I’d been having. When I’d properly come to, the dream lingered. I was prompted to think about the iconic opening line of Daphne du Maurier’s ‘Rebecca’, which led me on to the not very startling conclusion that all writers (of fiction) need to be able to dream.

At this point I have to make it clear that, despite the originating thought, I am no longer talking about that thing we do when we’re asleep, although for some, I understand, their night-time adventures can be quite an important wellspring of their waking creativity. I am talking about switching off from the prosaic world around you and allowing yourself to fantasise - to start playing the ‘what if...?’ game.

I am convinced everyone possesses this potential. If you played make-believe as a child, whether it was Cowboys and Indians, Princes and Princesses or Orcs and Hobbits, you were tapping into that ‘let’s pretend’ part of your brain. I am not saying that everyone has a good book in them, few do, but everyone has the capacity to dream. No one would buy a lottery ticket, bet on a horse or consider going in for X Factor, if they didn’t. In many people, however, the child-like part of the brain that devises a scenario, fills it with characters and weaves the ingredients into a story, seems to wither as they grow older and real life takes over.

All fiction writers must hang on to this capacity, although their imaginative life varies wildly from one to another. Some stay in the world of pure fantasy, of fairies, knights and maidens, vampires, time-slip or space travel. Others create a world, which some might argue is still fantasy, by writing erotica or category romance peopled by beautiful ‘cinderellas’ and handsome billionaires. Others create a darker, gritty, uncomfortable world peopled with policemen, low-lifes and serial killers.

In many ways I wish I could put a convenient label on my stories. They don’t fall within any easily pinned down sub-genre like Chick-Lit or Rom Com. If anything, my own imaginative star leads me to subvert the stereotypes of romantic fiction - to people the contemporary world I’ve created with plausible characters, who aren’t drop dead gorgeous, or mega rich, or film star handsome. I give them the regrets and ambitions any of us might have, the strengths, flaws and weaknesses that make them human and believable. And then I throw in obstacles to trip them up and divert them from achieving their goals. The path to happiness, whatever that means for the individual concerned, may not be smooth, it may lead in unexpected directions, but in the end.... Well, you’ll have to read one of my books to find out.

Oh yes ... about that dream, the one that set me thinking. You may not believe me, and it sounds silly in the cold light of day, but I dreamt I was having an affair with Johnny Depp.

LIFE CLASS - the promo campaign starts here.

I was very pleased to be hosted today - April 27 - on Janice Horton's Author Showcase http://janicehortonwriter.blogspot.co.uk/ It was my first date on an extended and meandering blog tour to promote my new book LIFE CLASS http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007XWFURQ Thank you, Janet

Excerpt from TORN

It's a sunny summer's day and James Warwick has taken Jessica Avery for a day out to Oxford, where he was at university. They eventually end up on Christchurch Field........



They put down the bag and spread out the rug. They were not alone; many others had had the same idea. But Jessica felt privileged to be with someone who knew the town intimately, and for whom it meant so much. For a while they simply enjoyed the sunshine in silence. Then James asked: ‘So ... are you going away anywhere on holiday?’

Jessica had been lying down, eyes closed. At his question she sat up, laughing.

‘You sound like my hairdresser.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Not this summer. Anyway, it’s a bit late now. What about you?’

‘Me neither. The finances are a bit....’ James lapsed into silence. They watched a scull slide by on the river, propelled by four powerful rowers.

‘Did you row?’ Jess asked when it became clear he wasn’t going to say any more on the subject.

‘I have rowed, but not competitively. Never played rugger or cricket either. Not here. I was always happy to watch others exert themselves.’

She leant back, supporting herself on her elbows. ‘So? What was your dream, amongst these dreaming spires?’

Another boat slid by. James watched it out of sight. ‘I always wanted to write. After I graduated ... I showed you the Sheldonian theatre, where the graduation ceremonies are held? In Broad Street, next to the Bodleian and the Radcliffe Camera.’

Jess nodded. Her feet and brain still ached from the long tour. If she forgot all other buildings she’d been shown today she would remember the Sheldonian. Its semi-circular perimeter was bounded by a wall topped by metal railings. At intervals, high stone pillars intersected the railings, each one surmounted by a large carved head. The Emperors’ heads, James had called them. The row of austere, curly locked and bearded faces, peered down with classical disdain at the gawping tourists.

‘I went travelling,’ he continued. ‘I’d not taken a gap year so that was how I justified it. Some of the bits of furniture around the farmhouse are from that time.’

‘The coffee table?’

‘Came from Bali. I’d kept a notebook while I was away and when I got back, I started on my magnum opus. My parents supported me while I worked on the book which I had no shadow of doubt would make my name and my fortune. Looking back I can hardly credit how confident I was. I must have inspired them with a similar confidence. But my Dad was quite a bit older than my mother. Although only in his late fifties, he suffered a completely unexpected, fatal heart attack. I knew I couldn’t sponge off Gilda any longer, it just wasn’t fair. Piers, who was employed by the Ad’ Agency straight from uni’, was always pestering me to join him. Said it was money for old rope. So I eventually took him up on it, and eighteen months after Oxford got my first job.’

‘Gilda told me you still do work for Piers, free-lance?’

‘For my sins. The gilt has gone off the gingerbread just a tad. The public are so much more savvy these days. You can’t just be humorous, you’ve got to be ironic. Then irony isn’t good enough, you’ve got to be post-modern, post-ironic. You know I’m trying to sell you something. I know you know I’m trying to sell you something. You know I know you know I’m trying to sell you something. And if your ad doesn’t go viral on the Internet, like the drumming gorilla, then you’ve failed. It can get a bit tiresome.’

‘Sounds like it. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Don’t even bother to think about it. Life’s too short to worry about how to pitch the next deodorant campaign.’

Jessica laughed. ‘Did you carry on with your serious writing?’

‘Only sporadically from then on. I met and married Serena. Then we inherited the farm. It’s only in the last couple of years I’ve seriously tried to get back into it.’

‘What type of book? Travel? Fiction?’

‘A thriller, though it’s singularly failed to thrill anyone I’ve shown it to.’ They sat in silence for a while continuing to watch the river and the other people who’d also come to bask on this sunny riverside meadow.

‘So, how did you end up a city whiz-kid, Jessica Avery?’

‘Like you I was diverted from my original intentions by a friend. I was nearing the end of my PCGE. At a party I met an old friend who’d gone straight into the city after graduating. He was making megabucks and said I could too. I had all the right attributes, apparently. I’d find it a doddle and make a mint. I went for an interview with the Investment bank and that was it. I probably made more money in those few years than I’d have made in a lifetime teaching. So, although I have the certificate, I’ve never actually earned my living teaching, hence my plan to go back to college.’

‘You’re still determined on that? Do you actually need to work?’

‘I’d rather not rely on investment income to keep me going for the rest of my natural. Anyway, I want to work. I’ve been fortunate in this life. Others are not so lucky. I want to put something back.’

‘But in the state sector? By all accounts it’s a pretty soul destroying occupation these days.’

‘But somebody’s got to do it. And with our little ones on the brink of the education treadmill we, of all people, know how desperately needed good teachers are.’ She lay back on the rug again, feeling the warmth on her cheeks and eyelids.

‘Jess? Why are you smiling?’

‘Just enjoying the sunshine. And picturing the first day of school. Just think, in a matter of weeks Sash and Rory will already be at that first important milestone? My son’s life has gone by in such a flash.’

‘True. You’d think our perception of time would be stretched rather than contracted given how much has happened to us both in those few years. Don’t you think it’s strange? Both our kids children the same age, give or take a few months? Both have lost a parent in one way or another? Isn’t there a weird kind of symmetry in that?’

Jessica kept her eyes firmly shut despite being aware that he had leant closer towards her. She didn’t answer; the apparent storybook coincidence of their lives, backgrounds, ages and education was not lost on her. She had considered it often before and found it too pat, too laughably predictable to take seriously. Never one to do what was expected of her she found James’ suitability as a future partner almost claustrophobic. But the future was a long way away.

‘Jess?’ The day was balmy. She could smell the cut grass, hear the chirruping birds, distant happy voices and the occasional, strangulated quack from a duck against the background lap of the river. A warm and tasty mouth connected with hers. Why push him away and spoil this delightful moment?

She only opened her eyes when he pulled back from the kiss. He was still leaning over her, weight on forearms, hands linked above her head. His slightly long, unruly hair hung forward, shadowing his dark face.

‘Jess? You didn’t answer?’

‘I’ve forgotten the question?’

‘It wasn’t really a question.’

‘Well then....?’

‘I commented on the symmetry of our situations? I wanted your thoughts, that is, if you have any on the subject?’

‘Symmetry on its own is not a good enough basis for a relationship.’

‘Plus mutual attraction?’

She shook her head. From an expression of soft-eyed doting, James had begun to frown.

‘There speaks someone who’s had countless relationships.’

‘I didn’t count. That doesn’t make them countless. And they weren’t relationships. They were usually just sex....’

His frown transmuted into a pantomime leer. ‘If that’s all that’s on offer I can do ‘just sex’?’

‘I know. I was there, remember? But it’s not on offer. I am trying to move on. Just because I don’t want to endlessly apologise for my past doesn’t mean I plan to endlessly replay it. And at least, when I did it, it was because I wanted to. It was never a commercial transaction.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Those overnight stays of yours, in London? You allowed yourself to be picked up? Your words. I inferred hookers?’

‘I preferred it that way.’ He sighed and rolled back onto the grass beside her, and stared up at the dappled blue through the overhang of a tree. ‘Answers a need but commits you to nothing.’

‘Exactly!’

‘But doesn’t it leave you with a bad taste?’

‘Depends what you’ve been doing.’

He flinched. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jess!’

‘It still gets to you, doesn’t it, that I enjoy sex? And that was when I was a free agent. I saw no reason to deny that side of my nature?’

‘Look,’ he said, after an apparent tussle with himself. ‘I know the arguments. When I was a lad I lived a free, sexually active life.’

‘Which even included Imogen, I understand?’

‘Did she tell you that?’

‘Why? Are you disputing it?’

‘Not at all. If she says we did, we probably did. I just don’t remember. Anyway, I sowed my wild oats. Then I grew up, got married. I believe in fidelity within marriage.’

‘So do I, and I wasn’t even married to Sean!’

‘And I accept, theoretically, that outside of a committed relationship, what’s sauce for the goose ought to be sauce for the gander. I’m not the dinosaur you seem to think I am. But....’

‘But what?’

He pushed up onto an elbow and stared down at her, his expression troubled.

‘I meant it you know. I wasn’t just spinning a line when I said I’d fallen in love. That’s the problem. It’s why we’re here. Why I’m still trying to woo you.’ He stroked his fingers across her brow then down her cheek to the point of her chin. ‘I love you, Jess. That’s why I find the thought of you behaving promiscuously so fucking hard to handle!’

‘I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry it hurts you. But I had to be honest. I couldn’t allow you to continue to think I was someone other than I really am?’

‘There’s such a thing as too much honesty! You believe in hitting me round the head with it. Think I may have preferred to continue with my misapprehensions.’ There was a protracted silence before he spoke again. ‘What will you teach?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m returning to the previous topic.’

‘Oh. Children I thought.’

‘Ho ho. I meant subject ... age group?’

‘I did a math degree and was aiming for secondary level, originally. Math is important but recently I’ve been thinking, too many kids arrive at secondary school without the basic skills in reading and writing. And by then it’s almost too late. They, of course, are the ones who’ll have to duck and dive, even play truant, to avoid being found out. And they’re the ones most likely to become involved in anti-social behaviour, drugs and crime at worst, or at best, are the people whose adult lives will be blighted by fear of exposure. The able kids, the ones from supportive backgrounds, will always be fine. I want to help those who are slipping through the net. I can’t start a proper course till the new year because Rory is only doing half days at school to begin with but I’ve been thinking about special needs teaching ... something along those lines.’

‘That’s very commendable.’

‘I don’t need to be commended. I’m going to do it because I want to. Incidentally, is there a good book shop in Oxford?’

He laughed. ‘Of course. Blackwells.’

‘Good. I’ve been doing some research on the Internet. Before we go home there are a few books I want to get on dyslexia.’

James’ next comment was unconnected, or if there was a connection he didn’t reveal the chain of thought.

‘Don’t know what prompted him, but Daniel took himself off into town the other day and had his eyes tested. Apparently they’re fine.’

Easter - Been and Gone

Another year, another Easter. 

As with the traditions of Christmas, I get tremendously excited about creating a proper Easter breakfast.  I know this is my OCD coming out - 'proper', in my mind, is the recreation of the family rituals for which my parents set the template.

My father was an artist and a graphic designer.  He worked, as art director and then creative director, for a London advertising agency (it no longer exists) and throughout my childhood he often worked all weekend. I well remember him in our front room,  the dining table in the big bay window set up as a desk, and him sitting there at the drawing board - often fairly bad-temperedly - designing Easter Egg boxes.  I don't recall which chocolate manufacturer these were for,  but whoever they were, they were only one of the many accounts he worked on.   (He could be doing anything from Gordons Gin adverts to Stoddards carpets or Cussons soap)  But I am still in awe of this skill at the paper engineering required to develop an Easter egg box.

The real eggs, which were to be boiled for our breakfast, were painted by my dad. Before cooking each vibrantly coloured egg sat in its highly polished silver egg cup, on a silver stand at the table centre,  silver teaspoons - hooked into a crescent slot between each cup - radiating out like stamen.  Of course, once boiled, the designs faded and the eggs were then broken and eaten - making them the ultimate in disposable art.

(One year I painted the eggs. It was probably 1963.  As there were five of us in our family, I must have done something for the fifth egg, but can't now remember what or who. The other four were caricatures of the Beatles. I have a feeling I might have attempted Cilla Black as the odd one out, but I am pretty sure I didn't try to do a Brian Epstein! )

And beside each Easter breakfast place setting would be the boxed chocolate eggs, for which my dad might well have been the orinating designer.

As we grew older, if anything, breakfast grew more elaborate as we, particularly me and my sister, no longer wanted all that chocolate.  Now we would each have a little gift beside each plate, and one of those fluffy yellow chicks, which are now so prevalent. Depending when Easter fell, there would always be daffodils or an arrangement of Forsythia, or whatever could be gleaned from the garden (preferably yellow).

Imagine our surprise  when we trooped in for breakfast one year, to find the centre-piece of the table was a real bird's nest, complete with a broken egg shell and a chick (a fake one!). Our mother had rescued the nest after it had been left, then kept it safely for nearly a year in order to bring it out at Easter.  And when my son was a toddler, several years running, she made him a large hugely elaborate ginger-bread house.

I'll never live up to those Easters.  Partly because I'm sure I've romanticised the memory and in my minds eye they are far more idyllic then the reality.  Perfection is unachievable.    

Therapeutic Pruning

I've always suspected that taking time out, exercising, doing something entirely different can refresh the brain. But here's the proof.

Every year, as the weather warms and the danger of frost lessens, my husband begins to make noises about gardening. For the most part, he takes on this responsibility, but he knows I don't like him running amok with the secateurs and loppers. I am the pruner in our family. Over the lovely sunny weekend we have just enjoyed, the mentions that 'we' needed to do the cutting-back, increased.

The timing - as always - was bad. I am very busy at the moment. Currently I am in the process of preparing two books for publication. One of them needs a thorough copy-edit and a cover design etc, but the other needs even more radical attention. I am not just trying to reformat it, and to eliminate all the weird things I did while typing it onto the computer (errors which cannot be rectified automatically with Find & Replace) but I am updating the plot and also doing some drastic cutting.

The amount I need to cut is at least 40K words. So imagine my joy last week when I discovered a duplicated chapter - almost a quarter of the excess words gone in one fell swoop. And since then I've discovered another duplicated section. A second 'Whoohoo!' moment.  I've not yet finished going through this tome and there's still a way to go in my 'word-cutting project', but over the weekend I arrived at a point in the plot which needs more extensive revision and updating than anything I've done so far.  The trouble was, I couldn't see how to do it. I was stuck. I fiddled around the edges, I thought about it, I did some social-networking (my displacement activity of choice) but the problem didn't go away. 

I agreed that I would sacrifice my writing / social-networking time to a few hours of gardening.  Despite the lovely weekend it's been chilly and misty in Gloucestershire this week, but on Monday and Tuesday out I went in my gardening fleece with my trusty secateurs in hand. It was strenuous work.  We have quite a few hardy fuscias, buddleias and  patio and shrub roses, as well as a pergola of climbing roses. As I cut out the tangled branches, clearing the muddled centres,  untangling and shortening long brambly stems, nipping out those weedy side shoots that won't come to anything, so the knotty plot problem I was wrestling with in my writing began to resolve itself.   Perhaps the act of cutting out the tangled growth and cutting back and shortening each rose to a sturdy skeleton, had a similar effect on my thought processes? Who knows? 

Two more Great Reviews

This 5 Star Amazon review comes from Lyn:

TORN was a real page-turner and I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know Gilli's characters who were drawn with depth and understanding. Very well written, she didn't shirk from the brutal language at the beginning of the book which immediately sets the tone, or from the love/sex scenes. It's a realistic read with no sugar-coating which will appeal to those who want a 'grown-up' love story with a bit of grit. Looking forward to the next one.

And this one comes from Louise Graham:

I enjoyed reading TORN very much, Louise says. Gilli has written this book so beautifully. It is by no means Chick Lit, but instead a grown up romance novel that is heartfelt and sometime very passionate (but not inappropriately so!). Set in the gorgeous countryside, TORN is about one young mothers struggle to provide a safe life for her child away from danger and everyone she knows, in a strange new place. Before she realises what she is doing, she meet someone who seems so perfect yet has to be hidden from all those around her for reasons that become very clear early on. So much for the quiet and easy life she was looking for.  And how many of us have turned a corner onto an unexpected path...?

Torn is certainly not predictable, but that is what makes it a real page turner with a very strong ending that I never saw coming. Lovely engaging characters that expand and grow with every page you turn, and a story that really makes you think. Highly recommended.

What can I say?  Thanks guys.

Excerpt from TORN.

It's a sunny summer's day and James Warwick has taken Jessica Avery for a day out to Oxford, where he was at university. They eventually end up on Christchurch Field........

......They put down the bag and spread out the rug. They were not alone; many others had had the same idea. But Jessica felt privileged to be with someone who knew the town intimately, and for whom it meant so much. For a while they simply enjoyed the sunshine in silence. Then James asked: ‘So ... are you going away anywhere on holiday?’


Jessica had been lying down, eyes closed. At his question she sat up, laughing.

‘You sound like my hairdresser.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Not this summer. Anyway, it’s a bit late now. What about you?’

‘Me neither. The finances are a bit....’ James lapsed into silence. They watched a scull slide by on the river, propelled by four powerful rowers.

‘Did you row?’ Jess asked when it became clear he wasn’t going to say any more on the subject.

‘I have rowed, but not competitively. Never played rugger or cricket either. Not here. I was always happy to watch others exert themselves.’

She leant back, supporting herself on her elbows. ‘So? What was your dream, amongst these dreaming spires?’

Another boat slid by. James watched it out of sight. ‘I always wanted to write. After I graduated ... I showed you the Sheldonian theatre, where the graduation ceremonies are held? In Broad Street, next to the Bodleian and the Radcliffe Camera.’

Jess nodded. Her feet and brain still ached from the long tour. If she forgot all other buildings she’d been shown today she would remember the Sheldonian. Its semi-circular perimeter was bounded by a wall topped by metal railings. At intervals, high stone pillars intersected the railings, each one surmounted by a large carved head. The Emperors’ heads, James had called them. The row of austere, curly locked and bearded faces, peered down with classical disdain at the gawping tourists.

‘I went travelling,’ he continued. ‘I’d not taken a gap year so that was how I justified it. Some of the bits of furniture around the farmhouse are from that time.’

‘The coffee table?’

‘Came from Bali. I’d kept a notebook while I was away and when I got back, I started on my magnum opus. My parents supported me while I worked on the book which I had no shadow of doubt would make my name and my fortune. Looking back I can hardly credit how confident I was. I must have inspired them with a similar confidence. But my Dad was quite a bit older than my mother. Although only in his late fifties, he suffered a completely unexpected, fatal heart attack. I knew I couldn’t sponge off Gilda any longer, it just wasn’t fair. Piers, who was employed by the Ad’ Agency straight from uni’, was always pestering me to join him. Said it was money for old rope. So I eventually took him up on it, and eighteen months after Oxford got my first job.’

‘Gilda told me you still do work for Piers, free-lance?’

‘For my sins. The gilt has gone off the gingerbread just a tad. The public are so much more savvy these days. You can’t just be humorous, you’ve got to be ironic. Then irony isn’t good enough, you’ve got to be post-modern, post-ironic. You know I’m trying to sell you something. I know you know I’m trying to sell you something. You know I know you know I’m trying to sell you something. And if your ad doesn’t go viral on the Internet, like the drumming gorilla, then you’ve failed. It can get a bit tiresome.’

‘Sounds like it. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Don’t even bother to think about it. Life’s too short to worry about how to pitch the next deodorant campaign.’

Jessica laughed. ‘Did you carry on with your serious writing?’

‘Only sporadically from then on. I met and married Serena. Then we inherited the farm. It’s only in the last couple of years I’ve seriously tried to get back into it.’

‘What type of book? Travel? Fiction?’

‘A thriller, though it’s singularly failed to thrill anyone I’ve shown it to.’ They sat in silence for a while continuing to watch the river and the other people who’d also come to bask on this sunny riverside meadow.

‘So, how did you end up a city whiz-kid, Jessica Avery?’

‘Like you I was diverted from my original intentions by a friend. I was nearing the end of my PCGE. At a party I met an old friend who’d gone straight into the city after graduating. He was making megabucks and said I could too. I had all the right attributes, apparently. I’d find it a doddle and make a mint. I went for an interview with the Investment bank and that was it. I probably made more money in those few years than I’d have made in a lifetime teaching. So, although I have the certificate, I’ve never actually earned my living teaching, hence my plan to go back to college.’

‘You’re still determined on that? Do you actually need to work?’

‘I’d rather not rely on investment income to keep me going for the rest of my natural. Anyway, I want to work. I’ve been fortunate in this life. Others are not so lucky. I want to put something back.’

‘But in the state sector? By all accounts it’s a pretty soul destroying occupation these days.’

‘But somebody’s got to do it. And with our little ones on the brink of the education treadmill we, of all people, know how desperately needed good teachers are.’ She lay back on the rug again, feeling the warmth on her cheeks and eyelids.

‘Jess? Why are you smiling?’

‘Just enjoying the sunshine. And picturing the first day of school. Just think, in a matter of weeks Sash and Rory will already be at that first important milestone? My son’s life has gone by in such a flash.’

‘True. You’d think our perception of time would be stretched rather than contracted, given how much has happened to us both in those few years. Don’t you think it’s strange? Both our kids children the same age, give or take a few months? Both have lost a parent in one way or another? Isn’t there a weird kind of symmetry in that?’

Jessica kept her eyes firmly shut despite being aware that he had leant closer towards her. She didn’t answer; the apparent storybook coincidence of their lives, backgrounds, ages and education was not lost on her. She had considered it often before and found it too pat, too laughably predictable to take seriously. Never one to do what was expected of her she found James’ suitability as a future partner almost claustrophobic. But the future was a long way away.

‘Jess?’ The day was balmy. She could smell the cut grass, hear the chirruping birds, distant happy voices and the occasional, strangulated quack from a duck against the background lap of the river. A warm and tasty mouth connected with hers. Why push him away and spoil this delightful moment?

She only opened her eyes when he pulled back from the kiss. He was still leaning over her, weight on forearms, hands linked above her head. His slightly long, unruly hair hung forward, shadowing his dark face.

‘Jess? You didn’t answer?’

‘I’ve forgotten the question?’

‘It wasn’t really a question.’

‘Well then....?’

‘I commented on the symmetry of our situations? I wanted your thoughts, that is, if you have any on the subject?’

‘Symmetry on its own is not a good enough basis for a relationship.’

‘Plus mutual attraction?’

She shook her head. From an expression of soft-eyed doting, James had begun to frown.

‘There speaks someone who’s had countless relationships.’

‘I didn’t count. That doesn’t make them countless. And they weren’t relationships. They were usually just sex....’

His frown transmuted into a pantomime leer. ‘If that’s all that’s on offer I can do ‘just sex’?’

‘I know. I was there, remember? But it’s not on offer. I am trying to move on. Just because I don’t want to endlessly apologise for my past doesn’t mean I plan to endlessly replay it. And at least, when I did it, it was because I wanted to. It was never a commercial transaction.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Those overnight stays of yours, in London? You allowed yourself to be picked up? Your words. I inferred hookers?’

‘I preferred it that way.’ He sighed and rolled back onto the grass beside her, and stared up at the dappled blue through the overhang of a tree. ‘Answers a need but commits you to nothing.’

‘Exactly!’

‘But doesn’t it leave you with a bad taste?’

‘Depends what you’ve been doing.’

He flinched. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jess!’

‘It still gets to you, doesn’t it, that I enjoy sex? And that was when I was a free agent. I saw no reason to deny that side of my nature?’

‘Look,’ he said, after an apparent tussle with himself. ‘I know the arguments. When I was a lad I lived a free, sexually active life.’

‘Which even included Imogen, I understand?’

‘Did she tell you that?’

‘Why? Are you disputing it?’

‘Not at all. If she says we did, we probably did. I just don’t remember. Anyway, I sowed my wild oats. Then I grew up, got married. I believe in fidelity within marriage.’

‘So do I, and I wasn’t even married to Sean!’

‘And I accept, theoretically, that outside of a committed relationship, what’s sauce for the goose ought to be sauce for the gander. I’m not the dinosaur you seem to think I am. But....’

‘But what?’

He pushed up onto an elbow and stared down at her, his expression troubled.

‘I meant it you know. I wasn’t just spinning a line when I said I’d fallen in love. That’s the problem. It’s why we’re here. Why I’m still trying to woo you.’ He stroked his fingers across her brow then down her cheek to the point of her chin. ‘I love you, Jess. That’s why I find the thought of you behaving promiscuously so fucking hard to handle!’

‘I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry it hurts you. But I had to be honest. I couldn’t allow you to continue to think I was someone other than I really am?’

‘There’s such a thing as too much honesty! You believe in hitting me round the head with it. Think I may have preferred to continue with my misapprehensions.’ There was a protracted silence before he spoke again. ‘What will you teach?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m returning to the previous topic.’

‘Oh. Children I thought.’

‘Ho ho. I meant subject ... age group?’

‘I did a math degree and was aiming for secondary level, originally. Math is important but recently I’ve been thinking, too many kids arrive at secondary school without the basic skills in reading and writing. And by then it’s almost too late. They, of course, are the ones who’ll have to duck and dive, even play truant, to avoid being found out. And they’re the ones most likely to become involved in anti-social behaviour, drugs and crime at worst, or at best, are the people whose adult lives will be blighted by fear of exposure. The able kids, the ones from supportive backgrounds, will always be fine. I want to help those who are slipping through the net. I can’t start a proper course till the new year because Rory is only doing half days at school to begin with but I’ve been thinking about special needs teaching ... something along those lines.’

‘That’s very commendable.’

‘I don’t need to be commended. I’m going to do it because I want to. Incidentally, is there a good book shop in Oxford?’

He laughed. ‘Of course. Blackwells.’

‘Good. I’ve been doing some research on the Internet. Before we go home there are a few books I want to get on dyslexia.’

James’ next comment was unconnected, or if there was a connection he didn’t reveal the chain of thought.

‘Don’t know what prompted him, but Daniel took himself off into town the other day and had his eyes tested. Apparently they’re fine.’