They’re Not Mythical – Part Two

Tea at the Midland

The ‘mythical requests for the full’ of my previous post are very real. Since February, I’ve had a total of three agents requesting the full manuscript of Queen of the World, two of which have ended in rejection. The third arrived in my inbox yesterday and I sent my manuscript on its way. I’m banking on the truth of that often used saying ‘third time lucky’ but I won’t be putting it down to the gift from a seagull I got recently. In my hair and on my shoulder it was. How on earth can that be considered good luck?

A special Queen-of-the-World related THANK YOU goes this month to my holiday guest, Stella (@stellakateT) who sat on my sofa for a fair chunk of her visit reading my novel. On the last day we went for afternoon tea at the Midland Hotel here in Morecambe and Stella made it very obvious she had read, enjoyed and absorbed my novel from a lot of that-bit-where’s and talking about the characters as if they were real people.



My TBR Pile

At the suggestion of Paul Magrs, here is my TBR pile complete with 'small stuffed friend' (Edward has spent his whole life looking serious, bless him. Perhaps he's laughing inside.)
Two of these are re-reads ... the GK Chesterton stories (originally my grandfather's) which I read decades ago & found really funny ... and 'The Man in the Rubber Mask', a fun read that will probably make me want to watch old eps of Red Dwarf again.
And this year I'm determined to learn something about gardening (attempting to grow veg) with Monty Don's help.
Looking at the photo I see my well worn Chronicles of Narnia lurking behind. Would love to read them again one day.

They're Not Mythical

Within a few days of submitting to agents at the beginning of February I was ASTOUNDED to receive what, at the time, I thought of as 'the mythical request for the full'.

I sent off the complete manuscript (all 81,634 words) of Queen of the World to the agent's assistant who asked for it and waited, while trying to crack on with first draft of the second one. She kept in touch as she read it, saying how much she was enjoying it, then emailed to say she'd handed it to the agent. All very encouraging.

After a few more weeks I received a very nice rejection. Basically, the assistant adored it (her word, 'adore'!) but the two agents, who’d both read and enjoyed the whole thing and said that I write 'incredibly well' weren't 'lovestruck' enough.

Well ... you could wait your whole life for someone to be lovestruck!

But I still felt positive. It was all too good to be true anyway. During this waiting time I had several other straight rejections - the sort of thing, when I embarked on this, I expected to get from all the agencies.

And now ... just last week I got another 'request for the full' from an agent who says that my novel has a 'brilliant opening'.

They're not 'mythical'. They're very real and very possible.

And the first one clearly wasn't a fluke.

So I'm waiting again. Waiting and wondering and trying not to get my hopes up too much while making sure they are up just enough. Tricky stuff!

I've just got this bracelet. Perhaps not that clear on the photo but it has 'Queen of the World' engraved on it. The jewellery-loving writer's version of wearing your heart on your sleeve?

My Writing Space and the Blurb for Queen of the World

This my writing space. I love my beautiful oak desk, bought with money from my grandmother. It nearly fills the bay window in my living room and is where I write, think, read, email, tweet, eat and also where I procrastinate - watching TV, seeing the neighbours go by and keeping an eye on the sky.

This week I’ve reached the stage where I’m finally about to submit my novel, Queen of the World, to agents. I started writing it in October 2010 from a 500 word story that wanted to be longer. The first two drafts weren’t written at this desk. They were written at a rickety table from my uncle Bob’s garage. Much of the editing and procrastinating happened at the new desk. And maybe – just maybe - there will be more editing to come.

Everything will be ready to post/email on 9^th Feb. ‘All being well’ and ‘touch wood’ as my mother would say. Anyway, I thought I’d put the short synopsis or ‘blurb’ here …

Queen of the World is a literary-commercial contemporary novel full of tea, toast and tidying, of cloud-watching, time, memory and coincidence. Marjorie Queen is an ordinary woman, except for influencing the weather. Reunited with Hugo, the boy she loved at fifteen and spent thirty-seven years believing dead, she realises her abusive stepfather lied to her. Hugo’s now an artist creating temporary mythical creatures from natural materials. Will Marjorie help him with his last ambitious piece?

My plan for once all the sample chapters with their accompanying synopses and cover letters have been posted? I’m going to get out another short story that wants to be a novel and the few notes I’ve done and start work on the second one.

This week I had a photo and story published on 330 Words called Footprints.

Cheeseman

I have written this for next time I get a phone call asking for a Mr. Cheeseman, Mrs. Cheeseman or Jeanie Cheeseman. I’ve printed it up and put it by the phone. Now I have my speech ready I’m sort of looking forward to the next call.

‘I’ve had many calls asking for Cheesemans. There are no Cheesemans here. I’ve had this number since September 2010 & there’s always been just me – a non-Cheeseman. It’s a lovely name but it’s not my name. I’ve never been a Cheeseman, never will be a Cheeseman and do not want to be a Cheeseman. If there was a man made of cheese here I’d have eaten him and he would be unable to come to the phone. Please tell your computer and all your friends that this number is not a Cheeseman number. Thank you.’

Hope it gets recorded for training purposes …

Strange British Customs

Alexei began to try hard with his English as soon as he moved here. He looked words up, wrote down them and repeated them out loud. Every day there seemed to be something new. He also wanted to get to grips with the many strange British customs he kept encountering.

After a delicious evening meal at his boss’s place, her husband went into the kitchen to make the coffee. Alexei smiled to himself. He folded his napkin carefully and stood up. He walked around the dining table and out of the patio doors into the garden in as overly-camp a manner as he could muster. It was silly but felt great. Just what he needed after that big dinner. Why didn’t they do this back home? Oh, he did love it here. He could sense the others following him and pranced even more outrageously. He turned round to grin at them all.

 His host and the other guests were still sitting at the table. They stared at him, puzzled. The dark-eyed woman, so pretty Alexei couldn’t look at her for long, asked if he had cramp. The boss let out one of her famous outraged donkey laughs. Then everyone was laughing. Alexei stood there in the garden, dew from the long grass seeping over his shoes and into his socks. He felt a fool.

That was over sixteen years ago but he still can’t look at a box of After Eight Mints without cringing.

Summoning the Ghost of Rita Marshall

She appeared just after we’d recalled and recited three of her sayings. Did she really used to utter ‘City desk. Duty pigeon’ when she answered the phone?  Never worked out what that meant but it did amuse her.

 Stella and I were sitting in my living room talking about all kinds of things when we realised. We’d known each other getting on for twenty years but only then discovered we had both previously worked with Rita Marshall, Stella in the early eighties, me in the late.

We dredged up and swapped remembered details and decided it had to be the same Rita Marshall. The children’s names were the identical, both Rita Marshall’s had died in their fifties and no two people would say ‘Up here for thinking, down there for dancing’ pointing to head and feet respectively.

Would they?

Then Stella heard her laugh but I said it was the magpies on the chimney pots outside but soon I caught the smell of smoke in my throat and there she was. Rita Marshall. Taking up room on my sofa. She lifted her cigarette to her well pink-lip-sticked lips, a finger of ash clinging to its end. She held it still, eyes scanning the room for an ashtray. She laughed again.

   ‘I wouldn’t pay ‘em in empty fag packets.’