Funny You Should Read That

Two Days To Go!!!!

2011-05-24T06:01:00.000-07:00

Oh my life! This is just such an exciting week. First up, the official release date for 'Summer Loving' is now only TWO days away (squeeeeee!) although it is already available in WH Smith Travel outlets (see the pic!)and I know (because I've ordered it, sad thing that I am!) that Amazon have begun shipping today. I know I'm the author, but it really is a book that I am very, very proud to have written and the feedback so far from the few people I know who have received advance copies has been more than generous - 'laugh out loud' and 'tear-jerking' amongst them. So whether you like to sniff into your Kleenex or have a giggle, this book has all bases covered. If you haven't already ordered a copy, click here to do so from Amazon.

Also, there is now under a week to go till the start of the Make for Macmillan Book Week. A pile of wonderful authors, including Katie Fforde, Freya North, Rowan Coleman, Adele Parks, Jenny Colgan, Lucie Hart and many more have all donated books which will be signed with the winning bidder's inscription of choice. This is an AMAZING opportunity to grab a book by your fave author or maybe buy an extra special present for a friend or relative and, as the saying goes, you can't get this in any shop! So, totally exclusive and with all proceeds (the authors are even paying the postage themselves) going to Macmillan, get your cheque books out and prepare to start bidding. It's going to be HUGE.

To see a list of the books available click here

For the site on which the auction will take place - starting NEXT MONDAY - click here

Women Aloud: Audiobook Collection of Short Stories

2011-05-13T11:35:00.000-07:00

With just under two weeks to go until the official release of ‘Summer Loving’, here is some more awesome book news. I was thrilled to be asked to contribute a short story to an audiobook anthology which will be sold to raise funds for the Helena Kennedy Foundation. The Foundation provides support, mentoring and bursaries to enable disadvantaged students to continue their studies and therefore gain employment. It helps people who are economically and socially disadvantaged as well as those with learning disabilities like dyslexia.

I am personally a huge fan of Helena Kennedy’s – she was one of the women who inspired me to read for the Bar and she has, in my opinion, used her position to campaign hard for social justice in a number of fields.

The contributors to the book – as well as yours truly – are Trisha Ashley, Judy Astley, Elizabeth Chadwick, Rowan Coleman, Katie Fforde, Milly Johnson, Catherine King, Sophie King, Carole Matthews and Sue Moorcroft, and it will be available as a download or a CD from late September.

To pre-order your CD please e-mail: womenaloud@shortstoryweek.org.uk

It’s gonna be fabulous!

For more information on Women Aloud click here.

For more information on the Helena Kennedy Foundation click here.

International Chick Lit Month

2011-05-04T02:43:00.000-07:00

It is now just over three weeks to go until the official publication of 'Summer Loving' - squee! I'm feeling very excited and also just a teensy bit nervous as well (as I always do at this point!). 'Summer Loving' is the story of four girls who go on holiday to a Greek island, intending to have the most party-tastic two weeks of their lives...and let's just say it doesn't quite work out like that!
If you would like to pre-order a copy of 'Summer Loving' from Amazon (and I really hope you do!), click here.

Fittingly perhaps, May is also International Chick Lit Month. Hurrah! I am (as you might imagine) a huge fan of chick lit so a whole month celebrating the feisty heroines and witty writing that makes it (in my modest opinion) one of the freshest-feeling, most vibrant genres around, sounds like a fabulous idea. I was asked by Steph of Chick Lit Club to blog on the subject and my post - why chick lit has all the best heroines - can be read by clicking here.

Keep up to date with International Chick Lit Month throughout May 2011 via Chick Lit Club, Novelicious and Chick Lit Is Not Dead.

Happy reading!

What's in a Name?

2011-04-28T05:39:00.001-07:00

It's always interesting being called Spencer during any big royal event.
Of course, we're not actually related to the Spencers - or at least I don't think so. My father, bless him, is secretly still convinced that if we scour the old family tree hard enough, we will run into the Spencer-Churchills and he can enjoy being fourth cousin five times removed to Winston himself - the fact that our ancestors seem to come from rural Derbyshire and number furniture making and customs officers amongst their occupations does not appear to dim his expectation.

I first felt the weirdness of having a famous-name-by-proxy during the aftermath of Princess Diana's death. I was working in London at the time and the headlines in the national press and The Evening Standard seemed to permanently carry my name. Even though I knew I had nothing to do with the stories themselves, there was always a split-second delay whilst my brain worked this one out. And it wasn't just me - I was actually asked on a couple of occasions if I was 'a Spencer': I always said no (although I am, of course, literally, A Spencer), and, in one memorable instance, I came out of court to see two ushers look at me and one say 'well, she does have a family resemblance...'

In fact the nearest I ever got to Diana was almost running slap-bang into her, my arms full of files, at the solicitor's office where I worked and where she had instructed one of the partners to act for her. As I approached a set of double doors that led out onto the stairwell, they were flung open from the other side and a small entourage marched passed me, including the princess herself in a yellow suit. Thirty seconds later and she was gone; ships in the night and all that malarkey.

The name thing has now passed on to one of my brothers whose work colleagues have made the leap that he is, in fact, one of those Spencers. They made the assumption all by themselves but he is - happily - playing along with it and cryptically mentioning that he's busy this weekend because he has to go to a wedding.

However, unless my invitation turns up at the last minute, I shall - like the rest of the world - be watching the other Spencers and their chums rock up to the wedding of the year without me. Hope it goes well for Wills and Kate and, even more, I hope she enjoys being part of the family! We're not so bad once you get to know us.

Short and Sweet: Some Ideas About Short Stories

2011-04-16T06:44:00.000-07:00

I don't normally 'do' short stories. Although, to be even fair, I did write an awful lot of them when I was at school - ah-em - more years ago than I care to remember; and, to be even fairer, I wasn't that bad at them either. However, with my writing time being so limited over the past few years, I have only been able to concentrate on the job in hand (ie my WIP). Short stories, like Twitter and, sadly, my blogging, are something I haven't had much time for. However, with both kids at school, I hope I can change that and, in the past few weeks, I've not only been writing but thinking about the short story in quite some detail. So I thought I might throw a few ideas out there in case anyone else is thinking of picking up their pen. And, even after (cough, cough, splutter - insert the number of years since you had to write one at school) I promise it is well worth your while - and not just because there are far more competitions out there for unpublished short story writers than novelists.

Point 1 The Short Story Is Not a Mini-novel

The raison d'etre of the short story is that it is short. Natch. In fact, shorties for publication these days seem to be around 1500 - 2500 words max. There is even the fashion these days for so-called 'flash fiction' which is 1000 words or less and, at its most reductivist, no more than 55. This is obviously very, very short.

However, because they are both written in continuous, narrative text, it is tempting to think of the short story as being the novel's little brother - but this is not the case. They are completely separate art forms and what works in one should not necessarily be sauce for the gander.

Or something.

In terms of screen space, 2500 words on my laptop works out as four and a half pages single-spaced. That is not a lot of time to introduce characters, arcs, plot, setting, ambiance and a twist in the tale. It's not even as long as an average chapter in one of my novels. In my humble opinion, therefore, if you do find yourself staring down the barrel of this sort of wordcount, you are probably better off abandoning the idea of a full 'story' and looking instead at conjuring up a narrative linked to one (at most two) events. There simply won't be room to do justice to anything else. One of my favourite short story writers is Saki, who can write a gripping, memorable and gobsmacking story in very few words simply by relying on the power of atmosphere, suggestion and a completely killer twist. (Try 'The Reticence of Lady Anne at http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/766/)

When planning my most recent shortie, I made myself imagine a single narrative event and then attempted to write that event in such a way that the outcome was (hopefully) unpredictable till the end of the story. This does mean that as a writer you have to be careful when you select your core event that it has the potential of heading in more than one direction. An alternative is to work very hard to build the reader's expectation in one direction - and then throw in an unforeseen twist at the end a la Saki.

Point 2 You Will Need to Bring All your Writing Expertise to Bear Upon The Story, Even If It's Short

A short story is not necessarily an easy option. Personally, I think 100k novel is a darn sight more simple to write than at 2,500 short story, but maybe that's just me. Even though it is short, you will still need living, breathing characters; a sense of place; conflict; atmosphere; and a beginning, middle and end - and you won't have much room for any of them. However, remember that beginnings, middles and ends don't necessarily mean you have to write about a series of related events: they can relate to character development, revelations about the setting or situation, or even changes in the understanding or point of view of the main character - all you need are a logical progression of ideas, some conflict and an eventual conclusion. It also helps if you think through the arcs of all your characters - no matter how small the part they play. Arcs give drive and structure to your story and can quickly deliver a strong sense of character - when space is limited, two-for-one deals like this are the writer's friend. Grab with both hands!

You will also be using a proportionally greater amount of your word count on building atmosphere and situation than you would in a novel. Again, make those words work hard for you: build up your atmosphere but then also use that atmosphere to feed into your conflicts, characters and storyline.

Point 3 Try And Focus On a Single Idea, Theme or Image

This can be exceptionally powerful when space is short, particularly if you are using more than one event to form the structure of your plot. Themes and images will help to keep the story as a dynamic, coherent whole and you can use them as foils to throw other characters and events into sharp relief. One short story which has stayed with me since school is DH Lawrence's The Odour of Chrysanthemums (http://shortstoryclassics.50megs.com/lawrencechrysanthemums.html) where the flowers weave in an out of the story as they have done through the main character's life, linking together the past and the present. Although the story involves a number of themes and exchanges, the chrysanthemums link the narrative together flawlessly.

Focusing on 'one' idea may sound limiting but it is in fact highly flexible. One of the great advantages I believe the short story has over the novel is that movement in time and space is much easier in the short story - provided you always return to a central 'anchoring' point. You can examine a couple's past, look at hopes a character might have for the future, flit hither and yon in the mind of a first person narrator - all in a way that would feel clumsy and out of place in a novel; the only requirement is that you always return to that central idea. (And then, if you are Saki, twist it at the end and turn the whole story through 180 degrees and have everybody say how completely brilliant you are).

Finally, if like me you prefer the opening up of possibilities rather than the tying up of threads as an ending, remember that it is considered perfectly acceptable (and actually, quite intellectual) to leave the end enigmatically open. This is great for two reasons: firstly, it allows the reader to chose their own ending (readers like this!) and, secondly and cynically, it saves you valuable words that you could use elsewhere in your story.

So go on, get writing. It's only four pages.

Make for Macmillan

2011-03-30T10:48:00.000-07:00

This is soooooo exciting! It's the end of March and that means...less than two months to go before the launch of Summer Loving, my new book and - even though I say it myself - a sizzler of a summer novel!

However, BEFORE that happens, the most brilliant book event is due to take place at the end of April and I am chuffed to be a part of it.

Clare and Shelley, the totally brilliant brains behind the 'Make for Macmillan' campaign, will be holding a week of live book auctions - the chance to buy books by your fave authors AND raise some cash for an extremely worthy cause. Watch out for more info here as we get closer, but as you can see from their Facebook page, the line up so far is beyond impressive. Do visit the Make for Macmillan pages to check it out - and bid on the gorgeous, gorgeous handmade items they are auctioning RIGHT NOW.

Go and check it now - click here and start thinking about which ones you are going to bid for!!!

Funny, I can't read that...

2011-03-20T05:37:00.000-07:00

I am dyslexic.
I didn't find out until my second year of an English degree, when one of my tutors told me that he had no idea how I'd managed to get a place at university, that I was going to fail my degree and, even if I didn't manage that, I would certainly fail his section of it. Luckily, they weren't all like him and, with the support of another member of staff, I was subsequently tested, diagnosed with dyslexia and given strategies for coping with my written work. (And, in case you were wondering, got a 2:1 over all and came out of my first tutor's exam with a borderline First.)
Ha!
The problem is, it isn't an easy condition to live with. I do not suffer from the severest forms it can take, but am still constantly embarrassed by my spelling and grammatical mistakes, hate the amount of time it takes me to get to grips with complex pieces of written work, cringe at the difficulties I have in remembering people's names (yes, really: that too is a common dyslexic symptom), find it hard to read music because the notes seem to wobble and am forever mixing up my right and my left.
Having said that, though, I don't want the condition to limit what I can and can't do. People are often surprised, given my various career choices, that I have a specific learning disability (as it is known in the trade): English Degree, MA in Medieval Studies, law and now writing novels are not part of the expected CV of a dyslexic. None of them give any slack: I have to be as good as the competition despite the dyslexia - or I go under. No one is going to make excuses for me.
And I wouldn't want them to.
So this was me and how I saw my life - until last week, when I learned from the school that my eldest child could well be dyspraxic. Now, I had suspected dyslexia for a while: familiar symptoms were starting to rear their heads in his school work - messy hand-writing, words spelled as anagrams of themselves, words with letters missing, sentences with words missing, lack of organisation and co-ordination on the page - I could go on. However, as soon as I began to look at lists of dyspraxic symptoms - some of which overlap with dyslexia - I saw where the teacher was coming from.
My immediate reaction was relief - fantastic! The fact he struggles doing up a zip and has messy handwriting is explained away! Then there was sadness: my child is going to have to struggle like me. To achieve the same marks as his peers, he will have to work harder than them for no extra reward.
And then, after the reaction of a couple of friends, I got into thinking about labels and whether we are too quick to label our children as 'not quite right', and the effect this might have on them.
And my response was quite emphatic.
I think, in our society, we already label people. Every day. In every conceivable way. Other people are better off/worse off/cleverer/stupider/have better jobs/nicer cars/better educations/more holidays/larger houses/smaller houses than us. We are always defining others against our own achievements or failures; always trying to ascertain if their grass really is any greener. This is nowhere more pronounced as our education system which now constantly assesses and grades children; comparing child against child in a way that would have been unthinkable thirty years ago. Parents and kids (myself included) get sucked into the grading/testing cycle and worry about whether our child is really a 4b when they should perhaps be a 4a or even a 5c. There is so much middle class parental energy expended on this, they could run the National Grid off it.
So my child is already labeled by the education system. And, if he is dyslexic/dyspraxic, that school attainment label may be selling him short. My view is that at least if we know, we can do something about it, even if it is simply to roll up our sleeves and work harder to make up the shortfall.
Because I know from experience that without labels such as dyslexia, the child will be given other labels such as 'lazy' or 'a daydreamer' or 'needs to pay more attention' or even - as I was by my university tutor, 'stupid' and 'unintelligent' and 'a failure'. That way lies nothing apart from a vortex of increasing frustration, sadness and loss of self-esteem.
So fine,whilst we live in a label obsessed society, let's go forward with the positive labels too - and as far as I'm concerned, dyslexia and dyspraxia are positive. If my boy is dyspraxic, so be it - he is in some illustrious company and I won't let it hold him back for one moment. The news that Daniel Radcliffe aka Harry Potter was dyspraxic cheered my son up enormously. Frankly, if you can be that good at quidditch, nothing on earth is going to stop you succeeding in life.

For more information on dyslexia, click href="http://www.bdadyslexia.org.uk/">here

For more information on dyspraxia, click here

For a list of famous dyslexics, click here

Summer Loving

2011-02-28T04:41:00.000-08:00

I noticed today that the fabulous Chicklit Club have given my new book, Summer Loving, a head's up - thank you guys! So I thought it was about time that I shared the cover and a few little tasters on my blog. Even though I have had some lovely covers in the past, I think this time the cover fairy has been especially good to me: I love it! The story is about four friends from uni who get together eight years after graduation for a holiday on a Greek island. Needless to say, the sun, sea and relaxation they had in mind doesn't quite materialise and my heroine, Beth, finds herself trying to hold things together - with comic as well as (almost)tragic consequences.

Watch this space as I'll be dropping a few little previews and exclusives as we get nearer to publication time!

Summer Loving is published by Arrow and will be out on 26th May. It is currently available to pre-order from all the usual outlets.

Hollywood Daze

2011-02-28T04:04:00.000-08:00

The new book is now officially 'in' and I am waiting for the copy edits to come through. However, there is no rest for the wicked and I am already pondering the various plotlines and characters for my next novel. As a writing exercise - and to give my brain a bit of a break in between books - I spent ten days or so watching roms coms/chick flicks to see if I could pick up any writing tips. Yes I know, I know, I write novels, not screenplays, but I reckon it is always useful for any writer to try and see how the guys in other genres do things - and I think I learned a few valuable lessons.

Lesson One: Make sure your screenplay has a really strong central hook.
Basically, this means your story has an original, inventive and easily graspable idea at its centre. For example, The Wedding Date starring Deborah Messing works on the basic premise that a girl hires a male escort to accompany her to a wedding where her ex is the best man - and then falls in love with him. Simple, concise, compelling and with loads of comic potential. Or how about PS I Love You, where the heroine's husband dies, but she receives a series of letters from him helping her rebuild her life. Having a brilliant central concept makes sense from both an artistic and a marketing point of view: a strong starting point should automatically set up tonnes of conflict and suggest storylines which will help carry your plot through to the end PLUS (and don't under estimate this one!) it will make the story easy to pitch and sell. In Hollywood, you would be expected to come up with a 'log line' which sums up the story in one sentence. Also useful for novelists wanting to pitch to agents and publishers - give it a try!

Lesson Two: Give yourself a smart, funny, vulnerable but ultimately feisty heroine with whom your audience will identify and root for all the way through.
This is vital for both screenplays and novels. You wouldn't want to read a book where you couldn't stand the central character or thought she was a bit of a wimp. We read/go to movies to be entertained, but we also go to see a bit of ourselves reflected in the central character and you need to have one you and your audience can look up to. Sure, give your heroine flaws; of course she needs to have a vulnerable, human side to her - but ultimately give her the personality and intelligence she needs to triumph against all the odds and you'll have a winner on your hands.

Lesson Three: Make sure that your plot and character arcs are as strong as your initial idea.
There is nothing more disappointing than a book or movie which has a superb initial concept and then fails to deliver. The disappointment stays with you for ages (I still feel let down by Men in Black even now. Sigh) Sadly, Letters to Juliet affected me in a similar way. The idea of the wall in Verona where people still write letters to Shakespeare's most famous heroine - and receive an answer - was stunning. And I also liked the idea that the love story chosen for the plot involved an older woman (I'm all for mixing it up age-wise!) but the actual plot was so predictable and pedestrian that I felt cheated. Eleven out of ten for the initial idea and the first half an hour of the movie, three out of ten thereafter. Don't do this!!

Movies are a very useful tool for the novelist looking to hone their craft: a film must achieve everything a good novel needs to on the plot/character/structural front - but it has to do it in an hour and a half (which is why that strong central idea is essential). So go on - get out the DVDs and have an afternoon on the sofa. After all, it's all in the name of work!

There and Back Again

2011-02-15T02:42:00.000-08:00

Hello again. You probably won't remember me, but I was the short one with the blonde hair who used to do a blog about writing...

Actually, the past few months have been a bit of an emotional (and work) roller-coaster. The good news (in fact the veryveryveryveryveryvery good news) is that in May I was given a contract by the lovely people at Arrow - only I couldn't tell anybody about it for a while (hell on earth for a blabbermouth like me). They wanted the finished book in by the end of January which meant an awful lot of graft - I think I took Christmas Day off, but that was about it. Then, in June, about four weeks after the contract was agreed, we had a shattering diagnosis for a close family member which resulted, five months later in the loss of that person. It was a pretty horrible time and, I'm afraid, one during which I split my time simply between the family and writing the book. Blogs and FaceBook fell rather by the wayside.

So I hope you forgive me.

However, on a happier note, the book is now in - watch this space for some exclusive previews - and work on the next one has already begun. The publication date for Summer Loving is scheduled for the 26th May this year and I am also planning my workshop at this year's Winchester Writers Conference on 'How to Write Like Jane Austen: surely every writer's New Year's Resolution!

In the meantime, stay well

Lots of love,

Allie x

Trashionista Review of 'The Not-so Secret Diary of a City Girl'

2010-06-18T04:35:00.000-07:00

And if my night at the Melissa Nathan Awards wasn't enough, yesterday I read the lovely review by Elle at Trashionista for City Girl. She even gave it a five out of five - hoorah! To read the review, please click here.

The Melissa Nathan Award 2010

2010-06-16T05:33:00.000-07:00

This was a truly amazing night. For starters, the event was being held at the Cafe de Paris, which was beyond glamorous; then there were the judges Jo Brand, Liza Tarbuck, Morwenna Banks, Sophie Kinsella and Joanna Trollope who are all, without exception, idols of mine; and finally there was the fact that the event is held not only to champion the genre of comedy romance (a genre sadly neglected by 'serious' literary people) but also to celebrate the life of Melissa Nathan - comedic novelist extraordinaire - and to continue the charity work she undertook during her life via the excellent Melissa Nathan Foundation: click here to see the work The Foundation does.

The evening began with champagne and canapes as the guests arrived: there were the other shortlisted writers to meet, old friends and acquaintances to catch up with and new friends to make - Melissa's family were there and I had two conversations with her mother who was wonderfully warm, encouraging and chatty. In fact the whole event had a lovely family atmosphere. There were two babies present: Shortlisted author Danny King ('Blue Collar')'s little girl who was ten weeks old and Sophie Kinsella's youngest, only eight weeks old. Also present was Melissa's son Sam (age 7) who, after the judges had summed up all six shortlisted books, gave an extremely moving explanation of the work of the Melissa Nathan Foundation that had most of the audience wiping away a tear or two.

We were called into the main auditorium where Jo Brand bounded onto stage to host the event. She was sensational. I saw Jo live in 1993 and my abiding memory was of my face aching with laughter - it only took about two minutes and it was aching again. We then had a performance from songwriter (and, as it turned out) singer David Arnold and then the judges each celebrated one of the shortlisted books. Jo Brand did mine, beginning by holding up a copy of the book featuring the image of my blonde, barrister heroine on the front and saying: 'As you can see, they put a picture of me on the cover...'

After a short interval we enjoyed a fantastic performance by Neil Hannon of The Divine Comedy who performed a selection of his songs ("I suppose you'll want me to do the one about the bus...") and then there was the announcement of the winner, who was...'Moon-Light in Odessa' by Janet Skeslien Charles. Huge congratulations go to Janet whose book Joanna Trollope describes as 'a book that stays with you for all the right reasons'. All the shortlisted winners received a beautiful trophy (mine is now proudly residing on my mantelpiece) and the evening ended with more mingling, canapes and champagne.

It was a real fairy-tale evening and I feel so lucky to have been part of such a wonderful experience. Melissa was a truly exceptional author and her Award and the work of her Foundation will ensure that she remains a powerful force for good for years to come.

Romantic Novelists' Association Summer Party

2010-05-14T02:52:00.000-07:00

Last night was the 2010 summer party hosted by the Romantic Novelists' Association. As ever, it was a fabulous fest of old friends, new friends, sensational gossip, sensational shoes and the presentation of the 2010 Joan Hessayon Award for the best debut novel, generously sponsored by Dr David Hessayon and presented by the lovely Katie Fforde. This year the shortlist were:
Monique DeVere with her book 'Divorce Etiquette' published by Wild Rose Press
Georgia Hill with 'Pursued by Love' published by E-Scape
and Lucy King with 'Bought:Damsel in Distress' from Harlequin Mills and Boon.

The winner was Lucy King who, because she was both in Spain and imminently about to give birth, was not present to receive her award so she was telephoned with the news by Katie Fforde and we, the assembled, multitude shouted our congratulations down the telephone line to her! I wish Lucy - as well as Monique and Georgia - every success with her writing and hope she has a wonderful year as the Joan Hessayon Winner.

After that it was time for yours truly as last years' winner to do a little speech and, as soon as I'd got over the 'having to stand up in front of lots of people and make coherent words come out of my mouth' bit, I was able to really enjoy the party!
Lots of fabulous RNA writers were present and I also had a good chat with quite a few new authors who are currently on the New Writers' Scheme, run by the Association to promote and assist up-and-coming authors in the romantic genre. What a talented lot we are!

So, with the champagne, the shoes and the friends old and new it was another wonderful evening!

Chick Lit Reviews: Interview

2010-04-22T02:47:00.001-07:00

Well, the sun is out, the sky is (less) blue (than it was now that the planes are flying again and there are vapour trails everywhere) and my interest in the General Election has increased dramatically since I found out we have Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King standing in our constituency as a candidate - although, as a friend of mine pointed out, does he actually need to be elected; can't some watery bint just chuck a sword at him and have done with it?

On another matter lovely Leah from Chick Lit Reviews has just popped an interview with yours truly up on her site, and I thought I'd put a link up. To read what I have to say about writing, the books and plans for the future, click here.

My Name's Ben Elton...

2010-04-16T05:18:00.000-07:00

Not the usual writerly stuff, but thought I'd get a bit topical and mention the 'Leader's (so-called) Debate' that was on ITV1 last night. Not that I watched all of it (or indeed most of it - well, what do you expect, it up was up against 'Outnumbered' on BBC1) but I thought the polictical commentary on it was so startling that it deserved a mention. All the pundits this morning were not discussing policy, or what will happen to the economy if Buggins' party gets elected or anything that actually MATTERS, they are all concerned with 'who did best'. And again, that is not 'who did best and will pull this country away from the brink of a double-dip recession without decimating the NHS in the process' but 'who did the voters like best'. Well, pardon me for getting a bit shouty, but is this what it's come down to? Trench warfare with no actual policies but the winner being the person who got their coloured worm to climb the highest up the ratings for the greatest amount of time??? It's no wonder we have an apathetic electorate. Probably including myself, here. I am aching for some debate, some issues, even - to hell with it -some vision that can inspire us and get us debating and talking about stuff for the first time in years, not all this bunkam about what are, in effect, political beuaty pageants. Where will it all end? Sam Cam and Sarah B staging a cookie 'bake-off' for the media as they do in the USA? Arggh.

Actually, I'd probably just settle for a return of that 80s staple, 'Spitting Image'. Apart from the pleasing prospect of a David Cameron puppet dripping with slime (an homage, perhaps to the Kenneth Baker snail of the later Thatcher years) at least SI had the knack of getting right down to the substance of the matter and presenting it in a way that cut through all the spin-doctoring and political mud-slinging.

Or perhaps that's the problem: there simply is no substance any more and the most important issue in the election will be who has the cleanest shave and the best tie.

Stop Press

2010-04-14T08:00:00.001-07:00

As well as having lunch with my old mates Clive and Clare AND it being my brother's birthday, today was the day that the shortlist for the Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance. Because I'm really clued up, I found out that 'Tug of Love' had made it on to the shortlist when I logged on to my FB page and found people congratulating me on my nomination. Nomination - what nomination? I said - and then spotted the name Melissa Nathan. That was about six hours ago and my hands are still shaking as I type this.

This is the press release:

THE MELISSA NATHAN AWARD FOR COMEDY ROMANCE 2010
We are delighted to announce the shortlist for 2010:
I Heart New York by Lindsey Kelk (HarperCollins)
Wedding Tiers by Trisha Ashley (Avon)
Tug of Love by Allie Spencer (A Little Black Dress Book)
Love Letters by Katie Fforde (Century)
Moon-Light in Odessa by Janet Skeslien Charles (Bloomsbury)
Blue Collar by Danny King (Serpent's Tail)
The Winner will be announced at a gala evening in London on 15th June and we look forward to seeing you there for champagne, canapés, fun and entertainment. All the short-listed authors will receive a trophy, and the winning author will receive a cheque.
The Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance (MNA) is the UK's only literary award dedicated to comedy romance. The judging panel features the writer and comedienne Jo Brand, mega-selling novelists Joanna Trollope OBE and Sophie Kinsella, actor and comedienne Morwenna Banks, and actor and television presenter Liza Tarbuck.
The inaugural MNA was held in June 2007, and the winner was Marian Keyes for her novel ANYONE OUT THERE? In 2008 the winner was Lisa Jewell for 31 DREAM STREET. THE MARRIAGE BUREAU FOR RICH PEOPLE by Farahad Zama was last year's winner.

My gob is well and truly smacked. And wow. Thank you. Wow. (Stumbles off into incoherency...)

Radio Devon

2010-04-14T00:42:00.000-07:00

Had a lovely few days down in Devon last week including another go on the BBC Radio Devon 'Good Morning Plymouth' show hosted by the mighty Gordon Sparks (who my brother - an ardent Plymouth Argyle fan - says is a god). As well as chatting about 'The Not-So Secret Diary of a City Girl', I managed to get the question about the theme tune to 80s computer games wrong, which just shows you shouldn't commit yourself on public record without checking your facts first: Manic Miner was 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' by Greig, and the Can-Can was (apparently) a game called Mr Ee. And if you don't have any idea at all what I've just been talking about, it's probably for the best.

To listen to my interview click here

Finding Monsieur Right - book review

2010-04-07T05:55:00.000-07:00

I hope you all have had a good few days. Amazingly, we still have unopened Easter eggs sitting on the side in the kitchen and (even more amazingly) my chocolate consumption has been limited to a few choccie buttons and a tiny piece of egg. But oh - isn't Easter egg chocolate just the most delicious chocolate in the world? And the unopened egg means there is something to look forward to when I finish my diet (he he evil laughter).

Anyway, to keep myself distracted from the confectionery fest of the past few days, I've been reading 'Finding Monsieur Right' by Muriel Zagha. It is a witty, elegant, beautifully crafted rom com, focusing on the lives of two girls: Daisy who is English and Isabelle who is French. The pair room-, city- and life-swap for a year: Daisy moving to Paris to further her career as a fashion writer and Isabelle coming over to London to pursue her PhD research - and each finds their lives, love-lives and expectations turned completely upside down. Zagha obviously knows both London and Paris intimately, and moves between each city with huge flair and panache. More importantly, she also knows people and creates brilliant, diverse characters who leap off the page at you. As well as the wonderfully drawn main characters and their various love interests, she creates an amazing supporting cast of treacherous friends, uber-cool fashionistas and, my favourites by a long way, a collection of good-hearted goths who save the day on at least one occasion. The writing is polished, elegant and very funny and the plot twists and turns masterfully, bringing surprise after page-turning surprise to the reader and keeping them glued to the very end. I loved it - and am sure you will too!

More News on City Girl

2010-04-05T10:45:00.000-07:00

An absolutely stonking review from Leah at Chick Lit Reviews for City Girl - thank you, Leah xx - and an interview with yours truly at Trashionista (who describe CG as 'blatantly unputdownable'). Yay!

For the review click here

and for the Trashionista interview click here

Novelicious - Interview and Review

2010-04-02T01:39:00.000-07:00

The fabulous Novelicious site published the first review of 'City Girl' - on the day it was launched - together with an interview with yours truly. To read them, click on the links below.

For the interview click here

For the review click here

We Have Lift-Off

2010-04-02T01:26:00.000-07:00

So yesterday was the release of 'City Girl'. To kick start the proceedings came a lovely review of the book on the Novelicious site, giving it a stonking 9/10 (thank you Debs!) . Then, after an morning of manic cleaning, and an afternoon of general (but still manic) busy-ness, the official launch party got underway. My evil hand - really sore the night before after an unspecified cleaning injury(!) was less evil than it had been and I could happily hold a pen and sign a few copies of the new book. It was, essentially, planned as an evening of chilling, chatting and champers and a chance for me to say a heart-felt 'thank you' to all my friends who have given so much support in one way or another to me and my writing - I simply couldn't have done it without their back-up, encouragement, emergency childcare and general good-heartedness. Thank you! We even raised a bit of cash for the local pre-school whilst we were at it. It was a lovely night and I had one of those evenings where I never had an empty glass but, bizarrely, never felt in the least bit tipsy. I want to know how this happened - and how I can make it happen again in future!! Thanks again guys, you are the best. xx

One Day To Go!!!

2010-03-31T03:08:00.000-07:00

'The Not-So Secret Diary of a City Girl' is officially released tomorrow and I am very, very excited. Although, it feels a bit weird because Amazon and Play.com have been shipping the pre-orders for well over a week now - this does mean, though, that I've had some lovely feedback from people who pre-ordered which is calming my jittery nerves a bit!

I've palnned a party to celebrate City Girl's release and have been cleaning manically (including the front of the cooker which I cleaned so thoroughly I managed to remove all the numbers on the temperature dial - arrggh!) and then, just after I'd put in an online supermarket order for frozen party food, wine and fizz - the fridge freezer packed up: everything in the freezer section defrosted; everything in the fridge section froze. Double arrgghhhh! However, through a combination of sheer determination and a lot of good luck, a new ff has just been delivered from John Lewis (a mere 14 hours after we realised the last one had died) so hopefully the show - and the party - can go on! I'll keep you posted but I just need a little lie down in a darkened room so my stress levels can subside! xx

Pure Passion Awards 2010

2010-03-17T04:26:00.000-07:00

This was always going to be a very special event. Not only is 2010 the RNA’s Golden Anniversary, it is also fifty years since the Romantic Novel of the Year was first awarded. A fabulous party was obviously in order – and fabulous parties are something the RNA does with aplomb! The champagne reception before lunch was a glamorous melee of writers, agents, editors, and the other great and the good of the publishing industry; the meal a sophisticated three-course affair of melon, guinea fowl, and a specially created chocolate dessert; whilst the tables were beautifully decorated with artfully stacked pink gift boxes and sprinkled with Galaxy ‘Minstrels’ and golden heart-shaped chocolates.
It was fitting to have someone of the stature of Barry Norman (possibly the ultimate contender for the title of ‘Thinking Woman’s Crumpet’) to present the awards. Barry is no stranger to the world of publishing, and has not only written a number of books himself but is married to Ariana Franklin, the historical novelist. He told us that writers were the group of people he admired most in the world – even more than his sporting idols – and described the assembled audience as ‘the José Mourinho’s of the written word’.
The presentation of the awards themselves also had a number of fresh twists: as well as four new prize categories, those short-listed for the main award each gave a little pre-recorded speech and these were then shown in between the other presentations. This increased the (already overwhelming) sense of anticipation and gave the audience a chance to get to know the nominees a little – a splendid innovation.
The afternoon was rounded off with goody-bags containing more scrummy chocolate and an edition of Loves Me, Loves Me Not. As Chairman Katie Fforde aptly put it, this was ‘an extra fabulous event for our Fiftieth Anniversary’. Well done, RNA.

AND THE WINNERS WERE:
The People's Choice Award: Missing You by Louise Douglas (Pan)

Love Story of the Year: Animal Instincts by Nell Dixon (Little Black Dress)

Romantic Comedy Novel of the Year: The Nearly-Weds by Jane Costello (Simon and Shuster)

The Harry Bowling Prize for New writing: Fear No Evil by Debbie Johnson

Romantic Film of the Year: An Education by Lynn Barber (Penguin)

Romantic Novel of the Year: Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts by Lucy Dillon (Hodder and Stoughton)

There were also lifetime achievement awards for the wonderful Maeve Binchy and Joanna Trollope.

A brilliant event to celebrate brilliant books and, as nominee for Love Story of the Year Nina Harrington put it, the real prize wasn't winning, it was simply being shortlisted for such a prestigious award. Huge congratulations to all those nominated - winners or not - you are all fabulous!

Funny You Should Write That: Part 2

2010-03-11T02:47:00.000-08:00

Some of the tricks mentioned in part one for structuring individual jokes can be expanded and applied to creating the perfect comic storyline. However, before I start discussing how best to do this (and how I personally go about structuring a novel) I want to look briefly at the two forms of non-novel writing which I find the most useful when thinking about the structures of my books.
Two Act Sit Com with Multiple StorylinesThe basic structure for a sit com, whether British or American, is essentially that of a two act play. The viewer is quickly introduced to the ideas and themes which will be explored in the episode; a crisis occurs roughly at the midway point (just before the ad break if the show is on commercial television); this is often temporarily resolved or (more likely) suppressed in some way, only to escalate further later on. Finally there is an enormous crisis, and this is either resolved (on the whole, US sit coms like tidy endings), or we fade out on a scene of complete and utter chaos (think back to almost any episode of Fawlty Towers where we leave Basil in the most hideous mess). Within this basic two act structure, the writers will be weaving a web of storylines – usually at least three. The main storyline, known as the ‘A’ story, dominates the episode; and there will usually be two lesser plots running alongside it (‘B’ and ‘C’). Sometimes, if there is a very strong ‘B’ story, a minor plotline known as a ‘runner’ (sometimes not much more than a running gag) will be used to break up the action. This use of different storylines is important in creating pace and tension – you flip from one to the other leaving the viewer desperate to know what happens next; and for creating peaks and troughs of interest at different times in the different storylines. It is easy to see how this use of multiple plot lines criss-crossing each other is excellent fodder for the novelist. Marian Keyes is a brilliant exponent of this technique. She will have at least two main storylines running in a book, sometimes set at different points in time, and flip between them every few chapters leaving the reader with a cliff-hanger each time she does so. Thus, in Rachel’s Holiday we switch between Rachel’s life in the re-hab centre and her previous life in New York, being given just enough time to become fully absorbed in one setting before we are snatched away and deposited in the other. The result: a complete and utter page-turner.
Farce
Alan Ayckbourn once said that the aim of farce was to take the audience to a completely ridiculous place by way of a carefully constructed series of entirely logical steps. The audience have to be able to say ‘yes, I can see how that would happen’ at each of those steps, or they will never be able to suspend their disbelief enough to accept the dénouement that is awaiting them. Farce has to be planned; there is no way (unless you have a brain the size of Einstein’s) that you are going to be able to sit down and write one off the top of your head – you need to know in advance who your characters are, what their conflicts are going to be, where you are going to begin and – most importantly – where you want to end up.
Farce thrives on muddles, mistakes and lies. Take the Feydeau farce A Flea in her Ear: this begins with a wife mistakenly thinking her husband is having an affair. To test him, she gets her best friend to write him a suggestive letter inviting him to an hotel with a seedy reputation and goes there (with the best friend) to await his arrival. The husband, however, believes the letter is meant for his best friend, hands it over and the friend quickly heads off to the hotel where, of course, the husband’s wife and friend are waiting. The husband then shows the letter to the wife’s best friend’s husband who recognises his wife’s handwriting and runs off the hotel vowing to kill her. We are nowhere near the end of the play but you can see already that the whole thing is completely out of hand – and, importantly, how Feydeau draws us in by making sure each step builds on what has preceded it. Sophie Kinsella is an author who draws brilliantly on this tradition of farce: Becky Bloomwood, largely through her own inability to say ‘no’, repeatedly finds herself in ridiculous dénouements with the reader wondering how on earth she is going to extricate herself – and yet, when you come to think back through the chain of events that led her there, each link in that chain is a logical progression from what has gone before.
Now let’s look at a few of the ‘joke’ techniques that can be expanded to add structure to your novel.
The Rule of Three
Just as when you are writing an individual funny, the Rule of Three can be useful in plotting a novel. Like the individual joke, you will need to create a ‘list’ of three linked ideas, although these will be events or scenes rather than a few words. For example, maybe one of your characters’ goals could be worked into a sequence of three scenes that are dotted through the novel – maybe a proposal of marriage (two failed attempts before the question is successfully popped), or perhaps a request for a promotion (the boss refuses to listen or disaster strikes each time the character opens his mouth the ask for the pay rise). Remember that the first two events/scenes of your list of three can be similar but a twist will need to be applied to the third for it to work successfully.
The Subversion of ExpectationAgain, as with an individual joke, this can be used to comic effect in your plotline. For example, you could build up one character as a super-villain, only to have him exposed at the end as a big softie. Or maybe the heroine suspects the hero of having an unpalatable aspect to his character, only to find out at the crucial moment she has been wrong all along.
Funny Characters
Everyone from Jane Austen to John Cleese uses characters who are in some way amusing. Occasionally these play to preconceived stereotypes (although of course the clever author will subvert the reader’s expectation that it is a stereotype!) or use characters with an obvious comic defect – Mrs Malaprop, for example, and her numerous literary descendants. In my opinion, though, one of the cleverest ways to create a comic character is not to go for the obvious, but to play your characters’ goals and conflicts off against each other to create comic moments: think Basil Fawlty with Manuel, Blackadder with Baldrick and Martin and Frasier/Niles. I recently read Twenties Girl and noticed that this is something which Sophie Kinsella does with aplomb (particularly at the start of the book) by setting up Lara and Sadie’s goals as a sort of battle of wills and waiting to see who wins – with hilarious results. As with individual jokes, simply being mean to a character (particularly if they are weak or disadvantaged in some way) is never funny; and I do think it is terribly important that rom com heroines are strong, capable women rather than pathetic wrecks without any sense or chutzpah who only just manage to muddle through. Remember that the funniest characters will always be the most original, or those which approach their goals and conflicts in a fresh way.
How I Structure my BooksI like to start with a hero and heroine who have some fundamental conflict between them – even if, like Mark and Lucy in Tug of Love, it takes a chapter or two before you find out what it is. Then I try and ‘double conflict’ my heroine by putting her in an awkward position outside of the main love story so she is now fighting on two separate fronts. With my main characters’ goals now in place, I know where I am heading and set course for a pre-planned mid-point. At this mid-point (mid-points, by the way, are the perfect device for avoiding the dreaded saggy middle) I try to create a scene which contains the potential for the hero and heroine’s problems to be resolved – only I’m not going to let that happen! Instead, in a hopefully comic manner, I dangle it tantalizingly for a few pages before whipping it away again. About three-quarters of the way through, comes the moment when the reader needs to think there is no way things can ever work out – the Point of No Return - when things for ther heroine are looking as bad as they can possibly get. However, because I write comedy, my books have to have a happy ending: so, somehow, the heroine has to save the day and triumph wonderfully over adversity. Then she and the hero resolve any outstanding issues between them before riding off romantically into the sunset.
Of course, none of this is set in stone, but I like to have a rough idea of where I’m going. This structure gives me flexibility whilst at the same time nagging me to make my moments of crisis and resolution are properly spaced out within the narrative and well balanced. It’s a structure I’ve scavenged from a number of sources, including Hollywood rom coms and the great Jane Austen herself (she loves her mid-points, does Jane!)
Conclusion
Whilst this is in no way supposed to be a definitive tutorial on How You Must Structure Your Rom Com, I hope it has helped. I find that sometimes one can be carried away by the creative flow and, by having this (or any!) structure in place in the back of one’s mind, it can the pace and balance of one’s writing. I do think comedy needs more forethought and structure than other genres (detective fiction perhaps excepted) because culturally we have a strong expectation and feel for the rhythms of comedy – and as a writer you might as well play to those expectations. Whatever you are writing though, enjoy it – because in the end, that’s what it’s all about. Happy writing!

A lovely review from Debs at Novelicious!

2010-03-04T08:45:00.000-08:00

Both Debs and Kirsty really liked the book and gave it 10/10. Wow! To read the review, click here

Chick Lit Plus

2010-02-26T02:02:00.000-08:00

An interview with the lovely people from Chick Lit Plus:

Twenties Girl

2010-02-19T11:20:00.000-08:00

I've not done a proper book review on the blog before but now is the time! I was given 'Twenties Girl' for Valentine's Day and began reading it about ten minutes after the wrapper (or, because this is my husband we're talking about, the Waterstone's carrier bag) came off - and I had a hard job putting it down again. For those who are unaware of Sophie Kinsella's latest offering, the novel concerns a girl, Lara, who is attending the funeral of her great-aunt, a seriously elderly lady who died alone and unloved in a nursing home - only to find herself accosted by the twenty-three year old ghost of that same relative. No one can see or hear Great Aunt Sadie apart from Lara (although Sadie does have certain powers of persuasion and influence over the unsuspecting living!)and together they embark on a quest to find Sadie's missing necklace; a quest that turns Lara's world completely upside down.
The book romps along with more twists and turns than roller coaster ride, accompanied by Kinsella's brilliantly witty prose. However, as well as some really funny moments, it also had a depth and poignancy that moved me - hard-baked old cynic that I am - in a way that none of her previous books have ever managed to do. It was as if her already superb writing had been shifted up onto another level. Of all her books, I think this has got to rate as my favourite and one I shall definitely be re-reading before too long. If you haven't read it then - BUY IT NOW! Or you'll be missing a real treat.

The Not-So Secret Diary of a City Girl - chapter one

2010-02-14T03:05:00.000-08:00

Chapter One

A sound like an incoming missile alert sliced through the air and threw me into a state of confusion. Up until then, I’d been asleep and dreaming about a man hitting me on the back of the head with a sledge hammer; now, however, even though I was awake, my dream not only seemed to be carrying on but the pain was getting worse.
I groaned.
Loudly.
What was going on?
“For God’s sake turn the bloody alarm clock off!” muttered a voice next to me, half-muffled by the duvet.
I reached an arm out from under the covers and smacked the clock hard. So hard, in fact, that it shot off my bedside table and into the outer darkness over by the wardrobe.
I groaned again and tried to open my eyes, only to find that they were glued shut by a combination of excess alcohol consumption, extreme sleep deprivation and Lash-a-bility – ‘the mascara that keeps on working while you party!’
“If you don’t turn the alarm clock off,” the voice next to me said, “I shall do it myself. And after that, I shall be forced to execute you for crimes against humanity.”
Frankly, death seemed pretty appealing right then (as opposed to the ‘death warmed up’ option, which I was currently experiencing). However, I was never one to shirk my duty, so I threw back the covers, crawled on my hands and knees towards the noise (which now seemed to have an added pneumatic drill-like quality to it), picked up my hairdryer and aimed it the offending timepiece. There was an almighty crack – one that felt as though it sliced the top of my skull open – and then peace, blessed peace, reigned supreme.
Exhausted, I lay down with my head on the carpet and the throbbing in my temples subsided slightly.
“What time is it?” muttered the occupant of my bed.
“I don’t know,” I said, “I can’t actually open my eyes.”
“Are you alright?”
“So long as I lie down flat it’s okay,” I said. “If I try to stand up, I feel as though I’m going to slide off the floor. How about you?”
I prised one eye-lid open with my fingers and was rewarded by the sight of Polly, my friend and work colleague, draped over the edge of the bed with her normally sleek, black hair standing up on end.
“I was well and truly mugged by the beer gorilla last night,” she whispered.
“You mean the Long Island Iced Tea Gorilla,” I reminded her, rolling onto my back to see if that helped at all, “who was accompanied by his cousins the chardonnay chimpanzee and the Tequila Slammer Orang-utan.”
Polly groaned and put a pillow over her head.
“I hate you,” she said. “It’s all your fault; it was your birthday.”
“It couldn’t have been,” I said, wondering who’d turned up the wattage on the streetlight outside my window and wishing I could reach my sunglasses. “My birthday’s on a Wednesday this year. We would never have got this drunk on a week night.”
“But it was your birthday,” Polly struggled up briefly onto her elbows before collapsing back onto the mattress, “I know that because we all went to the pub after work and then you invited everyone back here after last orders.”
Vague, swimmy recollections of catching the tube to Hammersmith with fifteen of my closest friends and co-workers swam into my addled brain.
“Oh God,” I mumbled. “Are they all still here?”
“No, you sent them all home.”
“So why are you here?”
“Because I spilled tequila on my shoes and put them under the shower for half an hour to clean them off. They were wringing.”
“And why are you in my bed?”
“You said I wasn’t allowed to sleep in the spare room because I had to stop you calling Tom in the middle of the night and yelling at him.”
“Why, what had he done?” Yelling at anyone was certainly not my usual M.O.; I must have been pretty far gone to have even contemplated it.
“He’d – oh, fuckadoodle, Laura! Have you seen the time – we are so dead!”
I peeled open my other eyelid just in time to see Polly drop my mobile phone onto the bedside table as though it had scalded her and sprint into the bathroom.
“It’s Thursday!” she yelled, her words cutting through me like blades on a scythe, “Thursday the Tenth of March and we’re late for work.”
“Shit!” I murmured and staggered after her, pausing only briefly to throw a couple of Neurofens and half a pint of water down my gullet.
Thursday the Tenth of March was not the day to be late. Thursday the Tenth of March was not the day to be turning up at work with a raging hangover. Thursday the Tenth of March was the day they were announcing redundancies in the Analysis Department of the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank and the last thing either of us wanted to do was give the powers that be any encouragement to send the Curse of the Job Centre in our direction.
Three quarters of an hour later, with our arms linked together to keep us vertical and each clutching bottles of mineral water, Polly and I lurched up Cornhill in the City of London, before hanging a right into St Andrewgate where the Metropolitan’s head office was situated. Five years ago, this street had contained nothing to mark it out from any other City thoroughfare (some low-rise, low-grade office buildings; a white, slightly scary Hawkswood church at one end and a couple of take-away sandwich shops); but now, thanks to the profits made by our bank (the bank that wants to make you smile!) during the boom years, it was now home to The Screwdriver – the newest and biggest super skyscraper in town. We rounded a corner and found ourselves squinting as the spring sunlight bounced energetically off its glass and chrome structure. Considerably fatter at the base, it’s angular sides tapered thirty-five floors later to a rounded point that would have had Sigmund Freud rubbing his hands together in glee, it was so striking and cutting-edge that it made every other building around look as though it needn’t have bothered turning up.
I always felt a little thrill of excitement as I trotted up the four pale York Stone steps that flowed out from the base of the building like ripples on a pond. I might not earn as much as Tom on his trading desk; I might secretly think that churning out endless reports on company performances and share movements was not the most exciting job in the world; sometimes I might even dream of spending doing something really off the wall like being a big game warden or monitoring dolphin numbers in the Bahamas – but I totally loved the fact that I got to work in the hottest building in town.
No, scratch that.
The hottest building in the world.
People applied for transfers from our New York offices just so that they could work at The Screwdriver. The guys in the Paris office said ‘mais non’ to the Left Bank and begged to be allowed to work amongst les rosbifs here in London. Applications were also up from Tokyo, Singapore and Honk Kong: the kudos of the Screwdriver outweighing the charms of life in the Far East; and even the Aussies were queuing up in droves to leave sunny Sydney so that they could work in the British rain at the ‘Screwy’.
As for me, a country girl from a no-mark village in darkest Wiltshire, it was so awesome I felt as though I was doing something vaguely illegal sneaking in here every day.
“Morning Dennis,” I croaked to the man in a deep, clarety-red morning suit and top hat who was standing at the top of the steps next to the automatic door.
“Morning Laura!” Our Doorman deftly tipped his hat a quarter of an inch in our direction. “Morning Polly. Passes?”
We waved our laminated security passes in his general direction and he pushed the revolving door open, allowing us to glide into the cool (and mercifully shady) marbled expanse of the foyer. We gingerly click-clacked our way across the polished floor, past a desk so huge it had to be staffed by three receptionists, and into one of the glass-and-chrome lifts that shuttled up and down the see-through frontage of the first twenty-five floors of the building.
I leant my still-pounding head against one of the cool, steel ribs that encased the elevator pod and closed my eyes.
“Remind me why I’m here,” I muttered, “and not at home sleeping it off.”
Polly mumbled “Floor Twenty” into the lift’s voice-activated control panel.
“Because we not only deliver the best – we are the best,” she trotted out our departmental mission statement.
“Bollocks,” I said, clutching my temples as the lift rocketed upwards, leaving my stomach behind somewhere between floors ten and eleven.
“Okay,” she conceded, “we’re actually here because if we call in sick we’ll get redundancy for sure; and if that happens we’ll never get another job ever again because everyone now thinks that bankers are the anti-Christ and we’ll be forced to move back in with our parents until we finally die in our old, pink bedrooms with peeling posters of Robbie Williams and Damon Albarn on the walls. That’s why.”
I shivered. The idea of going home to the bosom of my family (or my mother anyway; my parents had divorced not long after my Dad’s business had disappeared down the u-bend) was enough to convince me of the importance of dragging myself into work come hell or a hangover. In fact, I would even have been willing to wear the bilious lime-green Metropolitan baseball cap and t-shirt to client meetings around town if it gained me any brownie points with the HR department.
“You’re alright,” I said mournfully, “you could always shack up with Archie. If I lose my job and I can’t pay the mortgage I’ll have to move home.”
The sound of Polly choking came from somewhere over by the lift door.
“Oh God,” she said in a strangled voice, “ohgodohgodohgod. Are you serious? Me? With Archie?”
I opened one eye and saw her having some sort of seizure over by the door. Archie was a tall, thin chap in our department who had had a thing for Polly since the moment he’d first walked through the doors of our office and saw her lovely face illuminated by the light of the photocopier.
“After you put your shoes in the shower, you spent the rest of the evening playing tonsil tennis with Archie in the kitchen,” I informed her.
“Floor Twenty” announced the lift in a voice that sounded almost like Professor Stephen Hawking; and we crawled out of our glass pod.
We found ourselves on a carpeted corridor bounded on one side by huge glass panels held together by a spider-webbed network of chrome frames and, on the other, by a seemingly-endless curving white wall containing a number of identical doors. Polly leaned against the latter and put her head in her hands.
“Oh God,” she breathed again. “That’s why there were ten messages from him on my voicemail this morning.”
She looked up at me, obviously expecting the worst.
“I didn’t – tell me I didn’t – with him – with Archie?”
“After I’d turned off the shower and put your shoes in the airing cupboard, I found you asleep in the hall under the coat rack fully clothed,” I reassured her. “Your virtue remains intact.”
Polly closed her eyes with relief.
“But you still haven’t told me why I wanted to yell at Tom,” I added, thinking that yelling at anyone right now would have serious consequences for my headache.
“Because he – oh, shit, Laura; it’s gone eight o’clock. Get moving.”
Ignoring the impressive cityscape pooling out below me through the glass panels, I scurried off along the corridor behind Polly feeling like a Twenty-first Century Alice in Wonderland heading down the Rabbit Hole. We passed door after door after door; some with brass name plates announcing the occupants to be ‘Smithers and Company, Insurance Brokers’, or ‘Carridan and Lacey, Solicitors’; until we stopped at one with the Metropolitan’s logo on it, swiped our passes through an electronic card-reader and walked into a large office area. Croaking ‘hello’ to various colleagues, we made our way through rows of desks topped with computer monitors, in-trays and telephones; hung a left down a wide corridor lined with photocopiers and then turned right through a pair of double doors. This was our patch, our home territory. It consisted of a small open-plan room containing fifteen identical work-stations separated by brown desk dividers a foot or so in height, a small kitchen area and, on the far wall, two very large flat-screen televisions respectively blasting out Bloomberg and the less well-known, but eerily prescient, Financial News Today. The latter broadcast from a small set of studios two streets away from the Screwdriver but were often in there with the breaking stuff before the big boys at the BBC or Sky had time to reshuffle their scripts.
I found my desk, dumped my bag and coat, booted up the computer and then shoved off to the kitchen to concoct the super-strength, forty-thousand-volt espresso that was needed if I was going manage anything more productive than lying with my head on the desk, drooling out of the corner of my mouth.
A phone started to ring.
My temples throbbed.
Nobody picked the phone up, so it carried on ringing.
My headache got a hundred times worse.
It didn’t stop.
I began to hate the person who owned the phone.
Still it continued.
I put my hands over my ears.
Another phone joined in.
I screwed my face up to try and block out the sound and...
...realised that my jacket pocket was vibrating.
Sheepishly, I put my hand into my pocket and pulled out both the mobile I used for personal calls and the BlackBerry I had for work.
The screens told me that both callers were Tom.
The fuddled state of my brain found this difficult to understand; but nevertheless I gamely pressed a phone to each ear.
“Tom?” I said. “Why are you doing ringing me twice? In fact, how are you ringing me twice?”
“I rang your mobile with my mobile but you weren’t answering so I called your BlackBerry with my BlackBerry at the same time and waited to see which one you picked up first.”
I realised that I could only hear his voice in my left ear so I switched my mobile off and stuffed it back into my pocket.
“Okay,” I said, having very little idea of what he’d just said but being profoundly grateful that the noise had abated, “what can I do for you?”
“I wondered whether you liked it?”
Oh shit; my birthday present.
It all came flooding back to me: that was why I’d wanted to ring him at one o’clock in the morning.
“It was a man’s watch, Tom,” I said with remarkable composure.
“No, it wasn’t; it just had a few gadgety bits on it. It’s the last word in Swiss design and it cost me an arm and a bloody leg.”
“Tom, listen to me: it was a man’s underwater watch capable of telling me the depth of dive, water pressure per square metre, temperature and it came with an optional shark-proof reading light attachment. When, exactly, in my hectic life of spreadsheets and City finance did you think I was going to use it?”
“I don’t know – couldn’t you use it to start conversations with important clients at drinks’ parties?”
I took a very deep breath.
“The strap is so big the whole thing keeps sliding off my wrist and anyway, you know perfectly well analysts don’t get invited to any client drinks’ parties.”
“Okay, fine,” replied Tom wearily, “I was in such a rush when I picked it out I must have gone for the wrong thing. Sorry.”
Last year my present had been a ticket for a World Cup rugby match at Twickenham – in the stands; none of your corporate-hospitality-with-free-champagne-and-a-three-course-lunch milarkey. At least with jewellery he was heading in the right general direction, even if he couldn’t quite manage the gender specifics.
“Go on then,” he continued, as though he was doing me an enormous favour, “keep the refund and get yourself something else.”
I bit my lip. Choosing my own present with a refund from a useless watch wasn’t as romantic as having my boyfriend lovingly select the perfect gift to celebrate my twenty seventh birthday – but it was probably the best I was going to get.
“Alright. I’ll meet you after work and you can give me the receipt. Then you can buy me a belated birthday drink to make up for not coming out with us last night – and what about a belated birthday candlelit dinner for two whilst you’re about it?” I suggested hopefully.
Tom had texted yesterday to say he had to pass on my party because of an emergency team meeting at work. A journalist on Financial News Today had broken a story about the investment bank he worked for, Davis Butler, having massive undeclared losses. Their share price had fallen like a stone and it was currently touch and go as to whether they would survive.
From the other end of the phone came a silence so uncomfortable, it might as well have been wearing jeans three sizes too small.
“The thing is, Laura, I’m a bit busy tonight.”
“Yeeees?” He’d better have a bloody good excuse...
“It’s England versus South Africa tonight so me and few of the lads were going to catch it on the big screen at the pub,” he concluded sheepishly.
“But you missed my birthday party!” I protested. “You owe me a night out.”
“I know and I’m really sorry about it but – oh, shit! Laura, I’ve got to go; the boss wants to see me. Later!”
And he rang off.
I shoved my BlackBerry back into my pocket and turned to see Polly leaning against the fridge.
“What?” I barked, busying myself with the espresso function on the coffee machine. Polly raised her hands in submission: “Hey, I didn’t say a word.”
“He said he was sorry about blowing me out last night,” I said, slamming cups around and then cringing as the noise re-ignited my thumping headache. “And you know things are difficult for him at the moment after that news story broke: they’re still talking about massive redundancies. Oh, and he didn’t mean to buy me a crap present, he was just stressed out.”
Polly’s visage softened – but only marginally.
“So he’s taking you out to the Ivy to make up for it?” She asked, opening a tin of biscuits and shoving two chocolate digestives in her mouth at once.
“No.”
“Whisking you away for a romantic weekend in Florence?”
“No.”
“Replacing that stupid watch with an engagement ring and suggesting that the pair of you start house-hunting first thing Saturday morning?”
“Don’t be daft. You know he’s living with his Mum and Dad till he’s got enough money saved for a deposit.”
Polly frowned.
“That boy could afford a down payment on Windsor Castle, but there you go. So when are you actually going to see him? ”
“I’m calling briefly into the Lamb and Flag to throw the diver’s watch at his head at about a quarter to seven this evening. After that it’s all rather up in the air – soon, anyway.”
Polly’s eye-brows shot skywards and she helped herself to another biscuit.
“I don’t know why you put up with it,” she mumbled through a mouthful of biscuity mush. “You can’t have seen each other properly for ages.”
I shrugged and helped myself to a custard cream.
“It won’t be like this for ever,” I said. “It’s a phase. A blip. We’re both flat out a work and we have a healthy range of interests outside our relationship.”
Polly gave me a look piercing enough to open a can of beans at fifty paces.
“You need a healthy range of interests inside your relationship too,” she reminded me. “When you first got together he couldn’t leave you alone for five minutes – texts, phone calls, flowers; the whole nine yards. Now you’re lucky if you see him from one weeks’ end to the next.”
“It’ll be fine,” I said. “Like I said, it’s not for ever and anyway, we’ve been together for over a year now, part of it’s probably our relationship moving onto the next stage – you know: less of the uncontrollable passion, more of the need to make sure the bills get paid and the suits get picked up from the dry cleaners.”
And I looked away and fiddled with the filter on the coffee machine for a bit.
It was true what I said – well, almost true. Over the past few of months Tom and I had been spending less and less time together, but I’d sort of blocked it out. To be honest, I couldn’t think of a night in the last six weeks when we’d actually been together, but it wasn’t as though I’d spent our time apart sitting alone at home in my pyjamas, drinking chardonnay on my lonesome and sobbing into a tissue.
Well, the sobbing into a tissue bit, anyway.
However, apart from being crap at present buying Tom pretty much ticked every box I could think of (and even a few that I couldn’t). Not only was he tall, fair and so achingly gorgeous both in a suit and out of one, that my knees still went a bit bendy when I saw him; but he was also financially secure and came from a pretty-much together, traditional family – both things that had been painfully absent in my own upbringing. So I told myself that it would all be okay as I smoothed over the missed dates and the forgotten phone calls; forgave him when he almost always needed to work late and reassured him that I understood the pressures that came with his job. After all, this was me, remember: the girl who would rather run a mile than have a stand-up row and who, if such a thing existed, would win the Nobel Prize for biting her tongue.
I fished a jammy dodger out of the tin and turned back to Polly.
“Oh, what do I know anyway?” she gave a big, heartfelt sigh. “I haven’t had a boyfriend in so long, I probably qualify as some sort of neo-virgin.”
“There’s always Archie,” I reminded her, pouring Polly’s cappuccino and switching the function to ‘espresso’ for myself. “He’s nuts about you.”
Polly shrugged.
“Yeah, but he’s – well, he’s Archie, isn’t he? He’s sweet enough, but he jumps about like an over-enthusiastic Labrador puppy with its tongue hanging out and I don’t know if I could handle that full-time.”
“It’s only because he’s nervous,” I replied, putting my mug under the hissing spout of the machine. “Anyway, I think you should try it; he might just give you a pleasant surprise.”
Polly took a sip of scalding coffee and fanned her mouth violently.
“Oooh-er, missus,” she replied. “Anyway, we better get back there. The Firing Squad are due down in five.”
We walked back out to the office area, took our seats and booted up the computers so that it would look as though we were doing something vaguely constructive when the posse from HR made their appearance. We knew the form from the whispered tales that wound their way from department to department like quick-growing jungle creeper: a small number of Human Resources staff would appear; there would be a general announcement about the ‘rationalization of staff numbers’ and the need for ‘down-sizing’ given the ‘non-advantageous economic climate’; then the name of the first victim be read out and they would slope off to a small, soundproof office with Sophie Spink, our Head of Personnel, to be given their marching orders. After that another name would be called and the pattern repeated until the cull was finished. It was a horrible, degrading process and always made me think of us, the powerless employees, trembling like a herd of cornered wildebeest, whilst a pack of Human Resources lions prowled round the outside picking off as many as they could get away with.
We didn’t have to wait long. Before I’d even been able to get Spider Solitaire up onto my screen, the double doors burst open and in marched Sophie in a tight tailored suit and heels so long and spiky you could have used them to harpoon whales.
We all sat bolt upright at our work stations and a terrified hush descended on the room. Eyes darted from colleague to colleague and then back again to Sophie as we tried to second guess who would be first up for the walk to the scaffold.
Despite the fact that she seemed to be operating without her usual entourage of minions, Sophie didn’t waste any time in getting to the point.
“You all know why I’m here,” she said, each syllable issuing from her mouth like the crack of a bullet exiting a gun barrel. “But I am pleased to tell you that there has been a slight change of plan.”
Gary down at the end gave a whooping cheer but Sophie silenced him instantly with a scorching glare.
“We have obtained four voluntary redundancies from the Private Client Department,” she continued, her tone of voice making it sound as though she’d extracted those personally through the use of thumb-screws and a torture rack. “And therefore the disruption to Analysis will be minimal.”
The collective fear of fifteen people which had been cresting above us like a huge, dark cloud suddenly rolled away and the sun shone once again: we were saved! We all lived to work another day! Yippeee!
Sophie stood regarding our palpable relief with a steely gaze: she hadn’t quite finished.
“So if Laura McGregor would like to follow me, please, the rest of you can get on with your work.”
And she twisted her mouth into something that, on Planet Spink, might have passed for a smile.
At that moment, I swear that my blood turned to ice. In fact, if you had severed one of my arteries, tiny red ice crystals would have come clunking out and spilled over my desk. I sat, rigid with disbelief; my right hand still gripping my mouse and my left lying comatosed in my lap.
Sophie shot me a gimlet-eyed look.
“If Laura McGregor would like to follow me,” she repeated slightly louder than before, “the rest of you can get on with your work.”
Somehow my body managed to raise itself up out of its seat and take the five steps across the carpet to join her. I could feel the stares of my colleagues – pitying, relieved, even genuinely distressed – boring into my flesh as Sophie and I then made our way over towards a tiny room situated next to the kitchen.
Once inside, she shut the door, pulled down the blinds and gestured for me to take a seat. However, I found I couldn’t actually make my knees bend and my bottom place itself on the low plastic chair positioned opposite hers. My pulse was thumping in my throat and my palms were beginning to sweat. Sophie shrugged and pulled up a chair for herself before slapping down a large, beige envelope on the teeny tiny table between us: it was my personnel file.
“Right Laura,” she began, her tone of voice indicating that our meeting represented a rather tedious low-point in her otherwise action-packed schedule of personnel management. “Let’s get to the point.”
I closed my eyes and tried to resign myself to my worst nightmare: I was about to lose my job. Without my job I would lose the preferential mortgage rate the Metropolitan offered its employees, and without that I would probably have to sell the flat. It might take months – if not a year or two – to get another job in finance; and in the meantime all I would have to live on would be a dwindling pot of money from the sale of my home and whatever the bank decided to cough up as my severance package. Polly’s scaresville scenario might even come true and I’d have to move home with my mother.
However, before I could get round to grappling Sophie to the ground and using one of her dagger-like heels to slice open my wrists, I became aware that she was still speaking.
This struck me as odd; I mean, if all she had to was tell me to put my stuff in a box and make sure I was out of the building by nine o’clock, she was being rather long-winded about it. Maybe...perhaps...possibly...
“If I might – just – for one moment,” I began tentatively.
Sophie gave me a withering look.
“Yes?” she snapped, sounding as though she would rather eat live spiders than give me the right of reply. (Although to be honest, I wouldn’t be that surprised if they used that sort of thing as a training technique to keep them mean ‘n’ focussed up in HR)
“I have been with the bank since graduation,” I said, fear of the grisly fate giving me little option but to put the case for the defence, “and in that time I have become one of the most profitable members of my department. My line manager comments favourably on my work and I have always exceeded my performance targets by at least a margin of thirty per cent. I would suggest that given those performance indicators I am not the obvious choice for redundancy within my department.”
Blimey! Had that been me? Had I really just opened my mouth and made those particular words come out? I was impressed. The question was, would Sophie be too...
“Is that all?” she said, unblinking.
My spirits sank. She might as well have said ‘So?’ or ‘whatever!’; her voice told me that her mind was already made up. I was doomed. Dooooooomed, d’you hear?
I took a deep breath and waited for the ritual humiliation of the handing over of the P45.
“As I was saying,” Sophie resumed pointedly, “you are to report to Will Barton in SunSpot Hedge Funds. You will be working with him for the next few weeks in addition to your usual role.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “would you repeat that please?”
I was totally convinced that what she had actually said was ‘please ensure you leave by the main doors and surrender your pass to Reception’ but it hadn’t sounded like that.
“Really, Laura,” Sophie grumbled, “you need to pay more attention. I’ve told you to report to Will Barton at SunSpot. There’s a new hedge fund coming on-line in a couple of months and Will needs someone for a few weeks to oversee the data that’s going to go into the prospectus and help with various bits and pieces. There will be some analyst duties but it’s basically a bit of a mixed bag – still, I’m sure you will rise to the challenge.”
For about ten seconds, I forgot to breathe.
“Will Barton?” I gasped, feeling as though I had somehow died and gone to heaven.
“Will Barton,” Sophie confirmed brusquely, lining up her papers and tapping them together on the top of the table. “He’s expecting you for a preliminary meeting at a quarter to nine. He can answer any questions you might have then. That will be all.”
And she stalked out of the little room on her harpoon heels, leaving me staring moronically after her.
“Will Barton,” I breathed once again, still unable to process this piece of information.
Will Barton was a legend in his own (and everyone else’s lunchtime). A hugely successful hedge fund manager in New York, he had been lured across the Pond four months ago to be head of the Metropolitan’s ‘alternative investment portfolio’ – aka more hedge funds – with a transfer package that would have made Alex Fergusson wince. While other banks had been jettisoning hedges faster than you could say ‘the market may go down as well as up’, it seemed that anything Will Barton touched turned – almost literally – to gold. The boy could do no wrong.
And I got to work for him!
As soon as I regained the use of my legs, I walked back to my desk and sat down heavily. Polly rushed over.
“You okay?” she whispered.
I nodded dumbly.
“I’ve got a friend at The Royal Bank of Wales,” she whispered. “There’s a maternity leave position coming up in the analysts’ department. Do you want me to ring her?”
I shook my head.
“It wasn’t the sack,” I breathed. “It was Will Barton; he’s my new line manager.”
Polly’s eyes grew as wide as bistro pasta bowls.
“You get to work with Will Barton?” she said. “You jammy cow.”
The envy in her voice was almost tangible.
“That would be ‘work with him’, Polly,” I reminded her, “not ‘go out for lots of dinner dates with him’; and he wants to see me in – shit – he wanted to see me two minutes ago.”
I scrambled out of my seat clutching at a pad of paper, a biro and my bag.
“Good luck,” Polly called after me, “and if he needs a plus one for any of his posh corporate functions, you can give him my number.”
I legged it over to one of the lifts situated on the interior of the building and pressed the button to open the doors.
“Floor eighteen,” I panted into the voice operated thingie – and we were away; my stomach left thirty feet above me on Floor Twenty and my mind racing as I tried to envisage what life in the world of the hedge funds was going to involve.

Funny You Should Write That - Part One

2010-02-03T03:34:00.000-08:00

I love comedy and try to inject as much humour as I can into my books. Since I began writing seriously, I have discovered all sorts of tricks of the comedy trade and thought they might prove as useful to other people as they have done to me. This post is intended as part one of two, and looks at how you can inject individual jokes or humorous moments in your work. In part two I will be suggesting how to structure a comedic storyline and how best to develop humorous yet realistic characters. Even though I write novels and assume that most people reading this will do too, I’m going to be pulling in examples from books, sit com and films. And finally, if some of these ideas seem painfully obvious then I apologise – often I find it’s the simplest, most ‘no-brainer’ rules which are the hardest to follow!
Structure, Structure and More Structure.
However anarchic it seems, comedy is anything but haphazard. There are several set forms of joke (see below) but one thing they all have in common is that the writer eeds to spend time honing and polishing to make them as good as they possibly can be. In particular, make sure you pay as much attention to the set-up as you would on the punchline: if your audience don’t understand where you are coming from, they won’t understand the joke. The funniest jokes are also often the simplest, so make sure your ideas are clear and the language you use is straightforward – that way your audience can focus on what you do say rather than wondering what on earth you are trying to say.
Simile and Metaphor.
This is an easy way to inject humour into your writing. Rather than just saying ‘her face went white’, be adventurous and try something like: ‘she went as white as a polar bear in a bucket of bleach’. It doesn’t matter that the literal truth of this would involve a. catching a polar bear; b. finding an improbably-sized bucket; and c. manhandling the said bear into the said improbably sized bucket and administering some Domestos – what is important is that you have taken the basic (slightly boring) idea of a pale face and turned it into something more inventive and even slightly surreal.
Amusing Words.
Some words are funnier than others. Some words can be funny in one context but not another. Some will always be dull – and it is our job as writers to sift through the possibilities and find the mot juste. In a recent interview, Victoria Wood talked about how difficult it can be to find that elusive ‘right’ word but said that when you do, it will make all the difference to your writing (she confessed to once anguishing for hours over the names of various types of biscuit, before settling on ‘gypsy creams’). As a basic rule of thumb, any word with a hard ‘c’ or ‘k’ sound will be funny. Thus, (according to my friend Sarah Jane), ‘cans are funnier than tins, concrete is funnier than cement, and kumquats are positively hilarious’.
Where in the Sentence?
Once you have your amusing line (probably a metaphor involving kumquats if you’re following this post to the letter), you need to decide where you are going to put in. Standard advice from the world of screenwriting says that for maximum impact, you should try and place your funny right at the end of a piece of dialogue. For novelists, this translates to putting your jokes (where possible) at the end of a sentence and preferably at the end of a paragraph. If you really want your funny to stand out, give it its own mini-paragraph. Kathy Lette and Marian Keyes both use this technique of allowing the punch-line to stand alone for maximum impact – although do use it sparingly: if you do this for every joke in the book, it will disrupt the otherwise smooth flow of your writing and annoy your reader!
The Rule of Three.
For some reason, the human brain is especially receptive to lists of three, whether it is items on a shopping list, cross-examination questions in court or joke writing. The thing to remember when you are structuring your group of three, is that whilst all of them need to be linked together in some way (otherwise they wouldn’t be a list) they cannot be identical. A man running into a door twice might be mildly amusing, but you need to vary the theme for the third and final time to make a comic impact – for example, have someone open the door so that he falls through (a classic, slapstick gag). It all also helps if you look on the first two items in your list as feedlines for the third (the punchline). One of the easiest ways of achieving this is to use the first two items to set up an expectation in your reader’s mind and then subvert this with the third. A (very) simple example of this would be to describe a male character as being ‘tall, dark and horrible’: you have a list of three, the final element of which surprises the reader who is expecting the word ‘handsome’.
Subverting the Reader’s Expectations.
This leads on nicely from the Rule of Three and, whilst it is often used in conjunction with the Rule, it functions very well by itself. It is a very simple format and, as you would expect, relies the writer establishing a premise and then undermining it. Thus, in Blackadder the Third the eponymous hero is reading the Situations Vacant column in the newspaper: ‘Ruthless, unprincipled cad wanted to be King of Sardinia. Must be non-smoker.’ Or (to Baldrick) ‘I would like to say how much I am going to miss you – but as we both know that would be a complete an utter lie.’ The level of comic effect lies in the originality of the juxtapositions/subversions you can come up with.
Wordplay.
At its simplest, this can mean a good pun; a more complex example would involve whole sentences. My all-time favourite example comes from an episode of Frasier where Frasier and Niles are hoping to be elected to a swanky private members’ club:
Frasier: This is my brother Niles, the eminent psychiatrist.
Niles: My brother is too kind: he was eminent when my eminence was merely imminent.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
Double Entendre.
I reckon this is a tough one to carry off unless you are Sid James or Julian Clary and my personal recommendation is to use DEs sparingly. That said, however, they can effectively to illustrate a character’s true state of mind – is someone desperately trying to disguise how they really feel and the DE is really a Freudian slip?
How Many Jokes are Enough?
This is really a matter of the writer’s personal taste; however, a book which contains gag after relentless gag runs the risk of exhausting the reader and turning him/her off. It can also limit the opportunities for creating believable characters (human beings are not continuously funny in real life) and developing the storyline. There is a rule of thumb in the American sit com scriptwriting business which says that there should be two ‘smile’ and one ‘laugh out loud’ gags for every page of script (roughly one minute of screen time), but even this may be too intense in a novel, where readers expect the tone and pace of a book to vary. As a writer, you need to understand the rhythm of your writing and learn to ‘feel’ when the narrative needs a bit of a lift. Trust your instincts and – very importantly – if you need to, don’t be afraid to kill off some of your jokes to allow those left behind on the page to flourish.
What isn’t Funny?
Humour is a personal thing, and what gets someone laughing like a drain will have the person next to them asking ‘what’s so funny?’ However, I do think there are a few issues of taste and good sense that are fairly much universal. As a basic law of comedy anything that involves cruelty or exploitation is unacceptable, as are outmoded stereotypes. As an intelligent woman writing for an audience of intelligent women, I believe it is important that my heroines are not imbecilic butterfly-brains – a trait which seems to be increasingly popular in Hollywood rom coms at the moment. Yes, a heroine must have flaws and she will probably get herself into scrapes (otherwise there wouldn’t be much of a storyline) but she shouldn’t be stupid: ultimately she needs the brains and chutzpah to get herself out of whatever mess she lands in, without a man doing it for her. On a different issue, I would beware of packing any particularly moving or serious scenes with jokes. This can undermine the gravitas you are trying to create and make you come across as flippant or uncaring. Having said that, however, tragedy and comedy are opposite sides of the same coin and black humour has long been part of the writer’s armoury, so don’t rule it out completely if you feel it is appropriate. Marian Keyes is particularly adept at negotiating this tricky tightrope and Is There Anybody Out There? is an amazing book where the black humour does not detract one iota from her subject. My personal rule is that you can laugh in a serious situation, but not at it – but please use sparingly!
Conclusion.
I hope this has been helpful. In my next post I want to look at how you can work comic themes into the structure of your novel and develop your characters so that their comic potential shines through. I’d also like to talk about the idea of farce, and how that can be taken out of the theatre and included in your novel to great effect. Happy writing!

Finding Monsieur Right

2010-01-22T02:27:00.000-08:00

Why not cheer yourself up on a grey January day with a bit of love, laughter and Paris in the summertime. Muriel Zagha's wonderful debut romantic comedy has just come out and is guaranteed to banish the winter blues once and for all! The blurb sums it all up thus: Daisy has just landed the perfect job: spending a year in Paris writing about fashion. Swapping home with French student Isabelle seems like the perfect arrangement. Studious Isabelle, however, finds London bewildering. But all her assumptions about crazy English guys are overturned when she meet hunky gardener Tom. Meanwhile, Fun-loving Daisy discovers that Paris is the City of Love, and there could be more than one Monsieur Right!

Absolutely brilliant and pure rom com heaven!

Click here for the Amazon link!

The Experiment

2010-01-17T11:59:00.000-08:00

I was lucky enough to win a month's free membership of a local gym in the pre-school raffle this Christmas; and, last Thursday, I duly rolled up in my new (clean) trainers and running gear, filled in a questionnaire to prove I was not about to drop dead of a heart attack on their premises, and headed off for the treadmills.
As I've only got a month's membership, I'd already decided to make the most of it and go as often as I could but now I'm wondering, should I make the whole thing a bit more interesting and see if a whole month of exercise makes any difference at all to my shape. You'll notice I'm not talking weight here. A couple of years a go a got some bathroom scales as a Mothers' Day present (I kid you not) and took up running. I ran 5k a night for a whole summer and I lost - one pound. Depressing doesn't even begin to describe it. So this time I'm not getting on the scales but I will be looking at other indicators to find out if the new, fit me is in fact a new, slimmer/fitter me: a notch or two on the belt would be good, and I'd like to end up being able to run for more than 5k at a go. Yesterday 3 k almost killed me.
I have already fallen in love with the rowing machine. It's great - you get to sit down for starters; and rather than looking out of the window over a carpark on a dank, January Sunday, you can imagine yourself shooting off up the Cam on a summers' day - all good uplifting stuff. The only downnside to this is that the rowing machines are right next to the weights and there was a man there this afternoon who, frankly, sounded as though he was in the second stage of labour and waiting for the head to crown. It wasn't pretty.
Anyway, by February 14th, I will either be a slimmer, sylph like version of my current self or I will have proved (in my totally non-scientific-but-still-true way) that exercise is a rubbish weight-loss plan (my current working hypothesis) because it makes you so hungry you go home and EAT MORE. We will see.

Tugging it Right

2010-01-15T02:03:00.001-08:00

Tugging it Right

Posted using ShareThis

A really lovely review of 'Tug of Love' - thank you Anu Prabhaker of the Khaleej Times and yes, Jonathan was supposed to be like that!

Snow Joke!

2010-01-13T02:56:00.000-08:00

Guess what - it's snowing! Once more with feeling as the white stuff drops from the sky on what is, traditionally, the coldest day of the year. Brrrrrr. As far as I'm concerned yes it is a nuisance, it can be dangerous (we know at least two people with broken bones as a result of the cold snap) but it is also quite fun. The supermarket on Saturday was a re-run of Christmas Eve - no veg, milk, eggs, beans tinned soup or bread. At Tesco, they had even sold out of bread FLOUR - we were obviously facing a disaster of apocalyptic proportions! The Frenchman ahead of me in the four-at-a-till deep queue was totally bemused as he unloaded butter, Camembert and salad from his trolley whilst watching people virtually coming to blows over the last packet of baking potatoes. And in case you were wondering, I was buying chorizo and olives rather than sliced white and milk: my strategy for getting through the cold is to munch my Mediterranean nosh and pretend I'm basking in the sun of a Spanish orange grove...

And the reason for all this snow? According to my brother, who probably deserves the Nobel Prize for interesting but strange snippets of information, it's all due to sun spots. We were due to start a new cycle last winter, but they still haven't materialized and there is good evidence to show that the snowy winters of the Nineteenth century (immortalized in Charles Dickens' novels) also occurred at a time of low or non-existent sun spot activity. So there you have it!

Stay warm xxxxxxxx

So that was Christmas, then...

2010-01-04T03:39:00.000-08:00

We finally dismantled the tree yesterday and, apart from a straggly bit of holly up behind one of the pictures in the living room, the house is back to normal. I managed to be ill before AND after Christmas this year - rather than just after as normal - but cunningly wangled a week or so in between so I could cook the turkey, wrap the presents, beat my way through the pre-Christmas supermarket shopping hell, attend various nativity plays, do the refreshments at a couple of performances of 'The Wizard of Oz', go through the proofs of 'The Not-So secret Diary of a City Girl' etc etc. Handy.
The best bit of being ill is definitely lying in bed listening to the radio. This is something I don't get to do any more unless I have a temperature of at least 100 degrees (Fahrenheit, obviously) and legs that are incapable of staggering downstairs, but even so, it's something. I learned (courtesy of Woman's Hour) that Victorian households had twice as many servants than their predecessors in the Seventeenth century; that one of the unintended consequences of London's Congestion Charge has been an increase in motorbike accidents and that Stuart Maconie (him off Radio 2) collects Rupert Bear annuals. Fab. I even got to listen to the Great God Garrison Keillor.
Do check this one out, though, if you are of an Austen-ish persuasion (ha! no pun intended)Broadcast on Saturday morning, 'Jane Austen's IPod' was wonderful listening - especially the revelation that she altered the words of a Robert Burns song to put herself in it as the heroine. Marvellous. Worth every Beechams cold and Flu capsule to be able to catch that one!

Belle Du Jour, Comme Toujours!

2009-11-23T09:06:00.000-08:00

One of the things I decided to do upon becoming a 'real' grown-up novelists, was to follow the example of some of my illustrious peers in the RNA and set up a Google alert for myself. In case you don't know what these are, essentially, you feed in key words to Google (in my case, my name and the titles of my two books) and every time something relating to your key-words pops up on the web, a link is posted automatically to your e-mail in-box.

Great, you think; now I can keep tabs on my ever-expanding presence on the world wide web and check out each and every reference to my books and myself as they pop up - er, no.

I don't know what it is about my Google alerts (although I suspect it has everything to do with me and how I set it up and nothing at all to do with with the technical capabilities of Google) but I can go whole without anything (including my rather fabby review by Leah, or this blog or, in fact anything that I KNOW IS UP THERE) actually coming through on the alert. However, I do get a lot of scores for High School soccer in the States which is played, I now know, almost entirely by teenage girls called Allie. I have also discovered that 'Tug' is quite a popular boys' name Stateside, that many people blog about their dog's favourite 'tug toy' and I got a whole sheaf of alerts over - although you might not want to dwell too much on the connotations of this last one - a welsh sheep farmer and his involvement in an ovine tug-of-love battle.

However the biggie, the alert to end all alerts over the past week or so has been the outing of Belle Du Jour of 'The Secret Diary of a Call Girl' fame and the similarity the title of her book (unwittingly I promise you!) bears to my 'Not So Secret Diary of a City Girl'. It has just enough lexiographic approximations to my own title to have sent my in-box into a positive frenzy - something I am sure Belle herself is quite used to achieving in other, non-inbox related, contexts.

Sigh. I can only hope that, come April, the tables will be reveresed and it will be Belle herself ploughing through the Google alerts and finding reference after reference to my very own 'City Girl.

Catching Up

2009-11-23T08:51:00.000-08:00

Ooop! Last post was the day before Hallow'een. Sorry about that. The last two weeks have either been trying to get a partial finished and into my agent for feedback, finishing off the copy edits for the upcming 'Not So Secret Diary of a City Girl', being ill or - and this is the best bit - in London for the Romantic Novelists' Association Winter Party where I caught up with all sorts of old friends and, as ever at RNA functions, made some new ones!

In the middle of all this excitement, I also had my very first review. The wonderful Leah from Chick Lit Reviews read 'Tug of love' and not only gave it a smashing write-up, but a full five stars as well. There is always a bit of nervousness (actually, make that a lot of nervousness!)when your novel is finally published and people other than your best friend get to read it, so to get such a ringing endorsement was fab. To read the review in full click here Thank you Leah!!!! I will be doing a full interview for Chick Lit Reviews to coincide with the publication of 'City Girl' in the Spring, so watch this space.

Allie at BBC Radio Devon on the Gordon Sparks Breakfast Show

2009-10-30T09:56:00.000-07:00

Click here to hear Allie on the Gordon Sparks Breakfast Show 27th October 2009

Awesome Tuesday

2009-10-28T12:28:00.000-07:00

Bit of a busy one yesterday - but also beyond brilliant. It all kicked off at 8.15 am when I arrived at Broadcasting House for a BBC interview. That's Broadcasting House in Plymouth, home to BBC television in the South West and (where I was heading) Radio Devon. I was booked in to be a guest on the Gordon Sparks Breakfast Show and, in between the news, Stevie Wonder and an item on a newly discovered dinosaur that could bite a T-rex's head off, I spent half an hour on air chatting about 'Tug', falling off a loo seat when I was four and whether or not Bretonside bus station should be a listed building. It was fab - and many, many thanks to Gordon, James and Stuart for making it such a top experience. I even got a David Braine postcard to take home for my mum (she likes his synoptic charts!).
Then, after a trip round Tesco for Hallow'een essentials, it was off to Goodbodies beauty salon in Ivybridge for a pampering manicure ahead of my very first book signing! Kay Goody, the proprietor had organised it as part of a 'Girls' Night In' evening and, as well as me scribbling my moniker on copies of 'Tug' there was a jewellery lady from Totnes, a Dermalogica girl doing wonderful things with skincare, beauty demonstrations and wine! What more could a girl ask for!! Huge thanks to Kay, Sara and Jenny and all the customers who made it a totally fabby night.
So back to work tomorrow and I have to begin gearing up for the launch of 'Tug' in Waitrose next week. I'll keep you posted!

Talking About the 'P' Word

2009-10-21T08:46:00.000-07:00

First up, the glitch mentioned in earlier posts with Amazon and a couple of other on-line retailers selling out of 'Tug' seems to have been solved and we are now back in business. Copies of the book have been thudding down onto doormats in Dublin, Paris, (hopefully) Singapore and everywhere in between. Hope you enjoy it, guys!
Now, back to the main event - the 'P' word: procrastination. We all do it - in fact, since becoming writers some of us do it even more than we used to. It has gone beyond a mere distraction and become virtually an art form in its own right. As an English student, I'd thought I was on top of the game, not able to sit down and really focus (okay, so I was an arts student, focus is relative) but still, not really get going unless the room was tidy,my laundry had been done, my eyebrows plucked and - although this was where it started it get really desperate, my fringe was trimmed.
These days I don't have a fringe, but I do have the internet - and this has taken the possibilities of procrastination to a whole new level. Now before I can start work (dusting, bathroom cleaning, eyebrow-plucking not withstanding) I need to check the e-mail (two accounts), read FaceBook (two accounts), have a quick look at the blog and the website and finally, take a butchers at the on-line weather forecast...and after that, it is probably time to check the e-mails again before I can get down to work with a clear conscience that NOTHING is going to distract me.
Till I need a coffee. Or the phone rings. Or the washing machine stops. Or I see a split end and know that I won't settle until it has been removed from my person.
But this got me thinking: I've had wireless internet on my lap-top for over a year now but my procrastination time hasn't actually increased despite the fact I could easily spend the whole of my working time fussocking about on the web. In fact, certain sites that I used to religiously visit on a daily basis are now never even glanced at. Also, if I cast my mind back to the days when I had a laptop so ancient it virtually worked by steam-power, I used to begin each session by reading a page or two of whatever book was currently sitting by the bedside to 'get me in the mood'.
So I began to wonder if a certain frame of mind is essential if you're going to have a productive working session - and if that frame of mind is produced by surfing the net, clearing your in-box or painting your toe-nails then so be it. Also - and this is the clever bit - what if the procrastination 'breaks' that inevitabley occur in the middle of a session are actually something far more creative, and give your brain the time it needs to get to grips with whatever tricky little problems are bugging you in the middle of a session.
I remember reading in a magazine that short 'alpha breaks', when you find yourself staring out of the window are actually really important. It is during these moments of apparent inactivity that our brainwave pattern physically alters and our sub-conscious dashes around like mad, while we sit there with a glazed expression plastered over our faces. It is the reason why you can return to a crossword clue that has bugged you for days and suddenly see the answer staring you in the face.
So maybe the fussocking and furreting does have a purpose after all. I'll let you know...after I've made that next cup of coffee.

'Tug of Love' sold out - problem solved!

2009-10-09T12:25:00.000-07:00

Sales for 'Tug' seem to have been going really well - as evidenced by the fact that first Amazon and now some other major on-line retailers have sold out. However, I can confirm that a batch of copies should be leaving the printers for the distribution company BY TUESDAY 13th OCTOBER, so everyone who has been waiting patiently for theirs should get it soon.

A thought...seeing as there will be copies floating around in the next week or so, why not get some of your christmas shopping out of the way and order copies for your friends and family? Avoid that last minute Christmas rush AND beat the postal strike in one fell swoop! xxxxx

Smoothing Down the Edges

2009-10-08T11:23:00.000-07:00

One of the natural imbalances of novels is the amount of time they take to read versus the time they take to write. A ninety-odd thousand word novel like 'Tug' takes the best part of a year to write but can easily be gobbled up by a reader in twenty four hours - I know, I've been that reader. So, as I tinkered with my manuscript this morning, I was wondering what it was that actually took the time -and I think the answer is "getting it right".
I can write the first draft of a book in about three to four months. However, the result is usually so incoherent that it would make a cat laugh - and remember, cats can't even read. I then spend as much time as I have left before the deadline (hopefully at least six months) going over it and over it in order to make it as perfect as possible - including at least one 'go through' to make sure there are enough jokes in it.
I take my hat off to authors such as Freya North who restrict themselves to three drafts before handing the book in to their publisher - but take comfort in the fact the great Jane Austen was a fiddler and a fussocker just like me. Her manuscripts, it seems, are full of alterations and crossings out; and, when there just wasn't enough room on the page for any more rewriting she would attatch the latest corrections, written on tiny pieces of paper, directly to her manuscript with dress-making pins. (see 'Jane's Fame' by Claire Harman p50)
Suddenly, the cut and paste function on my PC seems little short of miraculous.

On another topic, I have been asked how I chose to celebrate the release of my first novel - and the answer is: with new pyjamas. okay, so not very rock 'n' roll but I LOVE new pyjamas. Somewhere deep down in my psyche, is the notion that when (note: that's when not if)I find the Right Pair, I will miraculously be transformed into Jennifer Aniston circa Season Two of Friends. I will be tall, slim, able to toss my perfect coiffed locks nonchelantly and enjoy an enviable girl-about-town lifestyle with my equally tall, slim, coiffed etc etc buddies. However, it's the same every time. I get the jammies home, slip them out of the carrier bag, snip off the labels and climb in, my hopes high that THIS TIME with THIS PAIR the dream will finally be realised. But it's never to be. On each occasion, the New York loft apartment and the Ralph Lauren wardrobe totally fail to materialise and I find myself curled up on the sofa with a cuppa watching the re-runs of Gavin and Stacey like I did the week before. Nothing wrong with that - in fact, maybe this is exactly what Jen dreams of in the middle of her party-party Hollywood lifestyle. But I never give up because it's just a matter of tracking down that elusive pair, and when I do - well, it will all have been worth it.

STOP PRESS

2009-10-01T02:39:00.000-07:00

I have just read my e-mails and can confirm that Waitrose Food and Home in Salisbury will be stocking 'Tug of Love' from November 2nd. Woo-hoo! Big thanks to Freya at Head Office and Peter in Salisbury for agreeing to this and let's hope we can get the Salisbury launch going with a bang!
Allie xxxxxxxxxx

Today's the Day

2009-10-01T02:22:00.000-07:00

Well, here it is. This is officially the day that 'Tug of Love' makes it onto the bookshelves.
What does it feel like? A little weird, actually. Copies have been popping through letterboxes for over a week now and a trickle of (enthusiastic) reviews from friends and family have been making their way into my inbox which is amazing. The two things I am most proud of are a. that people find it hard to put down once they've started and b. it's funny. The last one is very, VERY important: all those scribbled notes in the first draft such as 'must think of joke about polar bears' have obviously paid off! (And yes, if you haven't read it, there is a line about polar bears in a book concerning love, lust and divorce litigation.)
As ever, though, it's not just one person who writes a book. Although in a strict, techinical sense I was the one who sat down and did the typing, I couldn't have done that without a huge raft of people offering everything to child care to a shoulder to cry on - you know who you are and I'm deeply grateful.
However, as I have one fledgling book hopping out of the nest, I'm also aware that book number 3 is now crying out for attention. I am currently half way through chapter three and trying to get to grips with a whole cast of new characters and their foibles. Like the fantastic Freya North, I too have a queue of heros and heroines lining up in my brain and getting restive about when it will be their turn to hit the page;and right now, it is the turn of the indomitable Katie Sharp and Dr Edward Forster. I think I can best describe this book as an unholy mixture of 'AS Byatt's 'Possession- meets-Scooby Doo-meets PG Wodehouse' - with the ghost of an aristocratic Eighteenth Century playboy poet thrown in for good measure (a sort of anti-Mr Darcy).
All good stuff - I hope.
But here's to 'Tug of Love' - God bless her and all who sail in - I mean, read - her.
Allie xxxxxx

Freya North's Top Tips

2009-09-17T02:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the September meeting of the RNA at the New Cavendish Club in London. Our speaker was the wonderful Freya North, bestselling author and winner of the 2008 Romantic Novel of the Year Award for her book Pillow Talk, a fantastic love story exlporing the idea of whether first love ever gets a second chance.
Freya gave inspiration to us all as she told us how she had spent four years as a struggling, unpublished author before - in sheer desparation - sending the manuscript of her first novel, Sally off to an agent with a fabricated list of adulatory reviews! These purported to be from (amongst others) Jilly Cooper, Germaine Greer, Mary Wesley and Radio Four's Woman's Hour! Thankfully, the tactic paid off and before long she had landed an agent and a three-book publishing deal - although she didn't tell us quite how she managed to wriggle out of the question from her agent in their first meeting - "So, how do you know Jilly then?"
Writing is at the centre of Freya's life. She writes dilligently every day at her local library in North London on a lap-top which has had all internet connections, photos and music removed - in fact, because she goes to the library every day, one of her children thought until recently that she was, actually, a librarian. She works her books through three drafts (only three!!) before sending them to her editor and revealed that even if she was still unpublished, she would still be writing.
Book number eleven is currently in production and is - I can reveal - about how people in a relationship are always caught between two other women: the girlfriend is caught between her ex'x new love and her new love's ex, whilst the guy is caught between his ex and his new flame. It promises to be another rivetting read from Ms North, although Funny You Should Read That wishes it was closer to completion than chapter Two - can't wait!
Another project Freya is currently excited about is the introduction she has been asked to write for a new edition of Daniel Defoe's Moll Flanders. Freya said she loves the way Defoe gets under a woman's skin and writes so convincingly in the first person and reckons that Moll is just the sort of feisty heroine today's readers will really come to love!
All in all, she was a bit of an inspiration. As Funny You Should Read That always says - never give up and never stop writing: Freya North is a prime example of what can happen when you do just that!

Top of the Pops

2009-09-14T12:29:00.000-07:00

Just got back from my run - probably one of the last I will be able to do in the evenings until the clocks go forward next year. The irony is that I really love being out in the twilight (I suspect I would enjoy being outside at dawn as well, only it would involve impossible things like getting up early and being energetic before breakfast) but I'm savvy enough to know that running in the dark is a bit barmy for a lone female.
Especially one who runs in a black top and joggers.
The question is, though, when is it too dark to run - after the streetlights come on? When it's too dark to see what you're treading in on the pavements? When you can't see your hand in front of your face? Sunset itself is no help as it's often perfectly light for a good while after the sun has disappeared and, assuming Salisbury doesn't have a large vampire population, this should still be reasonably okay...

Onto other matters and I want to say an enormous 'thank you' to everyone who has pre-ordered Tug of Love - especially those who pre-ordered on Play.com. You are amazing and have pushed it to a dizzy Number 2 position in the Play.com romance pre-order charts, just tucking in behind the mighty Nora Roberts. I am stunned and I suspect they can see the grin on my face from space!!! THANK YOU, you are fabulous. Yay!
Allie xxxxx

It's All Happening!

2009-09-10T02:16:00.001-07:00

I logged on to the computer today intending to do the final edits to Chapter One of my new book before sending it off to my agent - but it's now twenty past ten and I STILL haven't done any writing, mainly because I am too excited!!! The first piece of news is that my second book, The Not So Secret Diary of a City Girl is up on Amazon: (http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_ss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=The+not+so+secret+diary+of+a+city+girl) I only submitted it two and half months ago and already it's been put into the Little Black Dress publishing schedule with an expected publication date of the 1st of April. Needless to say I am beyond thrilled.
The second thing is that a piece about me winning the Joan Hessayon Award for best debut novel with Tug of Love is in the good old Salisbury Journal today - along with a nice photie taken by my hubby. http://www.salisburyjournal.co.uk/news/salisbury/salisburynews/4584025.Award_for_Salisbury_author/
I just need to bring myself down to earth with a bump and get on with the nitty gritty of actually doing some writing!
allie xxxx

The Final Countdown

2009-09-06T12:04:00.000-07:00

Hiya! I'm writing this on the evening of Sunday 6th September which means (da-da-DAAAAAAA)....only 24 days to go until my first novel, 'Tug of Love' hits the bookshops. It's been the most unbelievable rollercoaster since I typed the first draft one-handed as I jiggled newborn BabyJay in my arms - the newborn who is now almost four years old! Yup, it's taken me four years to become an overnight success - well, here's hoping anyhow!
The novel is about Lucy Stephens, a divorce lawyer who doesn't believe in love and I was lucky enough to be able to use my time as a pupil at the family law Bar to inject a bit of local colour although, in answer to the many MANY questions no, it's not in the least autobiographical. I promise.
One of the most incredible things for me as a wet-behind-the-ears writer has been the publicity surrounding the launch of the book. Basically, as a newbie, I don't get international reading tours and nation-wide book signings arranged for me - I have to roll up my sleeves and get stuck in myself but everyone has been totally fab. Little Black Dress are doing what they can for me, the wonderful Rich at Salisbury's Waterstone's store has said I can leave a large batch of my publicity postcards by the till and my friends and rellies have also been sticking up these postcards in places as diverse as York Magistrates Court, a branch of the fabulous 'Hobbs' women's clothing stores and a university department of English Literature! I am also thrilled to be doing a book signing/reading at Goodbodies beauty salon in Ivybridge, South Devon on the 27th October (contact the owner Kay Goody for tickets!!)and - this is the one where I am currently keeping everything crossed - hoping to get the book stocked in my local Waitrose Food and Home store. This would be totally magic: the head book buyer for the Waitrose chain has given her approval and I am now waiting to hear from the store itself....I am biting my nails, I tell you!!
Meanwhile, Book Number Two has been okayed by my editor at Little Black Dress and we are looking at a publictaion date of sometime next summer - although if you REALLY can't wait, I might post a few little tasters up here over the coming months so remember to check it out... And it's on with Book Number 3.
Honestly, there's none of your sitting around all day in a pink feather boa drinking coffee about this writing lark, it's all go go go!
More later and don't forget to check out my spanking new website at alliespencer.com for the chance to win a signed copy of 'Tug'!
Take care and see you soon!
Lots of love, Allie xxxxxx

Chapter One of 'Tug of Love' Out October 1st 2009 with Little Black Dress'

2007-10-01T11:47:00.001-07:00

Chapter One

"Of course," I said, pouring myself another glass of San Pelligrino, "the thing to remember is that in a divorce, there are never any winners."
The woman from Marie Claire who was interviewing me leant forward over the table and nodded earnestly.
"Now that’s interesting."
"Unless of course you’re Zsa Zsa Gabor," I quipped.
My interviewer and the photographer both laughed gratifyingly.
"Seriously, though," I pulled the interview back on track, "what I cannot over-emphasise is that one of the primary duties of a legal team is to make sure cases are worked out in a friendly, conciliatory atmosphere – especially when there are children involved."
The Marie Claire lady nodded again in enthusiastic agreement.
"I’m sure our readers out there will be pleased to know that someone as influential as you holds that view."
I smiled modestly.
"And what about your views on relationships? I mean, given the job you do it must be easy to become a bit cynical."
"Well," I began carefully, "I think the thing to remember is that people change, relationships do go wrong; but that doesn’t mean we should shy away from love altogether. People need to forgive themselves and move on."
Actually, that wasn’t strictly true, but I wasn’t going to get into a discussion with the Marie Claire lady about it. I’ve always been a bit sceptical about love, commitment and that sort of thing – and with good reason. Not only did my divorced parents still fight like cat and dog, but on the one occasion that I thought I’d found the real deal I ended up getting my fingers very badly burned. The fact that I now sorted out other people’s marital differences for a living (in itself an unbelievably bad cosmic joke) had done little to help matters.
"OK," said the photographer, "let’s get a few pics for the feature."
A make-up girl leaped forward, brandishing a brush so huge that the Scottish curling team were probably out looking for it, and swiftly covered my face in some sort of expensive powder. I rearranged my features for the camera to make sure I had a serious, yet caring, expression on my face.
"Right – to me – that’s it." CLICK! "And again – super!" CLICK! "Now – looking out the window – sort of dreamy – wonderful!" CLICK! "How about one with the briefcase? – Yup! – Excellent." CLICK! "And let’s have a close up so we can make those blue eyes really stand out against that dark hair. Lovely." CLICK!
How fabulous was this?
I turned back to the Marie Claire lady.
"You see," I continued, "very often people have this idea that lawyers are just out to rack up the fees as high as they can – but when you’re dealing with people’s happiness, you can’t afford to do that."
There was a smattering of applause from the people at the next table who had been listening in on our conversation.
"Hear! Hear!" said my interviewer smiling broadly. "Exactly the sort of thing our readership will feel strongly about. Now, I think that’s just about all I wanted to cover. I’ll put in something about your Lawyer of the Year Award, of course – and the fact you’ve currently got a six month waiting list for new clients," she paused before continuing thoughtfully, "you know, that’s longer than for the new Chanel handbag."
"Got some cracking shots here," cut in the photographer. "We’ll probably put you on the cover – you won’t mind, will you?"
Mind?! Of course I won’t mind!
My interviewer switched off her tape recorder, then leant in towards me and whispered:
"Lucy, is it true you are currently advising three big-name film stars, four Premiership footballers and a member of the Royal Family?"
I met her eyes without a flicker of expression.
"I couldn’t possibly comment."
God, I was so professional!
Still, all in a day’s work for me: Head of my own chambers, big-name cases, masses of respect and recognition for my overwhelming achievements…what’s not to like? Just then, however, a phone rang.
Ka-bloo-ie!
My daydream crashed to smithereens on the perennially untidy floor of my office. I brought myself back to the real world with a shake of my head – and found myself groaning involuntarily as I picked up and a thin, weaselly voice came on the line.
It was Hugo. Yuk.
"I need the latest Family Law Notes for court on Monday, Looby-Lou, and I think you’re hiding them in that pit you call an office." His voice became even oilier. "Oh, and I could hear you talking to yourself again. You need to be careful about that – or Guy will start thinking you’re a couple of papers short of a brief!" And he rang off, sniggering.
Damn. That was what not to like.
The fact was that, in real life, rather than schmoozing my way through a glittering existence, I spent my days in a cramped, dingy basement with the cretinous Hugo Spade on the other side of a thin partition wall. Don’t get me wrong – I loved my job. I was – am – a barrister, good with my clients and hard working. But my fantasy of legal fame and fortune was light-years away from reality.
Unenthusiastically, I fished the journal he had requested off the floor (where I tended to keep most of my important documents in little piles) and sloped off next door to deliver it. I paused for a few seconds before turning the handle in order to prepare myself for the challenge that was Dealing with Hugo: he was unbelievably hard work. A couple of weeks ago, after he had spent a full two hours telling me how much money he had and how he didn’t actually need to work at all, Henrietta (‘Hez’), my best friend and flat-mate, offered to hire someone to put him out of my misery. I’d told her that being sent down as an accomplice in a contract killing might not be the best way to enhance my legal career. Although, when I came to think about it now, bumping off Hugo might just get me into Marie Claire, so perhaps I shouldn’t have dismissed it out of hand...
"Well then, Looby-Lou," Hugo slimed as I handed over Family Law Notes, "got any big plans for the weekend?"
"Don’t call me that," I muttered, "and, yes, actually, I do. I’m going to a party tomorrow night."
"Gosh, that’ll be exciting for you," said Hugo as patronisingly as possible. "And which one of your legion of admirers will be chosen to accompany you?"
"The one who reminds me least of you," I smiled sweetly whilst suppressing the urge to deck him. He’d guessed correctly that I was dateless.
"Well, I’d have to decline anyway. You know how it is – dinner at The Ivy, a couple of drinks with the boys before winding the evening up at Annabel’s. Unless of course that Henrietta friend of yours is free. I could always manage to squeeze her in. Or even just squeeze her." He snorted unpleasantly through his nose.
I chose not to tell him that Hez would rather munch her way through a kitten kebab at an animal rights meeting than spend time alone with him, and went to leave the room.
"No, seriously, Lou, I hope you have a really good time."
I almost tugged my ears to make sure they were still in place. Surely Hugo hadn’t managed to utter an entire sentence that was not rude or condescending in any way? Surely he wasn’t being nice?
I needn’t have worried.
"The last thing I would want is for you to spend any time fretting over this e-mail from Guy" he drawled.
I froze. Guy Horatio Jennings QC was our Head of Chambers. To describe him as ‘well known and well liked’ would have been the understatement of the century as he engendered the sort of acclaim that a minor deity would have been pleased to receive. He could barely move for the hordes of grateful clients swooning at his feet and his spare time was spent parading his stunning wife and two apple-cheeked children at public events and charming the pants off the media. The one thing he didn’t do, though, was waste time on anybody who wasn’t important.
Like me.
I was right at the bottom of the chambers’ food-chain and, on the one occasion he had deigned to speak to me, he’d mistaken me for the cleaner and told me to give the loos another going–over.
So, basically, an e-mail from Guy wasn’t going to be good news…unless it was all a hoax and Hugo was just trying to frighten me.
"This isn’t some kind of wind-up, is it Spade?" I asked, putting on my scariest courtroom voice. Sadly, Hugo was not intimidated.
"See for yourself," he said and, with a ‘ping,’ the e-mail in question sprang onto the screen of his lap-top.

To: lucystephens@3templebuilidngs.co.uk; hugospade@3templebuildings.co.uk
cc. clerks@3templebuildings.co.uk
Subject: Tenancy
Hi, chaps!
Just a quickie to let you know that I have arranged for a meeting to be held on the 3rd of next month to settle which one of you should be given a permanent place in chambers. I’m afraid that the provisional view of Tenancy Committee is that only one of you can be taken on, although who that will be is undecided at present. I wish you both good luck – and may the best man win.
Yours, Guy
P.S. If either of you happened to record my performance on ‘Question Time’ last Thursday, I’d be interested in a copy. Cheers.

"Is this for real?" I asked.
"Go and look on your own machine if you don’t believe me," replied Spade, "Or ask the clerks."
Now, here’s the thing: even though Hugo and I had both qualified eons ago, neither of us had been formally taken on by chambers. We were what is known, in elegant legal parlance, as ‘squatters’. But in five weeks’ time, that was all going to change. One of us would get the glittering prize of a tenancy at 3 Temple Buildings – name on the board outside, the works – whilst the other was going to be booted out. It felt like being a contestant on Big Brother but without the hot tub or the trendy furniture.
Or the on-screen snogging, thank goodness.
I shot a look at Hugo. He had pressed a couple of keys on his computer and pulled up some sort of game that seemed to consist entirely of drive-by shootings. This was vintage Spade. He was actually quite bright, but his idea of work revolved around playing on his lap-top, reading Loaded, and chatting to his mates on the phone. It niggled me that there had to be any sort of competition for the stupid tenancy – under all normal rules of the universe, I should have walked it. However, in addition to a trust fund the size of Jupiter, Hugo’s father was a judge in the Court of Appeal, and no doubt every conceivable string was being pulled vigorously on his behalf.
Still, there was a month to go before eviction day and anything could happen in a month. Maybe I’d get some amazing case and become the toast of legal London; maybe I’d win the lottery and never need to work again; or maybe Spade would trip over his own ego and fall under a tube train.
Hope, as they say, springs eternal.
"Thanks for letting me know, Hugo," I called over my shoulder as I left. "And whatever you get up to this weekend, make sure you have a horrible time."
"And you," he replied cheerfully.
I stomped back into my own room, filed the brief I’d spent the afternoon reading on the floor, and shoved my lap-top in its bag prior to heading off home for the weekend. Then I noticed a memo-sheet on my desk. One of the clerks must have dropped it in whilst I was closeted with Hugo.
Was it good news? Was it a big-name case with a wealthy client? My ticket to gainful employment at the Family Law Bar? I snatched it up and pulled a face. Sadly neither of the above: my Dad had rung. Tell your Mother, the note said, that if she doesn’t agree to a reduction in her maintenance payments I’ll take the whole thing back to court. I dropped it in the bin and made a mental note not to mention anything of the sort to my mother. I was sick of this. Whenever they fell out (which was pretty much all the time) they would try to rope me in to take sides and it drove me nuts. Why couldn’t they just keep their disagreements to themselves?
As I put my coat on, I did a quick inventory of Things Not Going My Way and it was quite impressive: my Mum and Dad were gearing it up for another bout of fisticuffs; I was facing a fight to the death over my job; and, to cap it all, it sounded as if Hugo, a.k.a. the Weasel in Armani, had a better social life than me.
But life, as always, had a few little surprises up its sleeve…like the fact that Mark was about to turn up.
Or, to be accurate, Mark was about to turn up and Jonathan was about to reappear.
Or, to be even more accurate, Mark was about to turn up, Jonathan about to reappear and the Prime Minister was going to get divorced.
And it all started at the party I’d mentioned to Hugo.

2007-10-01T11:47:00.000-07:00

This is Chapter One of my second book, the one that did well in the RNA New Writers' Scheme. I got the idea for the relationship between my heroine Lucy and my hero Mark whilst waiting outside court during my old life as a lawyer. This was a few years ago when the main London divorce court (the District Registry) wasn't in the plush building up on High Holborn that it now occupies but in rather cramped quarters deep within Somerset House. The corridors were narrow, there were never enough chairs for everyone to sit on and you were cheek by jowl with everyone else waiting to go in - not a good situation for a client to be in as it shoved them into unwanted proximity with their ex. Anyway, me, client, other side, and half the lawyers in London were squashed into the end of a corridor which was acting as a waiting room when the case before us finished. The court door opened and the poor people inside had to jostle their way out past the waiting masses. I suddenly had this idea about how awful it would be for that door to open and for your other half to appear in the doorway when unbeknownst to you, they had some divorce-come-relationship-type drama going on that they hadn't told you about. Then I thought, actually, it would be ten times worse if your other half turned out to be your client, and you had no idea they had ongoing legal business before they turned up at court expecting you to represent them. Unlikely, perhaps, but certainly not impossible.

Book Lunch

2007-10-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

Had lunch today with my local Chapter (group) of the Romantic Novelists Association. For anyone who has never heard of them but is interested in romantic fiction in any one of its many subsections (historical, sagas, contemporary, chick-lit, comedy, Mills and Boon etc) they are, most definately a Very Good Thing.

Apart from the fact that they are all exceptionally nice people, it is really fantastic to be able to meet up with other writers - it makes me feel as if I'm not the only person scribbling away in a lonley garret (or, indeed spare bedroom). The RNA also runs the New Writers' Scheme, whereby unpublished authors can submit the manuscript of their novel and receive a Readers' Report of quite detailed feedback. If the first reader likes it and thinks it of a suitable standard for publication it will go on for a second read and if that reader concurs with the first it will go on to the third stage when it is submitted to an agent or publisher. It is a brilliant scheme - even if you do not get to go through to the second or third rounds, you will still have a good and detailed critique from a professional in the business that you can use to improve your book. this year, my second novel A Good Call went through the first two rounds with flying colours; however, I was taken on by my agent at the time the novel would have gone on to the third round and for it to go to another agent or a publisher without her say-so would, in my view, have been unethical, so I withdrew from the competition. The comments from both my readers were tremendously helpful and encouraging and I'll be incorporating them into my next round of revisions!

The New Writers' Scheme, in my opinion, is worth every penny of the membership fee. It gives a new author a helpful, honest appraisal of their work which is truly worth its weight in gold. Long may it continue and long live the RNA - hoorah!

Love, Allie

Extract from Chapter One of 'A Novel Affair'

2007-09-30T06:19:00.000-07:00

Chapter One

If you met her, you would never suspect Katie Sharp of being a heroine.
No, really.
For one, she did not exhibit any sort of psychological neurosis. She wasn’t obsessed with her weight (fine for her build), her appearance (rather pretty in a short-ish, blonde-ish sort of a way) or cigarettes (only at parties, after maximum alcohol intake). She didn’t have a chocolate addiction, a shopping addiction or even a sex addiction. She wasn’t a woman who loved too much, too little or not at all. She didn’t keep up a diary, or even a dazzlingly witty internal monologue. Neither was she secretly in love with her male best friend or have an alcoholic, wife-beating father.
Actually, her parents had been particularly lax in that respect. Completely ignoring their daughter’s future as a heroine, they had selfishly refused to provide her with anything other than a stable, happy upbringing. Of course, when she was a teenager that hadn’t stopped her from dyeing her hair, wearing only black and dragging herself round the house in a reassuringly depressing manner yelling: "I hate you! You’re not my real parents!" at her Mum and Dad. But she grew out of that and went to college, got drunk, got laid and, finally, got a job.
And you want to know the worst bit of all?
She wasn’t even smug about it.
In fact, if you met her, you’d probably really like her . You’d have a few drinks and she’d make you laugh. If you had more than a few drinks, she might try to blag a cigarette off you – but that’s not the sort of thing that starts wars and brings down empires.
Anyway, at twenty six years old with a job, her own flat, a car, and even a reasonably sexy boyfriend to her name, Katie Sharp believed her life was jogging along quite comfortably and, ergo, away from any possibility of becoming a heroine.
It was true that the job was a bit of an undemanding dead-ender, the flat rented, the car a beaten up old Mini and the boyfriend only reasonably sexy, but these registered as little more than minor niggles in Katie’s brain. And, rather than exercise herself over whether or not Sam was Mr Right or if she should be getting her Russell and Bromleys (and heroines, as we all know, wear Jimmy Choos) on the property ladder she instead chose to escape the real world whenever she could by plunging into a big, fat novel – preferably one involving the scandalous goings-on in a large country house.
Again, this is not the sort of reading matter we would expect from a heroine but she couldn’t stand self-help books and the classics left her cold. She didn’t even fancy Mr Darcy.
No, really.
Or rather she didn’t fancy a soggy Colin Firth, which is more or less the same thing.
However, a heroine she was and into each heroine’s life a little rain must fall, otherwise there would be very little to read about. And for Katie it all began one Friday evening...

I had enormous fun writing this book. One of the reasons for its coming into being in the first place was to cheer me up, so I invented a believable but gutsy heroine, the sort of hero I might go for myself (was I not happily married, of course!) and a dastardly villain; gave them a gothic stately home as a backdrop and packed the book with fun things like priceless missing manuscripts, a wedding that almost goes horribly wrong and a man-eating anti-heroine who is hell-bent on getting her claws into my poor hero.

On a more serious, writerly note, I'd had an idea that I wanted to use some of the themes from Northanger Abbey to see how they would play out in a modern-day romantic comedy, but the characters soon staged a coup and I ended up with a completely different book to the one I had been intending to write; although the themes of fantasy v. reality and the effect that books and literature can have on our understanding of the world is still very much there.

Love, Allie

The Story So Far...

2007-09-30T05:27:00.000-07:00

Hi, I'm Allie. I'm a thirty-something mother of two, I live on a pretty standard housing estate in the South of England and my burning, consuming, all-I've-ever-wanted-to-do ambition, is to be a writer.
Ah, the soothing sound of nib on paper...the hours spent idly gazing out of the window thinking up fiendishly ingenious plot twists...the rapturous applause as you step up to receive the Booker Prize for your first novel...
Not a bit of it!
Rather, it's the furious sound of fingers on key-board as I try to get 1000 words written while Jamie (2) has his lunchtime nap; working out a way in which to keep my hero and heroine at loggerheads but still madly in love with each other as I whizz round Waitrose because we've run out of milk (again); and waiting with baited breath and sweaty palms to see what an agent/publisher/competition judge makes of my books.

This is a blog about life at the typeface. It's a tale that I hope will end happily ever after (but no guarantees - this is real life after all!) and that I hope might give some ideas or inspiration to anyone else out there in the same boat (and visa versa - all top tips very gratefully received).

Where I'm At And How I Got Here

I gave up my job as a lawyer specializing in family and divorce work in 2002 when my eldest son (Matt) was born and got a few gigs writing scripts for historical audio tours. I'd had this idea for a novel batting roud my head for ages but I never seemed to have the time to put anything down on paper. Then, in very quick succession, I lost three of my four grandparents and ran smack! into the realization that life was too short and I needed to stop putting the book off and write it NOW.

So I did.

And then I wrote another one.

And I sent them out to agents, went to writers' conferences (highly recommended), joined the Romantic Novelists Association (even more highly recommended) and entered competitions until, in August this year, I was signed up by an agent. I can still hardly believe it. It took me three years, two books and a lot of slog to get this far but it was worth it. The next step is for my agent to place the book (my first, A Novel Affair) with a publisher and I can quite honestly say that this is the most nerve-racking thing I have ever done after:

1. Taking my driving test (3 times)

2. My first day in court as a pupil barrister

Only this time it's taking weeks rather than days. Arggh.

I'll let you know how it goes...

Lots of love

Allie