No-one believes me

Out of the corner of my eye I see a rapidly moving furry object loping down the lawn (not a lawn, a large area of sphagnum moss). I hurl the laptop over, followed by the Arch Lever file and a spray of loose chapter paper, ungum myself from pillows, sheet, blankets and eiderdown (duvets are another subject) grab the tablet, find Camera, wait for focus.

Pine marten has obviously gone long since.

I shriek for husband, rush to sitting room, and there in the far distance is a dark speck loping up the track, then turning sharp left into the heather to disappear on the moor. Again.

I know that no-one is going to believe that we have our very own pine marten with a regular morning commute across our peat bog unless he is captured on camera. Even the husband looks doubtful.

‘Are you sure it wasn’t a cat?’ he says.  As if there was a cat within twenty miles of remote bothy.

‘I’ve heard pine martens have a habit of coming down chimneys and wreaking havoc inside.’ I say. ‘Are you sure there’s a cowl on the chimney?’

I catch him later standing in the bog in the snow and inspecting the chimney.

 

The Compleat Works

My lovely book group is full of poets.  As we nestle down in the pub, taking up large amounts of space and taking in large amounts of alcohol, I am aware that writing novels is not conducive to sharing production on a monthly basis, unlike those poets who wrote an entire oeuvre this morning.  And those oeuvres are sad, or hilarious, or clever or just plain dotty, but they are complete.

‘Where was I?’ I say, having lost the post-it note which said ‘Read (past, not present, tense) to book group up to here’. There is then a confused babble of inaccurate memory, and I am truly embarrassed at having to recap my love story to those who were not there last month, and to the ones who weren’t there two months ago.  Anyway, I can only read at most one quarter of a chapter if I am not to hog the time which must be divided between eleven aspiring scribblers.  Yes, poetry is the way forward.

I think I never did blog that my one and only oeuvre was published in December.  I’m supposed to market this thing, so it’s called

DOLPHIN DAYS and it’s by CHARLOTTE MILNE

How many more sales will that bring me?  By the way, friends and family, thank you for buying or downloading. And thank you, thank you for reviewing. And thank you, thank you, thank you for 4 stars not 5.  5 stars for a debut novel? They can only be from faithful kind friends or family.

 

 

Dolphin Days – nearly there

Due to be uploaded this weekend to Amazon Kindle and published on 1st December.  You’ve all been waiting YEARS for me to shut up about this book, and the moment has come.  All proceeds to the charity “An African Dream” – well, all donations,  You can pre-order it (what a thrill) and tell all your friends to go buy…

paypal.me/charlottemilneauthor

Here’s what it’s about…

If she can’t handle failure, will she ever learn to handle success…

Artistic young antique dealer Melissa fails to recover a precious Byzantine manuscript stolen from her in Greece. Instead she finds herself accused of theft by wealthy architect Nicholas.

Struggling with financial disaster, a dangerous attraction to an embittered Nicholas, and guilt over a family tragedy, Melissa sets out on a new career path in design and illustration.

But it seems that Nicholas has not only destroyed her career as an antique dealer, but that his unwanted interventions may wreck her new plans too.

Determined to put the past behind her, Melissa is tempted to trade her talents and career for the security of marriage to kind, devoted David, but as she gets to know Nicholas better, her resolve wavers.

Will she overcome her lack of confidence, build her career and find the love she longs for?

Tear across and down

 

On our flight out at 7.10 a.m. to where my sweat-stickied fingers stick to a sticky keyboard, we were given (by BA) a very hot bacon bap as breakfast.  The entire aircraft was abuzz with adjectives which floated up and down the cabin: ‘delicious’, ‘damned hot’, ‘sensational’, ‘yummy’, ‘ouch’, ‘bestest’, and many another surprised and appreciative exclamation.

Much tastier than reheated scrambled eggs, easier with fingers instead of bendy plastic non-cutty knives and a pleasant way to start our day.

HOWEVER, I do have a major complaint. With our coffee (at this distance in time I have no recall as to whether it was palatable, but I think so) we were given a ’stick’ of Freshways British Farm Assured Milk, to be precise Dairystix semi skimmed milk uht.  The offending item made me so cross that I took the wrapper with me on disembarking in order to vent my angst with real quotes from a real Dairystix.

At one end of Dairystix is a little red dot dot dot line and a sort of arrow to tell you where and in which direction to tear it in order to access the contents. Then just below, some fierce instructions:

HOLD FIRMLY HERE

TEAR ACROSS AND DOWN

I don’t know that I need to tell you the end of this story as you will have already guessed it. Broken fingernails (smart pink holiday nail polish gone for a burton), front teeth nearly ripped from gums, back teeth not nearly sharp enough, nail scissors in security bin at airport, husbands teeth too blunt as well, milk wrapper stretched and warped and twice as wide as when it started but as completely sealed as a submersible at 2,000 feet below sea level.

Of course, we could have drunk our coffee black, but I do hate to be beaten. Eventually we got a few splashes in the now tepid cup, which very nearly went flying in the wrestling match. The rest went down my front so that I looked like a 70 year old lactating mother.

But the bacon butty was very good.

 

Progress

Today the typescript was reduced to single line spacing. Ensure Fast Draft otherwise the ink will bankrupt me. Margins narrowed almost to extinction. Spend time stripping paper off gummed blocks of squash scoring sheets and using it to print. (I am a Scot). Then press button on Print All.  Discover no page numbers printed. Spend time numbering by hand 185 pages.  Discover the squash scoring sheets weigh twice as much as cheap paper and I can barely lift 185 pages.  Write begging email to an author friend asking her to proof and edit.  Think the postage will make me faint.

‘Ere we go

Well, I suppose we all have to start somewhere, but I never thought I’d have to Blog. Such a revolting word. Nearly as bad as Moist.

I wrote a story. Now I’m told I have to promote it if I want anyone to read it, so….

What did the earwig say when he fell over the edge?