Do you want to become a published writer?

My editor and friend, Jonathan Veale, has just asked me to contribute a piece to his new substack blog aimed at helping new writers to get published. This is what I sent him.

Many people have aspirations to write. And why not? It’s a wonderful hobby. However, some of us decide to take it further and make our writing available to the wider world. In other words, to publish a book.

I love writing. I will do it anywhere, at any time (but especially late at night – to the annoyance of my husband). I spent my working life as a pharmacist and the writing I did then – scientific writing – was totally different from creative writing. So how and when did the change happen?

The trigger for me was retirement. Suddenly, I had time. But I knew nothing about the business of writing, how to get started, how to get published – many questions. I decided a writing course would help so I enrolled on one and discovered I love writing fiction; I would embark on a novel.

Then I came across NaNoWriMo. This is National Novel Writing Month. It happens every November and has done so for around 25 years. The object is to write 50,000 words in a month. It’s free and everyone who completes it is considered a ‘Winner’. There is no quality assessment; it is simply a word count. You could, were you silly enough, write ‘Rhubarb’ 50,000 times and you’d be a ‘Winner’. The enrolment deadline is midnight on 31 October each year. I decided at 11.30pm on 31 October, 2012 that I would give it a try.

Beginning a novel, writing the first sentence, can be the most difficult step. The dream becomes reality and reality is harder to cope with than some wonderful aspiration. The point of NaNoWriMo is to get writers started. It worked for me. An average of 1,666 words a day was challenging. The trick was to write and not edit. Some days I didn’t write and had to catch up later. However, I finished with one whole day to spare. As I sent off my ‘novel’ to have its word count checked, my husband opened a bottle of champagne and welcomed me back into the real world!

            What I had at that point was an unfinished, badly written, unedited, unchecked part-novel. Most novels are a minimum of 80,000 words. So there was work to do!

            I expanded and edited my 50,000 words. I went round the loop many times. It’s hard to know when it’s finished. The time comes when you tell yourself it’s as good as it’s ever going to be and so you stop. I then decided to try to get it published – and that’s scary! You feel vulnerable, exposing your work to others.

I first explored the traditional route to publication. I sent details of my book to a number of agents who seemed suitable. Most ignored me; some sent a routine refusal. I tried sending my book directly to a few publishers. No success. And it takes time. You may wait six months or a year for a reply. Sometimes it never comes. I realised the book needed improvement, proper editing and perhaps a different approach. It wasn’t, in spite of my best efforts, as good as it could be. You can see how easy it is to give up. Lots of aspiring writers do. But don’t!

While considering what to do next, I was introduced by chance to an editor, a ‘friend of a friend’. He read my book and gave me advice. He also taught me how to look critically at my own writing and to self-edit. This was the turning point for me. Good editing is essential. My writing improved. Equally important, he encouraged me to self-publish my book on Amazon. Sometimes you need a bit of luck like this!

Self-publishing is a respectable means of getting a book out in the world. It is much used by unknown novelists, and by authors of non-fiction, specialised books or personal memoirs where there is a limited audience. A self-published book must be indistinguishable from a traditionally published book in terms of quality and appearance. It can cost nothing – or you can employ one of the reputable, but expensive, companies that have recently popped up if the intricacies of the computer world prove too much.

A prophet of doom – several, in fact – warned me that you must be a technological whizz-kid to self-publish without assistance. I am not one of those creatures nor is my husband, who said he’d help. Nevertheless, we set about publishing the book on Amazon. There was a bit of hair-tearing-out and some swearing from me but the two of us solved the problems. The key point was to follow the instructions to the letter. As I’m not an artist, I commissioned a graphic designer to produce my cover. There are free or inexpensive online banks of covers but I decided to be independent.

The Amazon publishing process costs nothing. The finished book is available to readers as a ‘print on demand’ paperback or a Kindle download so no stocks exist (unless I choose to buy some). I chose to pay for a single copy to proof read but you can proof read on the screen if you are happy with that.

I launched my novel, ‘A Taste of His Own Medicine’, in November 2016, four years after I started it. It’s a story of revenge, an easy-to-read book with lots of twists and turns. It uses my pharmacy background as part of it is set at a 30-year university reunion of a group of pharmacists. Ultimately, my creative and scientific lives came together. I’d got my book to a point where I was ready to encourage others to read it; I wanted to call myself the author of a published novel. A big step – daunting, even. But it excited me as much as it scared me. There’s always the fear that no-one will buy it and if they do, they won’t like it. It’s part of being a writer – a risk you take.

Let me encourage you to take the risk!

Going Downhill – A Retiree’s Guide to Ski-Bumming

I have just published a new book – my third. This time, non-fiction – a light-hearted account of life in the French Alps post-retirement. It covers Winter and Summer, travels through France, learning the sort of French no-one teaches you at school and enjoying life with family and friends.

As a taster, the first chapter is below.

Why Not?

You can spend it in the garden. You can sit in front of the telly. You can sleep till midday. Retirement is a sad word. I didn’t want to tire, with a ‘re’ or otherwise. I was more for a re-firing and luckily we had the possibility of doing something adventurous. Work behind us, we would head off to the Alps for a surfeit of skiing, a second career as ski bums. Dreams are great while they are just that but the calendar, the mirror and the pensions people at work were pointing us to the end of our working careers. This dream could become real. ‘Bit scary’ as our little grandchildren would say!

I was apprehensive about giving up work. I loved it, loved the responsibility, the people, the chance to make a difference. So why was I even contemplating early retirement?

            ‘Whatever will you do with yourself?’

            ‘You’re such a busy person – how will you slow down?’

            ‘I can’t imagine you not working!’

‘I’ll miss the click-click-click of your heels as you rush from place to place.’

These were the comments that bombarded me when I announced my intentions, so it wasn’t surprising I struggled with mixed emotions as the ‘R’ day approached. I knew I needed to be busy, that retirement wasn’t synonymous with doing nothing, but how it would pan out was worrying.

Would I miss work?

Tony, my husband, had already retired, having changed his status without a backward glance. It’s sickening how well-adjusted some folk are. I really didn’t want, ‘Wish you were here!’ messages as he travelled the world while I ploughed through the e-mail mountain on a grim Monday morning. Okay, sometimes the job wasn’t marvellous. His plan was to take me off to the mountains a couple of days after leaving work for the last time to stop me thinking too much about what was happening. So that’s what we did.

‘You’ll be okay. You’ll enjoy yourself. Don’t worry. Retirement is good.’

We’ve skied in many places and been to the French Alps frequently, to Méribel Mottaret in the Trois Vallées, in particular. We have a small apartment there, so in many ways it’s home to us. But we’d never been for more than a couple of weeks at a time and I was hesitant about being there for a whole season, a period of nearly three months. Tony had no doubts. He’s one of those guys who are at the lift before it opens in the morning and bliss for him is finishing the day at the top of the mountain with a vin chaud, then skiing back down after the lifts have closed. It’s partly ski fanaticism, partly the desire to make up for the first thirty five years of his life before he learned to ski and partly determination to get his money’s worth out of the expensive ski pass.

Tony knew me better than I knew myself. We set out in early January on our ski-bumming career. This is our experience.

A message to all women

 I sent the letter below to my women friends in November 2022, shortly after I’d had a total abdominal hysterectomy for endometrial cancer. It was an alert, a communication to spread the word about how to look out for symptoms.

There are many people trying to raise awareness about early cancer symptoms for lots of different cancers and this is no different. I’m putting this communication on my blog in the hope it will reach a wider audience than my letter did.

This is the original letter:

Many, but not all of you, know that I have just had a hysterectomy for endometrial cancer. It was early stage and I hope the surgery has been a cure. I’m sending this message now, not to seek sympathy, but to raise awareness of how to spot the condition.

In my case, I waited too long before seeing a doctor. I was lucky in that the cancer had not spread outside the uterus but this could easily not have been the case. I lost a small amount of blood, about a teaspoonful, once only and that made me contact my GP. However, for several months before that, I’d had a slightly pink-stained vaginal discharge now and then. I felt completely well and the discharge was so slight, I didn’t do anything. My message to you all is this: if you experience anything like this, contact your doctor straight away. Don’t wait until you start losing blood. It may not be cancer but it’s best to check. The medical world takes any post-menopausal vaginal bleeding seriously. We’ve all heard the recent reports of delays in cancer treatment so the sooner you get into the system the better.

Please spread the word to your female friends and relations. If they are not post-menopausal yet, they will be one day. If this helps just one person, I’ve achieved my aim.

The histology after my operation showed the cancer was somewhat more advanced that had been previously thought. I therefore had a short course of radiotherapy (brachytherapy) in January, 2023. I regard it as a ‘belt and braces’ approach but earlier diagnosis would have avoided this. I shall be followed up for around five years, feel well and believe the surgery was a cure. I’m one of the lucky ones.

Please spread this information to as many women as possible, especially if they are post-menopausal.

Thank you.

Z-edition

A squiggled zig-zag-zig is Zed

  It whizzes, fizzes in your head

    And words like Zip and Zap and Zoom

      Will give your writing reading-room      

        Will give it oomph, will give it Zest

          Will make the commonplace the best 

           Some literates will say it’s Zany

        Though Zed’s for all, not just the brainy

       Will Shakespeare liked it, he said ‘Zounds’

     (He made a lot of funny sounds)

  We’re not States-side, it’s not a Zee,

Pronounce it Zed, as it should be

It may come last, bring up the rear

  It may laugh longest, even jeer

    Without it, we’d be left with Y

      Penultimate, the end is nigh

        But A to Y just doesn’t work

          If I said that, I’d feel a jerk

          The rules would change, the world would falter

        We couldn’t snooze, we’d have to alter

      The zzzzs would go, we’d exhale yyyys

    A dismal thought, a cause for sighs

  We’d have just ebras, have just oos

A Zed is such a lot to lose

An ero would be less than nought

  Now that’s a disconcerting thought

    Our letters need a cause to sing

      Let’s finish off with verve and Zing

        Let’s celebrate this final letter

          An alphabetical go-getter

Y is for Youth

I’ve long had delusions of youth. Youth, height and dark hair.

I used to have long, almost-black hair but the first silver intruders appeared when I was seventeen. It took some time before they won but inside my head I’ve always been dark-haired.

Height has eluded me. Until the age of twelve, I was of average size. Then, when everyone had their puberty growth spurt, I didn’t. I’m still waiting. But I feel tall. Photographs disappoint me; I’m the one standing in a hole.

I can’t grow. I don’t bother dyeing my hair. Acceptance has crept in. But youth is not just a matter of age and my youth was good. I wasn’t super-fit – but fitter than now. My brain worked faster – although had no bank of experience. I broke new ground and old rules. Youth had problems but it was better than what followed.

I fought the description ‘middle-aged’ until it no longer applied, glad to be so described once I was actually ‘old’. I went to the gym, enjoyed distance walks and believed in a ‘can-do’ approach to life. I was determined to carry on until I died with my ski boots on.

Then 2019 and Covid arrived. I found myself officially in the ‘old and at risk’ category. I needed to take extra care, have groceries delivered and avoid going into shops. A young neighbour sent a note asking if I needed any help. So kind but I hated the necessity.

Covid has made me, for the first time, feel old. I sleep less well. I worry. In spite of daily exercise, I’m less fit than I was. At least my age gave me an early vaccine – and an element of freedom.

But my wonderful delusions fight to remain. Youth is an attitude.

X is for…

X is ambiguous. It doesn’t know whether to be forbidding or kind.

It tells you what not to do. It’s unwise to walk through a door with an X on it. If someone crosses their index fingers and looks at you, it stops you in your tracks. Danger, no entry, you’re not wanted here.

It can send kisses to a friend or lover. Even an electronic message ends with xx. It’s one of the first symbols a child learns to write. Kisses for Mummy or Daddy in a wobbly, uncertain hand, drawn with love.

X is anticipation. It marks the spot. How many treasure maps have the ubiquitous symbol on them? The anticipation of an X-ray may not be so exciting.

It’s used to mean something extra. Xtra-large, an outsized garment, a huge tub of Kentucky Fried Chicken or the largest pizza you can buy. We may not want to be size XXX but we like the sound of bigger and better. Xtra-special. In Xcess. INXS even.

It marks something that’s wrong. Ticks and crosses on your maths homework. How I wished for ticks! When I lose my temper with a sudoku I can’t complete, I scribble a large X on it.

An X is a cross. A cross has religious significance. Serious business here. Christ’s cross has a different shape – except on a hot-cross bun.

Cross-stitch is delicate embroidery, pretty, needing patience. A picture made completely of xxxx. Maybe there’s love in them.

There’s the game of noughts and crosses – perhaps the crosses are the good guys this time. And crosswords – words in the shape of a cross, not angry ones.

            I’m crossing my fingers for luck with this piece. A poor X, but the best I can do.

Don’t be cross with me.

xxx

Back to Normal?

August 2021

Back in our apartment in Méribel Mottaret, France. We last left it in March 2019, a few days after the country closed down, fearful if we would get home, armed with makeshift papers I’d invented and we’d both signed. A frightening time, a move away from normality.

Last summer we debated whether or not to visit our apartment but fear of what might go wrong prevented us. We were over-anxious and maybe wrong. This year – both of us doubly vaccinated – was a different matter. We booked the club lounge on the ferry to make sure we wouldn’t have to mix with crowds. Unnecessary as the boat had few passengers, but a treat, just like an airport lounge. I could do that again.

The view from our apartment

Minimum beaurocracy at Dover. We showed proof of vaccination, passports were stamped (hello, Brexit) and that was it. In Calais, we drove through without stopping.

A long journey through France, visiting ‘aires’ only for petrol, loos and to buy a sandwich. (Brexit forbade the cheese and ham we normally take with us – although no-one checked.) No pleasant overnight stop to break the journey; we were still aiming for minimum risk. Then we were in our own home again, our second home. As safe as in England.

Or was it? Mottaret was full of people, more than we’d ever seen there in the summer. This was a ski resort, after all, a winter resort. The French were holidaying at home. The packed carpark showed no English cars. Once away from the centre of the resort, there were fewer folk around, although popular spots, like the Refuge du Saut, a couple of hours climb above Mottaret, were heaving. Tables were full and in demand. But they were well spaced out and masks were required if you went inside.

The busy Refuge du Saut

I don’t think of the French as being keen on rules. But where masks were concerned, they behaved themselves. It was a legal requirement inside shops and restaurants and many people wore them outside, too. Restaurants demanded the ‘Pass Sanitaire’ even if you were just having a drink. We wondered if the NHS App on our phones with its two QR codes would work and be acceptable. It did and it was! For once we were aligned with Europe.

There was an air of optimism. Much new building was going on and many places used lockdown for refurbishment. Large – or enlarged – terraces outside bars and restaurants appeared, necessary now but an investment for the future. The area is thriving and we are happy for the locals and ourselves.

One of the features of summer in the Alps is the Braderie. These are merchants’ fairs, sales of goods at much reduced prices to clear old stock and make some money. All towns and resorts have them. We walked down to Méribel, to its Braderie on a hot Sunday morning. We didn’t stay long. It spooked Tony.  A mass of people packed the main street and although it was possible to move between them, distancing – and it was only one metre in France – was impossible. We went part-way along and Tony said he’d had enough.

‘I don’t want to test positive before we leave. Think of the problems that would cause.’

 Indeed. I was less scared – it was a remote possibility – but I understood.

Méribel Braderie

Life felt close to normal. We invited our neighbours round for a drink and enjoyed the company of our Welsh friends, Siân and Peter, who have an appartment in Mottaret. We walked, had a couple of meals out, eating in the sunshine, and relaxed. We had almost forgotten how much we enjoy being in the Alps in Summer.

Above Lac du Tueda, near Mottaret

Returning home was more complicated than arriving in France. We needed Covid tests a couple of days before leaving and two days after arrival in England. Booking the tests in France was a hassle but the pharmacy rescued us; booking the test in England was straightforward.  We are just poorer now. At least, the requirement to quarantine after our return disappeared.

It was a huge shock when I received the result of my pre-departure Covid test on my phone. Positive. Initially, I thought I’d misunderstood the message, that my French had let me down. But there was no error. We were obliged to prolong our holiday by ten days and I was in quarantine.

Why was I positive? I’d been nowhere without Tony who had tested negative. Was I infected when shopping? At the braderie? From friends or neighbours? Fortunately, I had no symptoms. Breathlessless on a couple of instances when walking up a steep path at altitude – was that a clue? I had just put it down to my age.

We shall never know. I was worried I might test positive again – viral particles can persist a long time, I was told – and feared an extended stay in France. Much as I love it there, I didn’t like the prospect of being a prisoner for weeks. My fears were unfounded and the repeat test was negative. We could leave.

In spite of the obligatory extension to our holiday, it was good to be back in the Alps. We’re glad we went. The next challenge will be skiing in the winter. I hope I remember how to do it!

W is for … Wagon (the Blood Variety)

People peer in to see if you are still alive as you pass.

I’ve now had three trips down mountains in a blood wagon. It’s the most uncomfortable way of moving across snow I know. You are towed by a member of the ski patrol, an excellent skier who moves fast. While getting a casualty off the mountain quickly is important, it means you are rocked from side to side, a fine spray of snow covering the small part of your face still visible. You can see the sky, any trees or buildings you pass and the faces of interested spectators. None of that helps. Being so close to the snow gives a feeling of vulnerability and imminent tipping out. They never tip anyone out. The straps are fastened tightly. But knowing that doesn’t help.

My first wagon trip was in Norway. We were riding the big bumps, going straight from higher and higher up, taking off as the ground fell away. Then I lost it. Skiing beyond my ability. The children were distraught to see blood on my face. I was more bothered by my knee. A small break but enough to finish my holiday.

Several years later in France, skiing in powder beside the piste, I fell. No damage until I tried to pull out a buried ski and snapped a ligament. Stupid mistake. Another blood wagon ride. Crutches for weeks. Then, as if twice wasn’t enough, I damaged a cartilage. A wild skier hit me from behind, I shot in the air, lost both skis and landed on my other knee. I skied on but my leg gave way sometime later.  Carted off once more; an operation this time.

This won’t happen again.  Absolutely not. (I have said that before.)

V is for Vac Job

It was a daring move in the early sixties, putting an ad in the Birmingham Mail, seeking a vac job. ‘Intelligent, reliable sixth-former seeks well-paid job during summer holiday’. I’d got sick of working in department stores where my lack of knowledge about coats earned me sniffs from well-heeled, older ladies.

            There was money out there. Several phone calls suggested removal of my clothing was a lucrative direction. After the first two, my mother fielded them all, just in case I was tempted. Conversations ended promptly when the callers realised they weren’t speaking to me. Personal Assistant sounded promising and I met a gentleman who needed assistance with some complex, but unclear schemes. When it became apparent I was the main project, I declined.

             Intelligence and reliability were not in demand. Then an accountant phoned, a well-spoken, middle-aged man who needed someone with neat handwriting to help him complete ledger entries. Said he would collect me and drop me off each day as we visited various clients. My mother approved. And he paid five shillings an hour. I was employed.

            I learned about book-keeping, credit and debit, his failed marriage and, later on, about Cheryl, another teenager who worked for him. He confided he was in love with her and hoped she felt the same. A weird situation I didn’t understand but I knew I was paid to listen. And so I listened but didn’t tell my mother all I learned. Kindly and correct, he never said anything inappropriate or touched me although he did look at my mini-skirted legs a lot.

I earned good money that summer and worked for him again several times. We became friends, of sorts. I never met Cheryl. Years later, I realised she was me.

U is for Underwear

As a child, I wore too much of it. I was layered up in the Winter, cold (and the catching of one) being anathema to my mother. There was the vest, the liberty bodice – which had nothing to do with freedom – and the petticoat. As money was tight, clothing was not, all items being bought to last. So assorted tucks and hems added to the thickness of my undergarments. Never a slim child, they gave me a well-rounded appearance.

            Spring was the time to shed a layer or two. But not quickly. My mother, a believer in the truth of old sayings, would proclaim, ‘Ne’er cast a clout ’til May is out!’ so I struggled on whatever the weather until the beginning of June.

It wasn’t surprising I rebelled. As a teenager, when the liberty bodice gave way to a bra, a vest was still mandatory. It had more style (if a vest can) than the functional garments of infancy but I was embarrassed none of my friends wore one. I went to a school where communal showers after gym lessons meant we were all familiar with each other from the skin outwards. But my mother expected to find a vest in the washing each week. So she did. I never wore it but slept with it in my bed to give it the appropriate crumpled look.

The roll-on, an elastic type of corset, was introduced to hold my stomach in. We all wore one for a few years but the fashion waned as did my mother’s control of my clothing. Apart from a few sniffy remarks about the smallness of my knickers, she gave up on underwear-policing in my later teens.

I hope I was more liberal about my own daughter’s underwear. I really can’t remember.