Birthing a Book Baby

It always starts with the fun part. No, not that … this isn’t that sort of blog.

The fun begins with research: searching for possibility, for the kernel of an engaging tale. It means throwing myself into a new story and falling in love with beguiling characters. And then comes the writing. The fragile opening words, then sentences. Paragraphs become scenes. Scenes grow into chapters.  Like rolling a snowball, it gathers shape and mass.

Once the manuscript is complete, I read it through and ask myself an important question:  is she the one? Perhaps I pass her to a reader or two. Do I love her enough to devote many hours for editing, trimming, developing and sharpening?

Yes.  She is a keeper.

And so, I persist with it shaping and forming. Growing.

I bring an editor on board. Gather feedback. Back to the keyboard I go – trimming, adding, re-arranging. Cut. Cut. Cut.

Now she is truly beautiful:   a fully formed, polished work – dare I say – of art.

I send her out on submission to literary agents – tailored queries and opening chapters dispatched to a carefully curated list of would-be shepherds. Fifty per cent return bearing courteous rejections. The others simply vanish, lost at sea.

Undeterred, I submit her to a few competitions. To my absolute joy, she gets shortlisted for the Historical Novel Society First Chapters Competition in 2024. Surely this will help her catch an agent’s eye.

Inexplicably, I repeat that unpleasant submission cycle THREE times. (With further manuscript revisions between rounds.)

YEARS pass. It is, frankly, absolute insanity.

Eventually, I pick her up – perhaps for one last time – and read. Do I still love her? Does she deserve her place in the world? Shall I shepherd her myself?

The answer is yes, gentle readers. 

I will be self-publishing The Queen of Bushy House in the autumn.  This story is set in my local area, Teddington, and draws upon the true story of two remarkable women:  Dorothea Jordan and Queen Adelaide. They never met in life but are inextricably intertwined. This is a tale of love, loss, betrayal and longing for acceptance – with themes of motherhood and female friendship woven throughout.

In the meantime, I thought it would be rather nice to revive this blog. And I am making the move to Substack. Shall I start introducing my cast characters?  Maybe a sneak peek at the opening chapter? Perhaps a few posts about the self-publishing process? What would you like to hear about?

Please do subscribe to my substack to get regular updates delivered directly to your inbox.

On Patriot and Protest

I have long been a fan of Alexei Navalny.  I love his wit and sharp, wonderfully Russian sense of humour. I admire his dedication and determination.  And, let’s face it, he’s easy on the eye.

                  I have followed his career from a distance, reading social media posts and watching his YouTube investigations. He is magnetic.  He draws people in and inspires them into action. And this makes him a very dangerous individual.

          I write about him in the present tense, even though he is several months dead. Having just finished reading his memoir, Patriot, he seems very much alive. At least to me.

           I remember back in 2011, when he led a march in Moscow against the corruption in elections. He was just beginning to raise his profile. I called my friend in Moscow to see what she thought about the action but she did not share my enthusiasm. As I recall she dismissed him off hand. “He’ll be a crook too. They’re all the same. Better the devil you know.” I could imagine the shrug on the other side of the line. And in time, when he was convicted for fraud and embezzlement and who knows what else, she took that as evidence of her position.

            At first, I was hesitant to read Patriot. I already knew him well – what else could this book possibly offer me? I was wrong.  Patriot is superb. It’s at time capsule that takes the reader back to his early childhood growing up in closed military towns and spending his summers on a farm with his grandmother in Zalissia, Ukraine. It follows a young man coming of age just when his country crumbles apart. I was struck by how quickly I had forgotten that his movement against corruption had significant momentum – not just in Moscow and St. Petersburg – but across Russia.  It seems an incredibly long time ago.

            He had always imagined writing a memoir in his old age, but then it became clear that he was not in a position to put things off for the future. He started writing while he was in Germany convalescing from Novichok poisoning. Much of the book is written contemporaneously. It’s harrowing stuff. And yet impossibly funny. It is all very Navalny.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I participated in the March for Clean Water protest in London. Water.  What could be more basic? The legacy of Thatcher’s privatisation of the water companies has led to chronic lack of investment in our water utilities. Our Victorian infrastructure is failing.  To put it bluntly, we – and helpless wildlife – are swimming in poo.

Around the time of the march, I was midway through Patriot, so Navalny was ever-present in my thoughts. It may sound corny, but I felt he was with us as we marched along the Thames, across Westminster bridge and on to Parliament Square. Double decker sightseeing busses drove alongside, filled with tourists snapping pictures of us.

This is what democracy looks like.

I had no fear of arrest or being barred from exercising my right to protest. We would not suffer retribution next week. The tax authorities would not suddenly be interested in our affairs. How many of the tourists on those busses would say the same? How exotic was our display?

A few short days later, democracy has never seemed bleaker. The next four years make my stomach tumble with queasy dread. I vacillate between complete certainty that we are all doomed to persuading myself that it’ll be fine. I fear for the planet.

Democracy is messy.  And ugly. The temptation to cover my eyes and ears and ignore it all has never been greater. I have no idea what the future has in-store but one thing is certain – I’ll have to tap into that little bit of Navalny within.

The Importance of Celebrating Good News

Oh dear, oh dear oh dear...  I have truly neglected my blog.  But here I am! 

So what HAVE I been doing all this time?  I have been toiling away at my next novel but in recent weeks I stepped away from my manuscript to enjoy a cultural bonanza of activity with my mom while she visited us here in London. We were a whirlwind of theatre, exhibitions, a couple of road trips etc. 

Since her departure, I have returned to working on my manuscript. And I just received the BRILLIANT news that it has been shortlisted in the Historical Novel Society First Chapters Competition.  Competitions are very important and can help writers find publishers and literary agents, so this is an accomplishment that must be properly celebrated. If there is one thing that I have learnt in this industry, it’s celebrate, celebrate and celebrate again when something good happens. (Because it might be a very long time...)

In celebration, I am sharing the opening chapters of my manuscript, Mrs. Jordan’s Final Act, on my website. This one is set in Georgian England with a biographical core and the action mostly takes place in my local area, my beloved Bushy Park. While visiting the National Portrait Gallery with mom, we ran into my whole cast of characters, beautifully displayed.

Top left: Dorothea Jordan, Queen of Comedy of the Georgian stage.

Middle: Queen Adelaide

Right: King William IV

I think the lower left is one of William’s brothers, not significant to our story.

These characters have become very near to my heart and seeing them all together in such splendour was emotional. Here's to hoping that Dorothea, Adelaide and William can find a publishing home (SOON!). Until then, you can have a sneak peek here.