Putting an anthology together: Part 1. Jumping ahead?

So, my writing focus at the moment (and for the rest of October) is getting an anthology of short stories totalling at least 30,000 words ready to send to Salt Publishing's Scott Prize.

I've been gearing up to do this for a few months, I've had it in my mind, been feeling my way with it. But it's only been the last 2 weeks where I've narrowed my writing tasks to just doing this. I've had a list of 'possible stories to include' on the go for a while, and I've been getting a sense of how many pieces are 'ready', and how many others need more work until I have an anthology of stories which add together to make the required minimum of 30,000 words.

I thought I'd write some thoughts as I go through this process of collecting and looking at and ordering what is about 5 or 6 years of short story writing, while also writing and editing new work to go alongside it. I'll post an update each week until the 31st Oct deadline, maybe more often if I have something to say.

Oh, and - just to give you some context, this is probably the busiest month I've had for a while. I have one day a week I can give to writing completely, and the rest has to fit around my 2 part time jobs. I take my netbook with me wherever I go, and try to add sessions in before and after work where I can. I'm also giving myself one day a week off completely too, because, well - s'important, innit.

So here's where I am at the moment.

This week I...
Read an interview with one of the 2012 Scott Prize winners, Carys Bray. In it, Carys talks about the process of ordering her stories, and there's a photo of the post-its she used to physically (as physically as you can) see them alongside each other.

(I have no idea why the font size is smaller here. I've tried to sort it but it just won't change. Tut.) 
I'd had an idea about writing a little card out for each story so I could get a sense of the whole collection, but I didn't think I was at the point where I could do that yet. But within a few days I'd done it anyway, even though I only have two thirds of the stories ready. I felt like I needed to do something tangible. It was actually a useful process, a new way of seeing the stories. Each card stated story title, word count, and a few words about its mood or subject. That felt a bit weird - writing words like 'Fun' 'Surreal' 'Infidelity', but I wanted to roughly get an idea of what they might be saying so I could see how they might fit together, and if any patterns I didn't know about cropped up. They looked like this:

They'll move about and be added to and more details might be added to the cards as the weeks go on. But having a physical representation really helped.


The other thing I did this week was something else I wasn't supposed to do until I had more of the collection ready. I put all the stories into one document, and I called this document 'Manuscript' which was a bit thrilling. They are in the order I devised with the cards up there, and I guess this was another 'physical' thing to do. Even though I thought I'd have more stories ready before I created this document, I also had a niggling feeling that if I left it too late it'd take too long or there'd be some formatting issue. So it's done now, well - it's begun now - and I don't need to estimate the word count. I know the word count. Here it is:

So even though these 20,926 words represent work written over the past 5 or 6 years, it is totally possible to have the remaining 10,000 ready in 3 and a half weeks. Totally. Really. Is.

Where I am is - I have a lot of stories started, on the go, that just just need time dedicated to them. And that's what this month is about. And in way, in doing some of the admin-y stuff by getting the existing finished stories ready and arranged, I feel free to finish my collection exactly how I want.

Because I also read this excellent discussion (which I found via the interview with Carys) with some short story editors and it fuelled my passion for what I write and why I write short stories. Writers, you should check it out.

This really resonated with me, on 'fragment stories' as apposed to beginning, middle, end stories:

But there's still story there. It's just hanging slightly outside, and that has to work. It's more difficult to do. It's either outside the text or internal, inside the character, but it's still there, and those elements still have to be there, suspended over the thing.
(Ra Page,  Comma Press)

I'm thinking about what I like to write, how I like to write,what I like to read, what excites me, and - as much as I possibly can - turning off the inner critic (more on her in another post) and also - when I need to - turning off the internet.

generalness

I keep thinking about writing a blog post then thinking I don't have anything specific to say. But it's like that sometimes, isn't it?

So I'll just start telling you things and see what happens.

I had a tooth pulled out. Before it came out there was the nagging, persistent ache of toothache, and the swollen gums from the infected tooth, and I couldn't sleep or even rest my head on the pillow when it was at its worst, and I was trying every homespun remedy I could find on the internet (garlic, vanilla essence, cloves (of course) salt, teabags) until I could get to see a dentist. Then I saw the dentist and she gave me some options, and I thought the easiest, simplest, fastest way to stop the pain and deal with the infection seemed to be to take the tooth out.

Now, I've had teeth out before. I was quite a lot younger, a child in fact, so surely, I reasoned, I'd be even better equipped now to deal with having a tooth pulled out. I don't have a fear of the dentist. I even half know the dentist who treated me, she's very nice, it was as relaxing as it could be.

However. I was not prepared for the wrenching, the real, real, pulling effect, the effort it would take to get this tooth out. The fact that I'd have to have my held held still by the hygienist (she said it was like I was trying to reverse off the chair), or that my legs would be shaking so violently, or that the anesthetic seemed to do NOTHING despite me having been injected with extra doses of it.

I feel like I was a bit naive to think it'd be easy. I was also very desperate to get the infection out. The tooth, my gums, the nerves, would all have been extra sensitive, I'm sure. Plus it was a tooth at the back, it had 3 roots, 'the biggest tooth in your head' she told me. Afterwards.

The teeth I had out as a kid just had one root. I'm sure I remember they just came out with a little shuffling.

BUT. It's gone. It was sore for a while, but once I got home and over the shock (I do think I was in shock, actually) I fell asleep and when I woke up I was just so relieved to not have tooth ache anymore.

And then the next day I went to the Yorkshire Dales for a weekend with my writing group, and with a little help from a glorious combination of Ibuprofen and Codeine, I had a lovely time.

And what I'm focusing all my writing energies on at the moment is my entry for Salt Publishing's Scott Prize - and with just over a month to have 30,000 words of short stories ready to sub - I have a lot to do.

So I'll probably be here and on Twitter more than I should be.


(Turns out this post is not at all general, it's actually very toothy.) 
 

Telling it like it is. I’m being real. I won't lie to you. That's just me. 110%. No?

Ever uttered any of the phrases above? Hang on - ‘uttered’ isn’t right. If you’re a real person who 110% tells it like it because you’re not gonna lie you’re just being you, you don’t utter. You throw your statements with conviction - as you should with all that insight you have. 

This post is about to get all opinion-y. Usually I just write about writing but today it's more about talking. It's me writing things about the things I've heard other people say. 

                                                                                                

I love language, of course - I'm a writer so I'm interested in the way people express themselves. And I have no desire to write about anyone's 'bad' grammar or 'bad' English because I don't see language in those terms. 

What I'm writing about is this trend of making a really obvious claim about yourself and then glowing with pride about it. Mostly I don’t like this kind of talk because it can be used to excuse bad behaviour. But it also presents interaction – and people – in a black and white way. Not into that. But if you are, that’s cool. Just follow my guide to ensure you’re selecting the right banal statement for your needs.

‘I tell it like it is.’

Say this if... you've offended another human and need to justify it. ‘I'm just telling it like it is,’ you say. No - you're telling it as you see it. THIS IS NOT THE SAME THING.

 

‘I'm being real.’

Say this if... you believe you have a superpower: you, as a real person, have the ability to announce you are a real person. EVEN BETTER you can also spot a fake person. This is convenient because your world is divided into real people and fake people. (Nothing to do with automatons, unfortunately.)

‘I won't lie to you.’

Say this if… you like saying really ordinary things and making them sound controversial. ‘I won't lie to you: I don't like eggs.’ Great. And, in general, can’t we just always assume you won't lie to me?  

‘That's just me.’

Say this if… you want to behave however you like, and you can, because 'That's just me'. Being yourself - I’m cool with that. But if you use the 'I'm just being me' excuse after you've been a dick, you need to add it on: ‘I'm just being me. And I'm a dick.'

‘110%’

Say this if… you know the word 'Yes' but it’s just not enough. You need to make sure people REALLY understand how much you mean ‘Yes’ so you use the faithful percentage measurement. And, not content with the world-wide accepted maximum of 100, you like to add some on. Bizarrely, it’ll either be just a bit: 110. Or fucking loads: a million.  

‘No?’

Say this if… you want to appear like you're inviting people to disagree with you, but mostly you want to sound French. 'And this is what life is all about, no?' Eugh. Just no. As in NO.

Okay, those final two expressions are not as criminal. They’re habits. But the others display an absoluteness I’m suspicious of. They’re a sinister step up from ‘I’m mad, me!’, but at least the I’m-mads just want to be seen as interesting. The Tell-it-like-it-ises take pride in being twats, while simultaneously thinking they are astute. ‘I’m real, she’s fake’ and that sort of talk feeds into categorising personality types, which is limiting and finite. Be confusing; be confused about people. Explore the grey areas.

this is useful

Apologies for the ambiguous nature of my last post. I'm going to make up for it now by being a more useful and interesting blogger.

Writing-wise, I've been doing my usual thing of working on various things at once, though I've been trying to focus myself mostly on the writing of new material to add to a collection which I hope to send to Salt Publishing's Scott Prize at the end of October. It's only recently that I've felt the urge to put some of my stories alongside each other. I never wanted to do it just because I could, I need each story to feel like it belongs in there.  

Here's where this post gets useful. There are loads of short story competitions closing in the next month - these ones have caught my eye.


Aesthetica Creative Writing Competition
for short stories up to 2000 words
£10 entry fee, but you can send up to 2 entries
£500 1st prize and finalists published in anthology
Closes August 31st

Aesthetica is an internationally recognised magazine so this would be a good platform for any finalists, though I know some writers are put off by the winner-takes-all monetary prize.


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Costa Short Story Award
for short stories up to 4000 words
no entry fee
£3500 1st prize, 2 runners up of £750
Closes September 7th

This one is interesting, a new award, obviously very high profile so again a really good place to have your work. Entries are judged anonymously so beginners should have the same shot as those who have been subbed by their publishers. A shortlist of 6 entries will be announced in November with the public voting for their favourite - which some part of me likes and another is wary of, in case it comes down to the writer with the most followers on Twitter.

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The Short Story Competition
for stories of 1000-5000 words
no entry fee
£300 / £150 / £50 prizes
Closes September 15th

No-entry fee comps with cash prizes are rare (Costa obv has sponsorship) and this one, in its 2nd year, appears to be a friendly and well run place. The website has last year's winning stories, plus advice and guidelines that tell you a little about what the judges want and don't want to read.

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The Asham Award
for short stories written by women only (soz lads) up to 4000 words on the given theme 'Journey'
£15 (or £10 concessions) entry fee
£1000 / £500 / £300 / 9 x £100 runners up
Closes September 21st

I would love to have a story published in an Asham collection, and have tried and failed many times before. This is the second time they've set a theme - 2 years ago (this prize is, erm - what's that word for every 2 years? Not biannual is it? That's twice a year. Hm. Answers in the comments, pliz) the theme was 'Ghost/Gothic' and I couldn't write anything for it. 'Journey' is broader, and more encompassing, I feel. Generous prizes for all finalists, too.

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In more general news, I had a week of toothache because of a leaky filling, I inhaled a fly, I managed to splash burning oil on my hand when I flipped some fish over in the frying pan.If I have time this week I'll add a photo of it here. Exciting, eh! I am quite proud of it. It doesn't hurt anymore, I just have these dark purple marks where the oil hit. Incidentally, I didn't scream out loud - I sort of screamed inside. Which was weird.

Hope you're all well.

in the middle of the night

you wake up and think of a thing that someone you know did the other day that you didn't like and it's really got your goat. Whatever your goat is it has been got. Thing is, you need to be up early tomorrow (today) so you could have done with staying asleep and you could have done with keeping hold of your goat.

when the thing happened that you didn't like you said your opinions out loud so that's something.

after the thing happened you felt such dislike for the person that did it that you had to keep some part of your body moving to deal with it. You tapped your foot. You drummed a finger against that space between your top lip and your nose. Your breathed in and out noisily while you did these things.

a few days later you woke up in the middle of the night and laid a while adding to the dossier in your head about all the aspects of the thing you didn't like until you thought it best you just got up, made some tea and toast, and opened the internet.

Embarrassing moment

You know how when you embarrass yourself it can just be a really small part of a bigger experience that was mostly positive, but your brain likes to keep reminding you of the bit you feel embarrassed about, rather than the general positive feeling of the whole?

Well, my brain is really attached to an answer I gave at the interview for a Writer In Residence post (I didn't get it) at a secondary school back in May, and every so often, just when I'm minding my own business, my brain likes to throw this memory in my face just to see my face do what can only be described as a grimace. So I've been wondering WHY.

The question was something like:
Suppose you have 2 very different students who we'd like you to recommend books to. The first is a reluctant female reader of 13 years, and the second is an avid reader - male, who is 17. If you had to recommend a book to each of them, which books would you choose?

I immediately felt thrown by this. Not so much by the reluctant 13 year old, but the 17 year old boy who reads loads - I had no idea what to say. I tried to keep my cool, but the pressure increased when one of the interviewers said the last candidate 'had given really great answers'.

I knew the longer I waited to answer the worse it would be. I said I'd recommend 'I Capture The Castle' by Dodie Smith for the girl. I'm okay with that, I think it's a great book full of humour and wonder and it has an engaging female narrator.

But I just couldn't think of something for the boy. Brain went dead. I said, and this bit is all right - I believe this bit is true: I'd suggest the boy reads something out of his comfort zone, and both interviewers smiled and raised their eyebrows in agreement. Good so far. But I still had no idea of a specific book.

I ended up saying, and this is the bit I cringe at: 'Something by Virginia Woolf'.

Eugh.

But WHY. Why is this a moment in my history I feel icky about? There isn't anything wrong with saying a 17 year old boy should have a go at reading Virginia Woolf.

I think I'm unearthing the WHY bit now and maybe I can exorcise it from the Embarrassing Moments Holding Area in my brain. (Just so another one can rise to the surface, surely.) 

It's because I didn't mean it. It's because I haven't read much Virginia Woolf. I keep getting halfway through Mrs Dalloway then I read something else. She is a writer I want to read, I feel in some way that it's important for me to read her. But I have no reason to recommend her. So, I was on shaky ground. If they'd asked me 'Which book?' or - even worse - 'Why?' I would have totally folded.

And, also, it's to do with the fact that I didn't read much when I was 17, beyond magazines and the odd text book for my A-levels. In fact, I didn't read for pleasure until I started writing seriously, when I was about 24. I used to feel odd about this, when I heard other writers talk about how books and stories were such a part of their early lives, I'd feel a bit inferior. I don't now, by the way, it's just a fact.

Oh, so now I've just typed that out - I don't feel inferior - I feel better. This is live therapy!

Thanks, Blogger. In your face, Brain.



I'll get on with my day now. Oh, and I see that the top event in my Embarrassing Moments Holding Area is an old favourite: the time I saw my old (not in years) (and he's very handsome) A-level teacher 10 years after he taught me and accidentally insulted his new (and actually he's very successful and you will all have heard his voice LOADS on TV) career as voice over artist. It must be noted that as I did this, I was serving him a box of popcorn. Eugh ew eugh ah horrible.

Back from the hairdressers

and it totally looks like I just stepped out of a salon (do you know that reference? Say hello...).

So the experience of being at the hairdressers is always a weird one. I'm sure that even the most confident and self-assured person finds sitting in front of their wet bedraggled reflection awkward.

I always have. What is it about the mirror in the hairdressers that makes my face look like THAT?  

My current hairdresser is lovely. And I mean it. I sit in the bright orange chair and with that cape on and the music playing loud and she is nothing but lovely. Warm, kind, thoughtful. Everything you need in a hairdresser. And she cuts my hair all nice and good. But when I do catch sight of myself, I see my hands are holding each other tightly, or my jaw is clenching. My shoes look too scuffed.

There is nothing that she does that makes me feel this way. This is like being hauled up in front of the judge. Only I'm the judge. I'm judging myself. No one else actually gives a shit. The cool looking reception girl, the junior with the experimental colour - they don't care. It's just me, and myself. Avoiding my own eye contact.

One of my first published stories was about this. Unusually, I'm going to re-publish it here. It appeared in an anthology by Earlyworks Press called 'With Islands In Mind' in 2006 - right at the start of my writing career. I think of it whenever I'm at the hairdressers, and I'd like to share it. 

If you like it, please comment, or pass it on. Thanks.

The Closest Thing

Teresa Stenson  

 

Lifting up a strand of my hair, the woman braces herself and tells me: ‘You suffered a very traumatic experience about six months ago.’

She’s looking at me in the mirror - that odd, but necessary, part of the process. I avoid my own eye contact. Strand of hair still in her hand, she shakes her head at some fuzzy wisps trying to break loose. ‘Very traumatic’, she confirms.

I’m managing a weak smile. This is difficult. It's the kind of situation I hate, not the ‘reading’ (though I didn't realise that would be part of the package), but the exposure.

‘Now what would you like to drink, my darling?’ She runs through the options, while examining my hair, follicle to tip. ‘We’ve got tea – herbal and otherwise; coffee – fresh, not frozen; water – spring, not tap; fruit juice – several colours, and wine – still or sparkling.’

 I open my mouth to say ‘water’ but she's eying at the ends of my hair and there's that face of concern again.

So I decide: ‘Wine would be lovely.’

‘Be right back’ she says, dropping my tale-telling hair.

I look down at my clasped hands and wonder why I’m here. I could just go now, of course. Just run away in this cape, head for the door. Go home, lock myself in.

I’m here because you made the booking. Even paid for it in advance. I found the appointment card in with some other things you left for me. ‘Please go’ written on it in biro. I panicked, then saw the date, months away. Chance to prepare, work up the courage. All of a sudden it was time.

Walking through the heavy door, I entered a house of mirrors, all ready to reveal me. Slender black silhouettes poised with scissors, sprays, intimidating style. When one of them approached to take my coat, I didn’t know how best to place myself. She managed.

'Renee will be along in a moment, take a seat.’ She ushered me to a chaise lounge and I perched.

The immaculate, middle aged Renee bustled through the salon, all arms and smiles. ‘Bettina, hi! Nice to meet you. What are we doing for you today, sweetheart?’ She furrowed her pencilled brow, not looking at me, but scanning my hair, scraped back into a pony tail.

‘I don't know, I'm erm, not really, I mean I don't – ‘

Suddenly she reached round to the back of my head and untied my hair.

‘You've got curls! Unleash these curls!’

I felt sick, this wasn't supposed to happen, not here in the waiting area anyway. She ran her hands through my hair, making elaborate noises and gasps, ‘Look at it! Wow, Bettina, look at your mane!’

I wanted to run. Then suddenly she stopped and looked at me, into my eyes and then around my face. ‘You look like - with your hair like that - you really look like someone I know.’

For a second I almost told her, but she shook the thought out of her head and smiled again. ‘Let's begin.’

Now, waiting for Renee to return, I'm wondering if wine was the right choice. You'd be proud of me, say I'm living life to the full. A mid-morning pick me up. You'd be all: why not, Bettina? Who cares, who gives a damn? Your voice in my head like that makes me look up, to see you in me in the mirror, the closest thing to bringing you back.

Renee's bustle breaks my thoughts. She's manoeuvring herself through the salon, with a glass of wine in each hand. ‘Don't fret my darling, mine's a spritzer – I shan't be too tipsy to cut your hair.’

The other stylists smile and tut and roll their eyes in a 'that's our Renee' kind of way. Now I can really see why you liked her so much. ‘She's amazing!’ you'd say, fluffing your hair in my long hallway mirror, pulling away the coats and scarves hung all over it. ‘And she knows stuff, Bets. But most importantly she knows about hair type. With our hair, you've got to be careful or you'd tie it back everyday in a pony tail.’ Your reflection eyed me, knowingly, as I stood behind you, wondering (not for the first time) how we came out of that same egg.

Renee takes a drink and smacks her lips several times. ‘First taste of the day.’ And I think – at least that's something - and I hold mine in my hand and draw stripes in the condensation.

‘Don't turn it into Art, sweetheart, drink it.’

I sniff it, as if that means something to me. It stings my nose, reminding me of those first few tastes of alcohol, of being a teenager with you. I tip the glass to my lips and take in the cold wine, hold it in the cup of my tongue for a while. This is the part where you'd tell me to 'Just drink it Bettina!' and say I was stalling. When I do swallow it, I can't tell if it's cold or hot anymore.

‘Vino, vino, vino. It's the best, you know!’

I look up to see her smiling at her rhyme, and looking into my glass I smile too, because it's funny because it's not funny, and it's something you might say.

‘That's better, a smile's what we need, Bettina! A smile and curls – the perfect combination. Now, I cut to type, like that old saying – don't cut the cloth the wrong way. Is that a saying? Who cares. I love your hair.’

Renee runs her fingers through it, pulling at strands here and there. ‘How do you want me to cut it? What do you see for us today?’

‘Um, well, it's been a while and I usually tie it up, so, something easy, so I can wash it and leave it.’

‘Brilliant. This is gold dust. I need to know about your lifestyle, your personality, because I strongly believe the cut has to suit that. Now, let's get you over to the sink, because when I'm shampooing I'm getting a map of your head.’

*

Shampooed and conditioned, I sit with a towel wrapped and twisted elaborately on top of my head. For all the time I spend hating my hair, I hate the bareness of my face without it. Renee loosens the towel and rubs my scalp roughly, declaring, ‘This is to enliven, I am bringing the follicles to life!’

It falls like sea weed over my face. Renee begins tugging at strands, finding a parting.

You used to say this woman had liberated you and your hair. I found this amusing. You – you were anything but in need of liberation, with your confidence and your ease. I had studied it, tried to imitate it, grown bored with it, been worn down by it. I'd been the punch line and subject of anecdotes delivered to large crowds, and have always known I was seen as a pity: a pity we were so different.

‘Now Bettina, I want you to do something for me because I just do not know how this hair wants to fall. I want you throw your head back and shake it all out.’

I scan behind me around the salon, and at Renee who is swinging my chair in encouragement.

‘Come on, throw yourself back like a rock star diva!’

I shake my soaking head a couple of times. It is not enough.

‘Come on girl, take a gulp of wine, throw your head back and give it some attitude!’ She is demonstrating in front of me, her choppy blonde bob flying and swinging in her face.  

I laugh because her energy is contagious, and she is so like you it's tormenting.

‘Yield to the laughter!’ she yells and takes my hands, pulling them from side to side as I just let it all go and throw my head back, my eyes squeezed shut, my wet hair whipping my face with slashes of water.

Renee is whooping and when I stop she is clapping and I see that through the laughter I am crying a little.

I wipe my eyes and reach for the wine.

‘That feels better, doesn't it?’

‘Much.’ I mean it.

‘And let's see where this hair is falling. It wants to be a side parting you know… how do you normally wear it?’

‘Middle.’

It was one of those distinctions Mum implemented early on to tell us apart quickly. Mine in the middle, yours to the side. But it stayed with us into adulthood, though the differences became easier to spot.

‘Your hair is crying out to be side-parted Bettina, and it is my responsibility to listen to the hair.’ She holds up her hands, as if to say, 'It's out of these hands', and I wonder just whose hands we are in, then.

‘Sure.’

Renee nods, as if I have passed a test I didn't know I was taking. ‘Look at this, see? How it softens your face now, to the side.’

It feels wrong, and I'm torn between thinking you're going to tell me off for copying you, or say I should have done it sooner. But then it doesn't matter now, does it? I used to hate your unpredictability. I could worry for hours over it, only for you to not care at all.

I look up at my reflection. Suddenly I realise for the first time that you have sat in this chair and looked at yourself. And I don't care how much we might look like each other, it's not much at all really, because you would be laughing and moving your head around to see yourself better, you would be toasting the haircut, the shampoo, the day with Renee.

I've been scared of mirrors since you died, scared they would reveal you behind me as I brush my teeth.

I can see you more than ever in this one.

Kerry Hudson writes a letter to herself

Kerry Hudson is here to celebrate the launch of her debut novel, Tony Hogan Bought Me An Ice-cream Float Before He Stole My Ma, out now and oh-so-enthusiastically recommended. She's been hot-trotting around the internet all week, answering questions, sharing her publishing experience, giving advice. Today's stop-off is a little different. Today Kerry is talking to herself, specifically herself at 17 (pictured). Enjoy. 

  

Dear Kerry,

It is your 17^th birthday and you are raw and a bit lost at the moment. It hasn't been an easy year. Today a nice friend called David who you've confided in (he is 17, is on the dole and lives by himself in a bedsit but he wants be a teacher one day) will make you celebrate your birthday. He'll take you to a Wetherspoons in Norwich and treat you to a burger and a pint and then you'll go to the cinema together. You'll both try to be cheerful and talk in a hallow way about the big, bright futures you both intend to have as you chew the dry burger and unpeel your arms from the sticky table top. When you catch the train home to Great Yarmouth that night you'll write in a journal with the neon furry cover. When I look at the writing now I see that it is frantic, your pen pressing hard against the paper. You'll write in that childish choice of a journal about such adult things: how guilty you feel and that you should be grateful for just being healthy and having the chance to have a better future but instead that you feel useless and hopeless. You lose touch with David when you leave college but you're grateful to him all these years later for that small kindnesses he showed then, for listening, and holding tight to your secrets like good friends should.

I want to go back to that girl I barely recognise from pictures; a serious, confrontational stare into the camera, eyes too grown up and skirt too short for that skinny little body. I want to take you for a big walk, as an adult you love to walk, miles and miles across whatever city you're in. In my mind I take you for a walk up the coast of Great Yarmouth, beyond the noise and lights of the arcades to where there are only dunes and neat suburban houses. I'll tell you that you think you want to be an actress but that is simply because you love stories and one day you will write whole worlds instead.  I'll tell you even though you've been told that girls like you, from the estates you come from, have nothing to say worth hearing, you'll see that isn't true. People will listen if you speak up. You will go to London and you'll fall in love and know what it is to feel safe with another person. At seventeen you haven't been on a plane yet, or abroad - you haven't even been on a holiday but one day you'll travel the world. You'll go places where the only way you can communicate is to smile at everyone around you and you'll smile a lot in your adulthood. I want to promise you you'll carve yourself a happy, purposeful life and because of where you came from you'll be grateful for each small thing: a good meal, a book you can't put down, the sunshine on a long Summer Sunday.

You don't know yet how much your childhood and teens will shape you. You'll spend your twenties denying them, hiding behind the sofa from your background, telling anyone who'll listen that you refuse to be defined by it. Then, in your late twenties you will come to realise how important it was and how much it gave you: resilience, work ethic, an understanding of what it is to struggle, a need to strive and the gratitude that will remind you how lucky you are every single day.

Your first novel, Tony Hogan Bought Me an Ice-Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma was published last week by Chatto & Windus. You're starting to tell the stories of  girls from backgrounds like yours and hope girls just like you will read it. Yesterday I walked up to Hampstead Heath and sat on a hill in a patch of sunshine drinking a cup of coffee. I thanked you for sticking with it, working hard, fighting for your place so that I could be be in my place now...that sunny patch under the big blue London sky.   

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Thanks so much, Kerry, for sharing this with us. I find the part about spending your 20s denying how your childhood shaped you really interesting, I think I did a bit of that, maybe it comes from the stubbornness of youth or something - the 'Yeah this happened but I'm fine, I'm strong' etc. Then it kind of catches up with you, but in a good way too. Comes with getting to know yourself, perhaps. Thanks again for such a personal and generous letter. 

Tony Hogan Bought Me An Ice-Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma is out now and can be ordered here.

Catch Kerry on her next couple of stops:

Wednesday: Blurb and extract at bedsheets & biscuit crumbs 

Thursday: Inspiration for the book at Sarah's book reviews 

 

Click here for my thoughts on Kerry's book, plus details of a pretty fantastic competition open to anyone who comments on this post and any others from Kerry's tour. 

Kerry Hudson and Tony Hogan

*Edited to include details of the Tony Hogan competition - see below*

So I wanted to write a few words about Kerry Hudson's debut novel before she gets here on Tuesday as part of her mammoth blog tour.


I've never met Kerry in 'real life', though it kinda feels like I have from reading her book and the exchanges we've had on Twitter and email. Mostly it's the book though, which Kerry says herself is based on her own upbringing. It helps that we're the same age, children of the 80s and teenagers of the 90s.  So there were many cultural references that delighted me as I read Tony Hogan (My So-Called Life and lime green flares were both particularly close to my heart). And there are a few similarities between myself and main character Janie - though she had a much tougher time than I did. But we did some of the same stuff, in a similar environment, at the same time. 

But it wasn't just the familiar feeling, there's an honesty in the writing, that rare feeling of truth and energy that comes from reading stories you believe in. I felt like when I read Kate Atkinson's Behind The Scenes At The Museum. This family got under my skin, I wanted the best for them, I recognised them. The writing is so strong, so funny and grabbing (yes, grabbing). 

Here's the blurb:

 

When Janie Ryan is born, she's just the latest in a long line of Ryan women, Aberdeen fishwives to the marrow, always ready to fight. Her violet-eyed Grandma had predicted she'd be sly, while blowing Benson and Hedges smoke rings over her Ma's swollen belly. In the hospital, her family approached her suspiciously, so close she could smell whether they'd had booze or food for breakfast. It was mostly booze.

Tony Hogan tells the story of a Scottish childhood of filthy council flats and B&Bs, screeching women, feckless men, fags and booze and drugs, the dole queue and bread and marge sandwiches. It is also the story of an irresistible, irrepressible heroine, a dysfunctional family you can't help but adore, the absurdities of the eighties and the fierce bonds that tie people together no matter what. Told in an arrestingly original -- and cry-out-loud funny -- voice, it launches itself headlong into the middle of one of life's great fights, between the pull of the past and the freedom of the future. And Janie Ryan, born and bred for combat, is ready to win.

and it's available on Amazon here.



Kerry's visit on Tuesday will be magnificent. I know because I've read what she's sharing with us. When Vanessa Gebbie was here for the launch of The Coward's Tale, I asked her to write a letter to herself before she became a writer. It was a hugely popular blog post and readers and writers alike enjoyed Vanessa's letter. So I asked Kerry if she'd like to do the same, and she has, and the result is wonderful. Come back on Tuesday to see what now-Kerry has to say to 17-year old Kerry.



THE COMPETITION
This is open to anyone who comments on one of Kerry's blog posts for the Tony Hogan tour. Usually a blog tour involves a draw for a free copy of the book that's being launched. This prize is above and beyond any I have seen before.

Official details from Kerry:
 

This prize draw is open to anyone who hosts or comments on a Tony Hogan post. There is no purchase necessary. There is no limit to how many times a name can be entered i.e. if you comment on three blogs you have three entries but it's only possible to win one prize per person. The winning names will be drawn at random on Wednesday 1^st August and announced on my Tumblr blog and on Twitter.

1^st, 2^nd and 3rd prizes consist of:

1^st prize - A three chapter or synopsis critique plus afternoon tea at Beas of Bloomsbury, London (at a mutually beneficial date and time) with Juliet Pickering from the AP Watt Literary Agency to discuss your critique. Plus a personalised copy of Tony Hogan Bought Me an Ice-Cream Float Before he Stole My Ma.

2^nd prize - A  literary hamper containing a personalised copy of Tony Hogan Bought Me an Ice-Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma as well as three of my most recommended writing theory books and Hotel d Chocolate chocolates to enjoy while reading them.

3^rd prize - A personalised copy of Tony Hogan Bought Me an Ice-Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma.

How amazing?!

Very. 

Please note this post is not the one to leave comments on. Kerry will be here on Tuesday with her letter to herself, but if you want to get commenting elsewhere now (and why wouldn't you?) you could head over to Sara Crowley's blog where she is today (Sunday) or The Little Reader where she will be tomorrow. Wait until tomorrow to go there. Or she won't be there. Unless it is tomorrow today. I'm going now...

still here

Just a quick stop-gap post. More regular blogging will resume again soon, most likely in the next two or three days. June was a bit busy and that thing happened where I kept thinking 'I'll blog soon' but then life and other writing took priority. And I got a little bit ill with a throat infection and lost my voice for a few days, days when we had Mario's sister here and I could really have done with being able to communicate other than just nodding and/or frowning. I could whisper, but that made everything I said sound dramatic.

Writing-wise I've been working on the story that might make it to the Mslexia Children's Novel Competition if it's ready in time (Sept). Because I'm such a flighty writer, always working on a few things at once, realistically this might not happen. But I'm going to keep going with it, keep carving out the story of these characters in this place and see where it takes me.

Along with that I'm working on a few short stories and building a potential selection to send to The Scott Prize in October. And a few other things, a non-fiction idea, a comedy project. This sounds like I'm spreading myself too thin, but this is how I work. It makes seeing progress and productivity particularly difficult.

Excitingly we will have a guest with us next week in the form of Kerry Hudson who is stopping off here on Tuesday July 10th as part of her blog tour for the brilliant (I've just read it) novel 'Tony Hogan Bought Me An Ice-Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma'. I will say some more words about this book soon, but right now I have to get ready for work, which is the other thing I've been doing.