In praise of the semi-colon

I love the semi-colon; the elegant little half-way pause, something between a comma and a full stop. I use it a lot, and would be lost without it.

This was brought home to me by a book I'm reading at the moment. It's an interesting true story, but for me,  spoilt by bad writing (this is even worse, because it's ghosted, so someone was paid to do the actual writing). While reading this book, it suddenly struck me that the writer doesn't use a single semi-colon anywhere in the book; and boy, does it need them! The sentences are either short and abrupt, or long and rambling, with only commas for pauses. And commas are not enough.

Is the use of semi-colons (and colons) taught in schools? I've no idea. But if it were given half the attention that seems to be lavished on the ubiquitous exclamation mark, then the world of writing would be a better place! (And that was an exclamation.)

Small and sprightly is the way to be

After a lifetime's observation of my fellows, I have decided that I am the Wrong Shape

I've often wondered why I have less energy than small, slim people, and I still don't know the answer, but what I do know is that theirs is the best shape to be. I've posted before about our amazing neighbour, who is much older than I am and has ten times my energy. And then there is our friend, Di, who at eighty plus bounces about and wears her poor husband out. And just now, when I was  at the lovely horsey place buying horsey things, there was this small, sprightly assistant, whose colleagues say she rushes about "like a hamster in a wheel". 

I am tall. I am not at all fat, but could never be described as sprightly. I often lack energy. I'll just have to live with it. Sigh....

White teeth (but not the Zadie Smith kind)

Yesterday,  I went to the dentist. After an uncomfortable (ie painful) session with the hygienist, it was the dentist's turn.

After he'd done his bit, I asked - just asked - about tooth-whitening. On holiday, we met lots of people from the US and Australia, with gleaming porcelain smiles; so ubiquitous were they that after a while, I felt quite embarassed about the state of my own teeth, and started mumbling through half-closed lips so no-one should see them. So I thought I'd just ask. I didn't want porcelain, I told him; just, well, just a bit whiter?

Dentist got out a little row of plastic teeth, arranged according to colour like a Dulux chart, but without the fancy names. Then he pointed to one near the Bad End. "That's yours", he said. "Yellowy grey"?  My teeth are yellows grey? It would seem that all that red wine has come home to roost. I tottered home in a state of shock.

But when I looked at them afterwards, they didn't look that bad. Not really. And whitening's very expensive. And (as dentist helpfully pointed out) doesn't last. And, said he, works better if you're young.

Well, that's me told. So I think I'll stay as I am. For the time being.

Magpie 176

The statue of liberty stood on her plinth,
And she dreamed, like Snow White, of a handsome young printh.
She thought that she saw one, (he tried to convinth
Her), but afterwards, vanished. She's not seen him sinth.

So she stands weeping quietly beneath a pink moon,
And she hopes and she prays that her printh will come thoon.

(With thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for the picture)

Am I jealous...?

I try not to be. I accept that there are thousands of writers much better than I am, and that's fair enough. I read many of their books, and thoroughly enjoy them. But...

We live in an age of celebrity. We, as writers, have to face it. And if we are not Names (eg Jeffrey Archer, Jilly Cooper, Wilbur Smith, Hilary Mantel; writers who have worked their way up in the past to well-deserved success), or "celebrities" (Jordan, Pippa Middlleton, Alan Titchmarsh), nowadays, we are in for a struggle.

Take Richard and Judy. Someone pointed out to me today that Judy Finnegan's debut novel is currently no. 430 in Amazon sales; Richard Madeley's  is no. 10. These may well be excellent novels, but perhaps it doesn't matter so much if they are not. Richard has (to my knowledge) done two TV interviews about his novel, although probably he doesn't need to, while some of us are lucky if we get a five-minute slot on local radio. The odds are very much against us, whether we are brilliant or pretty poor. It's a fact.

I read a lot of new novels, and some are quite outstanding, like Clare Morrall's wonderful The Roundabout Man. ,  and yet that novel (for example) is currently at no. 141,000.

So while I enjoy rather than envy those who deserve success, I am sad for much of the publishing industry. Sad, that so many good novels seem to go unnoticed (and largely unread), and some terrible ones do well. It's something we as run-of-the-mill writers have to live with (here, I speak for writers like myself), and do the best we can. We write because we love writing, and accept with pleasure such rewards as may come our way. But it is hard to read a book that is badly written, and possibly even ghost-written, whose 'author' is flying high in the charts, while many of the rest of us just bump along near the bottom (and are very grateful to be published at all).

A plea and a bargain!

For some reason, Macmillan have reduced the Kindle price of my novel, The Birds, the Bees and Other Secrets, to the rather odd price of £2.09p. But no matter. At this price, it just could be the bargain you're waiting for (they're bringing out a very expensive new paperback in August, too. I'm not sure why they're doing that, either). After all, this is less than the price of a pint of beer (never mind the pork scratchings).

Like many writers, I find advertising my books almost impossible. I've even been known to give a talk where I've been invited to speak, and sell copies of my book, and haven't been able to bring myself to get the books out of my bag.  But here goes:

Please, please buy my novel! I would offer to give you your money back if you didn't  like it, but doubt whether anyone would take me up on that...?

Anyway, here's a brief extract to give you a flavour of the novel. There's a link to buy at the bottom of this post.

The party was a success. All my mother’s parties were successes, as she didn’t hesitate to remind me. It seemed as though everyone I had ever known was packed into our house, eating and drinking and laughing, some of them smoking strange-smelling cigarettes, others making uninvited use of the bedrooms to further their new-found friendships.

Richard had brought his ukulele; Greta sang along to an old gramophone record, accompanied by Mum on the ironing board; someone I had never seen before had brought bagpipes; The Dog sat in the cupboard under the stairs and howled. The noise was indescribable.

I found Lucas sitting on the stairs drinking a pale liquid out of a bottle.

“Vodka,” he explained briefly. “Want some?”

I nodded, and took the bottle from him.

“It doesn’t taste of anything,” I objected.

“It doesn’t have to,” Lucas grinned. “Have some more.”

I had some more, and soon discovered that Lucas was right. It didn’t matter in the least what vodka tasted like; it was the effect that mattered. Very soon I was singing along to the nearest instrument (the bagpipes, as it happened; not an easy instrument to sing along to, but as I discovered, I simply had to open my mouth and the vodka did the rest).

At half past eleven, the neighbours started to bang on the door and talk about disturbed sleep and work in the morning. Mum smiled and apologised and invited them all in, and some of them even went home to fetch more bottles to replenish our diminishing stocks.

“Just think,” I said to Lucas, as we walked unsteadily towards the kitchen in search of more food. “Any of these people could be our fathers.”

“So they could.”

But it Here. Please!

Passwords

I won't use that overused expression and say they're a nightmare, but they come pretty close. My sons in particular get exasperated because I cannot for the life of me remember them (the passwords, not the sons).

I've just had to make up a new one (the "forgotten your password" link was just made for me). The instructions are to "make it hard to guess and not use personal information". But if I do that, then it's hard for me to guess, and so I forget it, and the whole blessed cycle starts again.

And then just when I've chosen a really good one, I'm told to include extra capitals and numerals, and make it even more forgettable. But I do like the way it checks that I'm me by asking me the name of my first pet (I can't tell you, of course, except that she was a rabbit and next door's dog got her). That little personal touch makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Aaaaah...