A Rabbit In Headlights

It has been quite some time since I posted a blog, but please don’t think that’s because I’m fundamentally lazy, although I am. Actually I’ve been having a wonderfully busy and exciting time, completing one book, collaborating with a whole team of young people on a second, that is almost complete, working on a piece for a second anthology collection and planning out the story on my third book.

In my spare time my co-author, Anna, and I decided to set up a writing group with the support of a wonderful man at our local library. We both belong to a thriving group in Chelmsford called Writebulb but it is quite a long journey from home and we had met other local writers who just couldn’t travel that far so we decided to start one of our own.

Now one of the things I enjoy about belonging to a writing group are the writing challenges that we get set every week, I think it is the masochist in me that enjoys the pain of that moment immediately after the group leader gives you the title of the challenge and tells you how long it is before the group expects to hear your composition. The rabbit in the headlights moment when your brain freezes and you can’t think of a single word to write and yet, somehow, 20 minutes later, there it is, a story that has miraculously appeared on your page. It is wonderful, the feeling-rarely the story. That’s what happened to me this month.

The title of the challenge was The Defective Detective. As soon as I heard it I knew I was in trouble, you see I don’t do detective stories. I can usually guess who did it, why and how long before I’m supposed to or, if I can’t, I get cross when the author introduces some previously unknown, outlandish motive or opportunity. I think I view crime novels as an intellectual puzzle and I get cross when the person setting the puzzle ‘cheats’ by making it impossible for me, the reader, to solve. Silly I know and of absolutely no help when it came to composing my own in the short time deadline given. I sat there for ages desperately trying to come up with something, the clock ticking and the sound of the other members scribbling away only serving to add more pressure than the countdown tune. Then, without warning, inspiration stuck. A play on the title, I guess, wormed its way into my disturbed mind.

I have decided to share it with you. It is most definitely not my best work, and it is not presented to you as such, but it is short and I offer it merely as an illustration of how desperate inspiration can become when pressure is added. I hope you enjoy it, if only through the laugh at my thought processes it will provide you with. With Apologies to the late, great Agatha Christie and her estate.

The Defective Detective by Hellen Riebold (aged 46 ¼)

Poirot stroked his perfectly coiffured beard as a small smile played around the corners of his mouth. His eyes sparkled with the joy of enlightenment and he knew, once again, he, Poirot, the greatest living Dutch detective, had solved the seemingly impossible case.

He leaned forward and pressed the button on the new-fangled intercom his secretary has insisted he install. “Miss Citron, be so good as to come in here please.”

“Certainly, Sir.” Came the clipped reply.

Less than a minute later a remarkably beautiful young woman in high heels and stunning red dress marched efficiently into the room, notebook and pen in hand. “How can I help, Sir?” she asked, waiting just inside the door.

“Take a seat, Miss Citron.” Poirot smiled.

The young woman gracefully placed herself in the chair, pen poised.

“Now, Miss Citron, tell to me this, when Captain Battle visited me this morning did he or did he not refuse my kind offer of breakfast?”

“He most certainly did, Sir.”

“And do my little pink cells fail me when they recall him wittering on about some sort of dietary restriction?”

“No Sir,” Miss Citron smiled, “Captain Battle is, in fact, on the grape diet and his food intake is currently restricted to that particular fruit.”

“Ah. So it is as I recall. Then, perhaps you can explain to me why it is that the slice of Edam I left in the fridge, to which I was looking forward to enjoying for my lunch, is no longer on his little plate.” He looked at her intensely but she knew better than to spoil his fun. “I put it to you,” he continued,  “that Captain Battle, his sense of decorum clouded by hunger, came into my apartment earlier and, not wishing to, as you say, lose the face, stole my Edam. Eating it quickly and surreptitiously to avoid detection.” He beamed triumphantly at the world in general, he had solved another case.

Miss Citron squirmed in her seat.

“Be so kind as to get for me Captain Battle on the telephone, if you please. “ Poirot asked, indicating she should use the phone on his desk.

Miss Citron sat motionless, her own little pink cells chuntering away, the stolen Edam sitting uncomfortably in her stomach.

“Miss Citron, the telephone, if you please.” He looked at her questioningly.

How on earth was she going to tell the great Poirot he had made a mistake and keep her job, she wondered.

__________________________________________________

 

If having read my efforts you’d like to have a go then please do and share them in the comments section or, if you prefer, you would be welcome to join Anna and I at Rayleigh WINOS Writing Group, you can find out more on our Facebook page here:- https://www.facebook.com/groups/318185391605916/

Small & Beautiful

It’s been a very strange weekend, strange but really great. 

The funniest thing that happened to me happened on Sunday morning in Church and, I apologise now, involved the loo (what is it with me and loos?). I was helping out in the 9-13 group in Planet Kids this week and felt prior to the service I’d better escape to the loo while I had the chance, not knowing the care-takers had left the tannoy on this weekend just for a treat. Without being too graphic let me tell you it’s a little disconcerting to be sitting on the loo whilst being serenaded by Heather Small blasting out of the tannoy asking ‘What have I done today to make me feel proud?’! Still it did put me in a good mood which is always helpful when facing teenagers.

On Saturday some friends and I drove down to Brentwood to attend one of the occasional extended worship events Closer. It was absolutely pouring with rain and the roads were flooded and all we knew was that the Church was down a little country lane somewhere between Brentwood and Ongar. Still armed with my new, super wizzy, pretty sure it could fly the Enterprise phone which has GPS we set off We’d left loads of time because the Sadlers Farm roundabout was going to be closed all weekend so the A127 was going to be completely chock-a-block wasn’t it? Well, as it turned out, no. The GPS was brilliant and directed us expertly down dark, almost flooded country roads until we found the wonderfully clear and brand new Brentwood Vineyard road sign. We arrived so early that we half expected the guys preparing the building to just be getting out of the shower but it was wet and cold so we went in anyway. They were wonderful, very, very welcoming. There was tea, coffee and doughnuts waiting and we were soon chatting away to friends from all over Essex and Kent before the real fun started. Jon Lavery and the band were fantastic and led us in a brilliant extended worship session before Libby from Chelmsford Vineyard spoke and then Dave led the formal part of the evening as Brentwood Vineyard was formally accepted into the Vineyard Movement and Ameila and Lucas were commissioned as their Senior Pastors. It was wonderful though I’ve never seen so many posh dresses and suits at a Vineyard service in my life! The ministry time was completely mind blowing and quite literally life changing for several folk and we then enjoyed a buffet complete with a wonderful home made Commissioning celebration cake before heading home.

On Sunday those teenagers I was talking about earlier were wonderfully creative as we talked about Genesis and the creation, the girls made planets out of paper, tin-foil, fabric, pipe-cleaners and just about anything else they could find while the boys made amazing paper planes the size of jumbo jets by sticking more and more sheets of paper together – ah that reminds me, must order more sellotape. Our discussions included such light-hearted topics as global warming, evolution and science and how the two are not in conflict at all, the wonders of geology, sin, the fact Jesus died for them and ‘who is this God bloke anyway?’, that’s why I love Humaniods, never a dull moment.

www.rayleighvineyard.org.uk

Facebook-The Marmite of the Technological Age.

Love it or hate it I think Facebook is here to stay (now watch those shares crash) but, as a writer, I do have a bit of a love/hate relationship with the site, much like the way I feel about Marmite.

I hate Marmite, it is disgusting tar looking stuff and actually a waste product from beer making which you can tell from the taste. That is apart from when I’ve got a cold, then it is like Heaven’s own ambrosia. It can actually get through to my taste buds and give me something to taste other than catarrh or Lemsip (yummy, I know, sorry). Spread thinly on buttered toast it is the first thing I reach for, after the tissues.

Facebook is a lot like that, it is a massive, time-eating, blood-pressure raising, completely pointless site where I can find out what my friend’s neighbour’s cat had for dinner or play pointless games mimicking the life I could be leading if I could just step away from the computer. It is the thing I have to guard against if I want to get any writing done and I hate it. Until, that is, I need to check in with my wonderful adopted sister who is studying in Dundee, or to find out what time a party starts or if anyone can have my dogs while I go away, then it is a marvel of the modern age and I wonder how I ever managed without it. I can’t even really blame it for my inability to concentrate on my writing anymore as recently it has actually become a real help.

One of my friend’s children joined Facebook and became my ‘friend’. She is a very forthright child, which is one of the many reasons we love her. She is very keen that I finish my current work in progress, mainly because one of the characters is based on her, so now, whenever we are on Facebook at the same time, she messages me. ‘How many words have you written today?’  It’s become a little tyranny, it makes me write because, if I haven’t made it close to 1,000 words by the time she asks, she demands, not unreasonably, ‘Why are you playing on Facebook then?’

I’m so confused.

Do I hate Facebook because of all the time it wastes or love it because it keeps me in touch with friends who encourage me to write?

Perhaps I should try Pinterest instead.

I’m Ready For My Picture Now, Mr. Photograher.

Twice now, in the past month, I have enjoyed the more public side of being an author. Once at the book signing and then again this week at the Essex Book Festival launch during which I enjoyed talking to visitors about the process of writing, encouraging them to join writing communities and persuading them to take part in our 100 word story competition. I was almost interviewed on Essex Radio (again!), chatted to a local publisher and the leaders of several writing groups as well as suceeding in enticing a local independent book shop proprietor to stock the book I have written with my friend. All in all a wonderful day, but I found myself again contrasting my public side with the private side and revelling in the real joy of an author’s fame, its fleeting nature. At public events I love chatting to people, encouraging them to write, having someone tell me how much they’ve enjoyed my work, even, dare I say, posing for photos, but at least part of the joy of this is the knowledge that, once the event is over and I leave the venue, the people who are now so keen to chat to me would never pick me out in Sainsbury’s. I really enjoy being able to go from known to unknown in the space of a few metres and, last week, I wrote a little poem about it, which I’ve included below. I hope you like it and that you will forgive the cryptic West Wing reference, it was just too hard to resist.

The Book Signing

Sitting here, staring out

Watching people mill about.

I see them as they scurry by

Trying not to catch my eye.

I fiddle with my pad and pen

Trying not to look, and then,

“Excuse me, will you sign my book?”

 

The tension broken, battle commences

With pen-swords and table fences.

To Gill, Marie, Steve and Fred,

Each one a marvel in my head.

Their money spent, curiosity smitten,

They want to read what I have written.

They want to see inside my head,

To visit places filled with dread.

So I smile and sign my name

A hundred times, each one the same.

Next time I look up from this flock

And steal a glance at the clock

Three hours have passed, it’s time to flee

To go right back to being me,

To pass those people on the street

Who queue in hopes that they might meet

This author with her brand new book

Who now deserves no second look.

I smile, I have enjoyed this game

Of fleeting, ephemeral, temporary, fame.

Oh look, I said three things that mean the same.

Oh, The Glamour Of It All!

No, not the Oscars, Grammies, Brits or whatever awards show is up next. I’m talking about the business of being an author.

After the headiness of the book signing it’s been back to earth with a bump this week as I gear up to self-publish my first science fiction novel, New Earth: Beginnings. How hard can it be? I hear you ask, well, the answer is, not really very hard at all but it is, dare I say, a bit boring!

I am a writer, I love watching new worlds develop on my page, seeing characters take charge of their own lives, discovering new plot twists and trying to stay rooted in reality long enough to remember to take the dogs for a walk but once the story is down on the page, the boring stuff takes over. When I think the story is good enough for an agent to like the journey is quite exciting and fairly painless, I write individual letters for each agent, which is a creative process in itself, then send them, along with the requisite words, to each one in turn. Then I dive headlong into the next story until I hear from them, or remember I’m waiting and give up on selling that one.

However, when I decide to self-publish, I have to stop doing the fun stuff and actually get on with the real work. Choosing a cover picture, designing the cover, writing the back blurb, the product description for Amazon/Goodreads etc., finding a half-decent picture to put over my author’s bio (never found a decent one yet, so I keep changing them) and that’s all before I get to the publishing bit. Once I get there I have to do a final, final, final edit (because I’m rubbish at spelling), make sure it’s in the right font and complies with the publishing platform’s formatting rules, it’s never ending. But then, then comes the bit I love. I click publish and, 24 hours later, people can download my book. The rush of typing my name into Amazon and seeing books being listed will never, ever get tired and, two weeks later, I can order hard copies so I guess that all that boring stuff is, eventually, worth it, but, when I’m in the middle of it, like right now, I don’t half long for the glamour of a book signing.

Things Can Only Get Better, And So They Did!

What a difference a week can make! I have had such a wonderful weekend, with two major new steps in my journey into writing. Firstly I started my Facebook author’s page and Secondly I took part in my very first book-signing event.

Making my author page for Facebook is something I had been putting off, unsure if it was really necessary or if anyone would be interested in little old me. However, with two books already available on Amazon, another one due out at the beginning of March and four more projects on the go it suddenly seemed to make sense to have a central page to let people know about everything I’m doing. So this week I took the plunge. It was quite easy to do and I had fun deciding which pictures to use but the best thing of all was just how quickly I built up the likes! I had no idea there would be 40 people in the world who would be in the least bit interested in my random ramblings but, less than a week in, the page has 40 likes. This is especially satisfying as I only have a very small family so they can’t all know me personally can they?

If you’d like to take a look then visit https://www.facebook.com/pages/Hellen-Riebold/530521043655534 now how’s that for a snappy address?

The second new experience was that, together with my co-authors from both The Other  Way Is Essex and The Saved Saint, this Saturday I took part in my first book-signing event. I have to tell you that, as a cynical veteran of many, many days spent on information stalls for the fostering service I used to work for, my expectations were low. I knew my Mum was coming and a friend had said she would be there too but I really wasn’t expecting anyone else to turn up, I even considered taking my knitting so I would have something to do. (Looks away in shame!) How wrong I was. The event began at 10:30 in the morning at the local library, where the writing group I belong to meets, we had five books on offer, including an anthology of  short stories being sold for charity. To start with things were a little slow, however, by 11am there was a steady stream of people buying different books, all waiting patiently for their books to be signed and enjoying chatting to us. It was so much fun although I did learn two things, it’s a good idea to know what dedication you’d like to write and you really should marry a man with a short surname.

Just when the tables had a goodly queue of people waiting and chatting, my Mum arrived and when, shortly afterwards, the press photographer arrived too, my Mum almost burst with pride. I could see her beaming face from the corner of my eye, it was lovely particularly as she hasn’t had much to smile about over the past couple of months.

The whole event was so much fun that, the first time I asked someone what the time was, it was 12:59 and the signing was due to finish at 1pm.

I would definitely recommend doing a book-signing with friends who also have books out and I hope to be doing more, it does mean you avoid the ‘billy-no-mates’ syndrome which is the biggest fear of the author when signings are mentioned and I am already looking into ways to do more.

The Best Laid Plans.

Oh dear. As you may have noticed I have failed in my aim to write one new blog a week but, honest, I have a really, really good excuse. I could get my Mum to write a note and everything.

Last Friday, when I was intending to write my blog (really, I’m not just saying it) I woke up with the most unbelievable pain both in the top and bottom of the right side of my jaw and in both ears too, for good measure. Now things have been stressful in my family of late, we lost my wonderful Grandma suddenly, and I assumed that maybe I had been clenching my jaw and that had caused the pain. I spent the day clutching hot water bottles to my face and taking paracetamol, much to the delight of he-who-was-daft-enough-to-marry-me, who spent the day coming up with various names for this new fashion I was starting! I was pretty sure with the heat, the drugs and me consciously relaxing my jaw things would get better but they didn’t. By Saturday all I wanted to do was cry. On Sunday I was leading the youth work at Church and the book club in the evening, both of which were interesting, to say the least. Monday things got no better, although the pain seemed to be settling more in the lower jaw but still didn’t seem to be related to any particular tooth.

Now I can hear those of you brave enough to read this far yelling at me, asking why I didn’t call the dentist and it is a very sensible question. The truth is I’m terrified of the dentist and whilst I could convince myself it was merely muscular I could hope it would rectify itself without the dreaded dentist (they always seem far too happy to be drilling, injecting and prodding me with sharp things for my liking).

Anyway Tuesday morning was different, Tuesday came with a very high temperature and the shivers and Wednesday saw me sleep fitfully between paracetamol, hot water bottles and shivering. I gave up. Even I couldn’t deny I had an infection and now the pain in my jaw had changed, it seemed to be concentrated on a golf ball sitting under one of my molars. Darn! I’d have to phone the dentists. I have never liked dentists but, in our previous house, I did find one I liked and went, religiously (well there was a lot of praying involved anyway) every six months but then we moved. I did go once but needed two fillings replaced which took over an hour of almost constant drilling so I never went back. Understandable I think, for a coward like me. Anyway my friend recommended her dentist and so, under her watchful eye, I called, expecting to get an appointment sometime in June but no, the lovely receptionist said they could fit me in at 11am the very next day. Oh good, I thought. Honestly.

So off I went, the receptionist was lovely although she had decided my name was Hellena Friebold, my mouth was swollen though so I have to let her off. I filled in the medical history form, if only so they’d be able to spell my name correctly, waited a few minutes too nervous to even pick up one of the many magazines on offer, and then the moment I had been dreading, the nurse called my name and led me up the stairs to the dentist’s room.

The dentist herself was, I guess, in her late 20s and she was lovely. She asked me how I’d been feeling, took some X-rays then explained in very simple language what had been going on. Apparently the vicious drilling of my previous appointment for the replacement fillings had caused my poor little nerves some trauma and this can lead to the debilitating pain I had been experiencing when an infection occurs, which is what had happened. She said she would give me antibiotics and I had to make a decision about what I wanted to do next. She explained the three options I have, which, in case you’re interested, are 1) do nothing, but then I will have recurrences of pain so, you’ll be pleased to hear, I’ve already discounted that one 2) take the tooth out 3) root canal treatment and then a crown. Isn’t it funny how some decisions are easier than others?!

So here I sit, the antibiotics have kicked in and I am feeling better than I have done all week so much better that the thought – ah, I didn’t write my blog – passed through my mind. Sorry this is such a hypochondriac blog, I’ll try not to do it again, but I hope it has given you at least a little smile, if not a laugh.

A Good Week

The most difficult thing about making a resolution to write a blog once a week is, I’m finding, to think of something interesting enough to say that won’t bore anyone kind enough to read it to death. Take this week, for example, I have had a fantastic week, the best in quite a long time but that is mostly because I haven’t done much so what am I going to write about. Well, I thought I’d give you a breakdown of my week, perhaps you’ll get inspired to have a lazy week yourself, or perhaps you will decide you must spend your downtime more profitably than me and book yourself a hotel break that you can boast to me about when the time comes. Anyway, here goes.

Monday-I spent the day with my Mum. We were supposed to be going through my Nan’s things but instead we went for a wonderful pub lunch. The pub in question was ancient and had a large inglenook fire which was, of course, burning brightly. The food was incredible and they did a wonderful line in hot chocolate and warm welcomes, there was even a beautiful bear of a dog who just wanted to be hugged the whole time. It was just exactly what we needed.

Tuesday-I spent the whole day writing! It was bliss. I wrote 2012 words on the young readers’ story I am working on all about aliens and archaeology, then I took my two dogs for a long walk before writing 1122 words on my brand new novel, which is about the problems we all face from time to time. Then I had a coffee and tried to decide whether to start the housework that was beginning to scream at me but decided instead to start the short story about a spooky house I need to work on for an anthology. It was amazing to have so much time to devote to the thing I love doing more than anything else in the world.

Wednesday-the dogs and I went over to my friend’s house to write some more and were thoroughly spoiled with hot chocolate and so many cookies and crumpets I daren’t even begin to tell you what my blood sugar was.

Thursday-I took a friend’s young daughter to see my Mum and her dog, who she had been begging to see for literally months. My Mum cooked us a lovely meal and my friend’s child was over the moon to spend time with her doggie friend.

Friday-this was the day I was going to do the housework, honest. I was even going to wash the carpets. But I didn’t. Instead I spent 5 hours doing a jigsaw puzzle of 1950s sweet bars while watching all my guilty TV secrets like Homes Under The Hammer and The Waltons, it was brilliant. Then he-who-was-daft-enough-to-marry-me and I went out for a relaxing evening meal with friends.

Today has been just as lovely, I have spent the whole day with the man I love walking our dogs in the windy, wild and freezing countryside and just chilling out together. It really has been a great week. Before you get too jealous and start plotting vengeful schemes to disturb my undeserved happiness, tomorrow I am on duty with the youth and then leading a knitting group in the evening before work begins again on Monday so this idyll won’t last don’t worry.

New Year’s Resolutions

Well January is almost over so I thought, in the interests of full disclosure, I would let you all know exactly how I’m getting on with those all-important resolutions I made.

1. To write one word every day—well I was doing really well until last Monday when I had a funeral to go to and a kind of benevolent excuses regime seemed to come into force. You know the kind of thing, “Oh I can let myself off today because it’s the funeral.” followed by, “Yesterday was pretty tough, I’m just going to be nice to myself today, I’ll get back to it tomorrow.” then the ever popular, “I’m in a period of understandable mourning, I need to be good to myself.” opps, don’t appear to have written anything for almost a week. Well, enough is enough, today, not tomorrow, I am getting back on the wagon. One word a day, every day, no excuses!

2. I will exercise for 30 minutes a day—almost complete success. I had one day off and that’s it. Before you get too impressed I do have to confess that my starting point was complete stagnation and my 30 minutes can either be playing on the Wii fit or walking, I’m hardly training for a marathon. Nevertheless I have managed to keep to it so I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. I didn’t bother with the dieting resolution. I am happy in my skin and I like cakes so there’s no point setting myself up to fail – I don’t want to diet, so there!

3. I will blog once a week—by the very skin of my teeth a success! Quite pleased about that and find I am loving getting comments from people I don’t know and, therefore, haven’t paid to say nice things to me so, if that’s you, keep them coming please.

4. This year I will finally sort the flat out—it has been three years since we moved into our flat and we still have a loft full of boxes I haven’t sorted through and nothing has its own place. This drives me a little crazy and I have determined this year will be the year everything finally gets sorted, I will get rid of my toot (rhymes with soot) and find a place for everything and keep it there too. I will empty the loft, which is actually a lovely little room, then I can set up the telescope I am going to get for Christmas (hint, hint husband) and live in peace and tranquillity with my surroundings. What’s that I hear you say, how far have I got? Well I have a plan and it is still only January after all, I have eleven months until I have to admit I’ve failed.

So that’s how I’m doing, how about you? You know I’d love to hear.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…please.

I think I am a pretty unusual adult in that I love snow. Any snow, at any time. I particularly like heavy winter downpours that cripple the transport systems. I’m not being sarcastic, honestly, I really do love the snow and I’ll tell you for why.

Quite apart from the fact that everything, even my overcrowded, rubbish strewn, urban roads looks beautiful, clean and fresh, I love that everyone has to slow down. Schools and work places, if not shut, are understanding of those who can’t get there and so you get to spend special, extra time with those closest to you, without the stress of ‘fitting them in’ before the next thing.

If you want to go out, you are probably going to have to wrap up very warm and walk and that has a fun all of its own. People wear all kinds of funny clothes combinations, fashion, and the judgement it brings, goes out of the window and, because everyone is battling against the same element, people smile and chat to each other and even look out for one another. It reminds me that 99.99999% of people in the world are lovely because the snow gives them the time to show it.

So what prompted me to write this ode to snow? Well all this week I have been promised copious amounts of the wonderful white stuff and, this morning, twitter and Facebook are full of posts about how much snow different friends have or how difficult the snow has made their journey to work etc while we have nothing! The odd lonely little flake is blowing around in the biting, arctic wind but there is nothing on the ground. It’s a little bit like waking up Christmas morning and discovering Santa forgot to come. Just one more reason to move to Scotland I figure, I’m certainly adding it to my list.

So enjoy the snow, if you are lucky enough to have some, and spare a thought for us who missed out this time.