The camisole and cream catastrophe



The lovely couple

Twenty years ago today, July 28th 1991 was a beautiful day. I remember it well.  Sizzling hot, clear blue sky, the perfect day for a wedding.
I was, to be honest, a little nervous about this particular wedding. I'd broken up with the bride's step-brother about a year beforehand, and although there was no particular animosity, it still felt a little weird to be going to a big family event. But the bride and groom (an ex flatmate) were both good friends of mine, not to mention the bride's brother (another ex-flatmate) and sister-in-law. Also my friend Laura (the fourth flatmate) had come over from America . It'd be fine, I reassured myself. I had a nice outfit, I'd know lots of people there. Laura and I could have a good catch-up.
I lived in Hammersmith in west London, the wedding was in Hertfordshire, north of London. Thinking about it now, the sensible thing would have been to go and stay with my parents (also Hertfordshire)  and get ready there. But my brain didn't work like that. Instead I arranged to drive right across London, west to east, to Laura's parents' house in Woodford. We'd get ready together, then drive to the wedding.
 It was the perfect plan, I thought, as I went out to my car, carefully hanging my outfit in the back of the car.
My outfit. It was great. I had a short black straight skirt, and a sheer black camisole. Over the top would go a silk jacket, patterned in red and blue and purple, a sale bargain from Monsoon. I loved it, shoulder pads and all. I was quietly confident. Never mind the old aunties clucking over me and my ex. I'd be the model independent single girl..who happened to work for The Independent. Go me!

The hair! The gardening top!

So I drove all the way to Woodford. It took about an hour. And it was great to see Laura. Here we were, just like old times, getting ready to go out to a party. There was just one problem. No camisole. A frantic phone call to my landlady later, and we worked out what had happened. It was lying on the dusty pavement, back in Hammersmith. It must have slipped off the hanger as I got into the car.

Disaster! Misery! Catastrophe! There was no time to go shopping (and I can't even remember if shops were open on Sundays back in 1991) Laura's mum had nothing suitable for me to borrow. 'There's nothing else for it,' said Laura. 'You'll have to wear this.'

This turned out to be a knitted black top. Luckily it was black and sleeveless, with (not so luckily) a plunging neckline. Unluckily she'd been wearing it all that hot and sticky day while she worked in her parents' garden. It was just a little moist and pungent. 'Never mind,' she said, peeling it off. 'Just spray yourself with a load of perfume, and no one will notice.'
So, when we arrived at the wedding, I was not feeling so confident, nor very fragrant or sophisticated. My hair was frizzy, my silk jacket wrapped firmly around me. Every now and again I realised that the neckline had slipped beyond the decent level, and had to give it a quick tug to get it back in place.
The ceremony was gorgeous, the perfect day for a romantic outdoor ceremony. The bride was beautiful, the bridesmaids lovely in  flouncy lilac, the mothers of the happy couple, glorious in papal purple. The groom was dashing in a top hat. I hung onto my jacket and avoided my ex.
Naturally I took a quick glance at the table plan well before dinner. I moved some people around so that Laura and I could chat more easily. But there was a name I didn't recognise on my left hand side, and I left him where he was. You never knew. Maybe he'd be the man of my dreams.
Time for dinner, I sat down and glanced to my left. 'Aaw,' I thought. 'Not my type.'  My type at the time was skinny, cynical, nervy and wise-cracking. Ideally working in the media. This man lacked that quality of nervous energy, plus I wasn't sure about his profile (oh, yes, I was that shallow. Forgive me). But, polite as always, I asked him how he knew Sylvia and Richard. 'I'm Sylvia's boss,' he said. 'I don't know anyone else here.'                                                                                                              

Well! My protective nature took over. The poor man! He needed looking after! Plus I remembered Sylvia telling me that I should meet her boss. 'He's into books and films and he's got lots of lefty friends,' she said. At the time, I made polite excuses. I was a media snob and they worked for a toothpaste manufacturer. But he was, it turned out, a nice person to talk to.

So we continued chatting as the first course was served. And went on talking through the soup and the salmon (it may not have been salmon, I can't really remember. I'm just taking a wild guess here). And we were still talking through dessert. Once or twice my neglected friend Laura leaned over. 'Can you repeat that?' she asked him, 'I didn't quite catch it.'  Startled, he did, and then we went on talking. And I forgot all about the camisole disaster, and the lurking ex, and just enjoyed myself.

Until, that is, the coffee was served. 'Would you like cream?' asked the waitress -  and poured a jugful into my lap. All over my black skirt! I was mortified, but my new friend lent his napkin and mopped me up. And then he asked me to dance.
Well, it was no surprise when he asked for my number. And he called me a few days later, and we saw a Woody Allen film, and then we went out for dinner and talked and talked and talked (and he told me the 11 plus story). And we've been talking pretty much non stop for the last twenty years, although it took us three years to get around to getting married, because believe me, nothing makes my husband go at any pace except his own. Which is one of the many things that I love about him, even as I am infuriated.
One thing I didn't do at the wedding was take his picture (although I have one of the ex, hiding behind a fan). And I waited some time before telling him about the camisole catastrophe. 'Didn't you notice that I had a really low cleavage?' I asked. 'I liked it,' he replied.

The jacket, twenty years on.

I still have the jacket hanging up in my cupboard, I never liked to get rid of it. The shoulder pads are drooping now, but the silk still shimmers and glows. How lucky I was 20 years ago (not to mention how lucky he was), and how clever Sylvia and Richard were when they plotted their table plan. Happy anniversary!




(apologies for the poor quality of the pictures...my scanner wasn't working, so these are copies of prints)

PS I mis-remembered! Laura was actually over to get married herself! Happily the weddings were close enough together so she and husband Ian were able to attend Sylvia and Richard's wedding as well. And Ian's presence at the second wedding meant I wasn't neglecting Laura as much as it may appear...







Harry Potter and the Huge Pile of Dosh

Gratuitous? Moi?



 There's a fabulous scene at the beginning of the new Harry Potter film where the intrepid friends are in a vault at Gringotts, and the treasure starts to multiply. As they struggle not to be crushed by the pulsating pile of bling, it's tempting to see it as a metaphor for the stunning financial success achieved by JK Rowling.  From a typically small advance for a first novel, she's grown a multi-million pound fortune -  and one which looks set to grow even further, now that she's split with her agent, cut free from her publishers and launched her own Pottermore website through which she will sell her e-books excusively.
'You'll be the next J K Rowling!' is what everyone (believe me, everyone) says to children's authors, and it's as irritating as it is false. Even JK herself went through years of low or no income before her books took off.  The week's Bookseller has a depressing story about the financial pain being suffered by children's authors in the current climate. Agent Caroline Sheldon estimated that fewer than half of the children's authors who previously made a living from writing five or 10 years ago are now doing so. She said: "The big things are getting bigger and the middle area is getting squeezed."  Authors are getting fewer chances and less time to prove themselves, royalties are lower because children's books are cheaper than adult ones, commissions for children's non-fiction have been hard-hit by competition from the internet.
It is difficult to make a living from writing. I haven't cracked it yet, although I can see my income growing as I get more interest from foreign publishers and -  crucially -  manage to keep on producing books. If I compare it, though, to my career in journalism, I'm quite happy. Although I could earn considerably more with a staff job on a national newspaper (and they aren't any easier to come by than getting a book deal), my salary would be pretty much my limit. Whereas a book..well, anything could happen. It's possible for a book to earn for you again and again - a foreign sale here, a film deal there - while you're working on other stuff.
Once you're a published author, other sources of income open up to you. I earn money from school visits, and occasionally from selling my own books myself. I could possibly earn more if I critiqued manuscripts and ran creative writing workshops. If I developed this blog (or another) into something with loads of readers, I might sell advertising space. If I could think of clever things to sell associated with this blog (Lia's red shoes? handbags?) then I could do that too.
I love watching The Apprentice, and I can't wait to see who wins the final tonight (my money's on lovely but bumbling Tom, although it ought to be super-competent and equally lovely Helen). This year the contestants are competing for moneya nd backing to start their own businesses, rather than a job. Writing a book is a little bit like starting a business, to be honest. Gone is the security of a regular salary (but who has that security now?), the benefits, the chances of promotion. Instead you get a load of risk and hardship - but you've got more control and you're potentially playing for higher stakes. Hard work, tenacity, a good agent, and a willingness to do some self-promotion all help.  After all, someone's got to be the next JK!

Lia's out!

It's not due to be published until August 4th, but Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery has taken me by surprise by bursting prematurely out of the warehouse and into the shops. It's in lots of Waterstone's branches and in stock at Amazon.
It's a very odd feeling...I'm not ready for this yet! Stand by for some Lia-related posts over the next few weeks.  If you've read it, I'd love to hear what you think (err...unless you think harsh and horrible things, in which case keep them to yourself!)
The Awfully Big Blog Adventure is a group blog which I contribute to, and this weekend it's running the world's first online literary festival -  details here. No tickets, no travelling, just lots of great authors talking about their books and book related stuff, plus competitions and give-aways and all sorts...And you don't have to miss a thing because it's all there forever.
My contribution will be online at 2.30pm this afternoon. (I'll add a link when it's posted)  Fiona Dunbar and I decided to do something jointly about our new books -  Fiona's is called Divine Freaks and it's the first in her new Kitty Slade series about a girl who can see ghosts and who solves mysteries, sometimes with the help of the ghosts and sometimes despite them.  I love Kitty, she's feisty, down-to-earth and brave - and I can't wait to read the rest in the series.
Fiona and I decided that we wanted to try and make a vlog for the online festival -  for the first time ever. We enlisted some teen readers and hijacked a house. Our plan was to just chat generally about the books...we weren't quite sure how the filming would work...we didn't write a script...
It should have been a disaster. But luckily our friend Candy Gourlay, author of the fabulous Tall Story, came along and took command of the filming and directing. So it's thanks to Candy that we produced something reasonably coherent and  - we hope -  entertaining.
Candy and I were two of the short-listed authors up for the Branford Boase award this week. It's an incredibly prestigious shortlist to be on, honouring debut authors writing for young people and the editors who gave them their chance. Neither Candy nor I won -  congratulations to Jason Wallace and Charlie Sheppard who won for Out of Shadows, an extraordinary book about Zimbabwe in the 1980s,  which has rightly been recognised already as winner of the Costa Children's Book of the Year, and (judging by the piles I saw on sale at the airport in Amsterdam) has already made the leap to become a crossover title which adults can enjoy just as much as younger readers. The powerful narrative and moral questions raised in Jason's book stay with you long after you've finished it.
Candy's blogged about the award ceremony  here - which saves me the job!  After the ceremony I went out to dinner with my fantastic editors from Frances Lincoln, Maurice Lyon and Emily Sharratt, and also Nicky Potter, the FL publicist; and J P Buxton, also short-listed for his book I am the Blade , an exciting retelling of the Arthurian legend, his family and editor Beverley Birch.  Jamie Buxton and I got to make the speeches about our editors that we would have made if we'd won. Mine was slightly less sensible than it would have been earlier, thanks to some lovely New Zealand sauvignon blanc, but the gist of it was clear...Maurice is a magical editor who deserves to win every award going, and I can't thank him enough for saying yes to When I Was Joe.

Where June went...

It seems to be July. How did that happen? I have sadly neglected this blog, sadly neglected my book and (they would claim) sadly neglected my children and husband.

In my defence, I have been busy. Here are just some of the things I've been doing.

Teenage judges with the shortlist for the Lancashire Book of the Year award. Pic by Sara Cuff, copyright LCC

1.   The Lancashire Book of the Year Award. 

The picture sums it up really - a fab event, really fun, where the teen readers and judges were centre stage, although we authors on the 10-book shortlist were treated like royalty.  There was a swish award ceremony and a celebratory dinner, lots of speeches and very honest reviews.

The award works like this: publishers are invited to nominate books for consideration, they send in free copies which participating schools make available to Y9 pupils. This year, 84 books were nominated. Pupils read, review and assess the books, they score them and the ten with the top scores make it onto the shortlist. Two pupils from each of 12 participating schools, representing every district in Lancashire then read the shortlist and meet to decide a winner, with writer Adele Geras chairing the meeting. So the entire process is decided by teenagers.

At the dinner, some of the previous year's judges spoke about the self-confidence they had gained from being involved. This award, which has been running for 25 years, emphasises critical thinking, and debating skills. I'd definitely say that being involved in something like this trumps everything my daughter did in English in Y9.

Anyway, the shortlist contained some great books and I got to meet people like Keris Stainton, Sam Mills and Hilary Freeman, who'd previously just been two-dimensional virtual pals. And I won! Which meant a cheque for £1,000, a beautiful artwork by Hayley Welsh (a piece of multi-media built from a book), and ...well, I felt very proud and a little bit tearful.

I also had to make a speech, so I told various stories about my spiritual links with Lancashire including the rather spooky coincidence that I went out with two classmates from the same Lancashire school. Read a fuller version here.

2. I visited Weston Favell School in Northampton, where they have a brilliant librarian who couldn't do more to enthuse the kids about reading. And I got asked my favourite question ever, which was 'Which hair products do you use?'

3. I spoke at the Hay Festival. Oh my word. Once upon a time I used to work on the comment pages of The Independent and spent my days phoning up eminent people asking them to write for me (and the stories I could tell! But probably shouldn't) Anyway, the Hay Festival greenroom had so many  good contacts in one place (Julian Assange! Howard Jacobson! Simon Schama!) that I felt like calling the Indy, asking for my old job back and scurrying around the room commissioning people.

Instead I sat back and listened to the fabulously pretentious interesting conversations going on around me.

Things got off to a bad start when I was so busy admiring the 'Artists Only' sign in the car park ('That's me! It's me!') that I stubbed my toe and fell flat on my face. Luckily my husband was at hand to haul me up and drag me away to a lovely cafe, where I bumped into Meg Rosoff, who actually knew who I was..cue sadly incoherent fan-girl burbling from me...then later, after she'd gone me to husband : 'That was Meg Rosoff! She knew my name!' Husband: 'Meg who?'

The actual event, with Peter Cocks author of the chilling London thriller Long Reach, went well. Reading Long Reach alongside When I Was Joe is a strange experience, because Peter and I had several similar ideas (teen takes new identity, teen gets involved with big gangster family) but we always veered off in different directions...so our books weirdly fill in eachother's gaps. Peter's especially great at the world of serious criminals..plus he used to write for Basil Brush. Respect.

4. I did an event at the Foundling Museum in London, for the Pop Up Festival. This is a new arrival in the world of children's books and I can only see it going from strength to strength. The main public events are taking place next weekend and the programme is here

The schools programme saw books distributed to schools, which then came to museums and other venues for events with the authors and education officers.

Tokens left with babies at the Foundling Hospital

 The Foundling Museum tells the story of London's Foundling Hospital, founded in the eighteenth century by Thomas Coram, and home to thousands of children until it closed in the 1950s. It has extraordianry artefacts - a letter from a woman condemned to be burned to death begging that her child should be looked after; an enamel plague labelled 'ale' left with a child as a keepsake from its mother - that build up the story of these children.

At my event, Y8 pupils from the City of London Academy in Islington spent a day doing activities and then wrote letters ether from a foundling to the parent who had given them up, or from a parent to a child. The letters were extraordinarily good, inspired by the permanent exhibition and by the temporary one (which you shouldn't miss) which tells the stories of the last of the foundlings, children in the 1950s, now growing old. I wish that exhibition could be made permanent, the stories told are so strong, so emotional, so important.

I was not at all surprised to hear that Jacqueline Wilson had been inspired to write her story of a foundling, Hetty Feather after sitting in on a session run by the museum's inspiring    Learning and Access Manager, Annette McCartney,I have rarely been to a more inspiring place. In fact there was so many links and echoes to When I was Joe and Almost True -  from the new names given to foundlings, to the quotes about the stigma of illegitemacy on the wall -  that I was thoroughly spooked..It felt as though I had been there before, been inspired by this place. The Pop Up organisers were responsible for matching writer, venue and school -  they made a perfect match this time...and the audience even had one member who was a girl called Ellie, who used a wheelchair and loved sport -  neither of us could believe the coincidence, when I told her about Ellie in When I Was Joe.

The Foundling Museum has now become one of my favourite London places ever, and I can see myself visiting there again and again for inspiration. 'This museum is all about empathy,' Annette told me -  and it does it so well.

A box of books...slightly disturbing, all those severed limbs

So that was June -  and of course there was lots of other stuff too - school strikes, festivals, parties and homework, birthdays and barmitzvahs, dentists and supermarkets. I was reunited with my best friend from primary school -  yay for Facebook, once again - and my best friend from secondary school returned to live in London from California, hurray, hurray...

And right at the end of June the advance copies of Lia's Guide arrived, and I spent a whole evening signing copies for reviewers..they'll be posted today. 

July's going to be busy too...three award ceremonies in two weeks; meeting my son's teachers at the secondary school he's starting in September, watching him and his classmates graduate from primary school.

I remember this time last year (last year? It feels like a decade ago)  When I was Joe had come out six months before, it'd had a few reviews, I was working on the last edits of Almost True, struggling to finish Lia's Guide. I didn't feel I'd made much of an impact, I wondered if anyone was reading my book.

What a difference a year makes! But now ...sorry....I have another book to write. You may not hear much from me in July.

Too dark?

Imagine a mother choosing a book as a present for her 13-year-old daughter. The shelves in front of her are full of gloom and misery, graphic descriptions of suffering, dystopian visions of violence and death.
So cast down is she, that not only does she fail to buy a book, but also pours her heart out to her friend, who happens to be a children's book reviewer for the Wall Street Journal. Her friend doesn't point her in the direction of writers such as Meg Cabot, Louise Rennison or Sarah Dessen. Instead she writes this article, in which she asks whether YA literature has become too dark.
'Teen fiction can be like a hall of fun-house mirrors, constantly reflecting back hideously distorted portrayals of what life is. There are of course exceptions, but a careless young reader—or one who seeks out depravity—will find himself surrounded by images not of joy or beauty but of damage, brutality and losses of the most horrendous kinds.' wrote Meghan Cox Gurden.
The angry response was articulate and immediate. Under the hashtag #yasaves, people tweeted about how they'd been helped by Young Adult fiction. Writers such as Maureen Johnson dissected  and dismissed Ms Gurden's arguments here, accusing her of under-estimating teenage readers' ability to process stories, wishing to ban darker themes.'Those books you so glibly dismiss...that's fine. But that may be a book that changes or even saves someone's life.'
Now, as a writer, I'm mostly on Maureen Johnson's side.I don't believe that books for teenagers should be censored or sanitised; bad things happen to teenagers and should be part of their books. If one looks at their entire cultural experience - films and television included - then why should books be tame in comparison?
I do believe that teens might be helped by reading about people with problems, in particular they might have more ideas about how to help a friend who has problems. Books promote empathy and understanding. Reading is a completely safe experience -  nothing could be safer -  and a reader is free to stop reading if they find something distressing.
However. This is all to do with the writer's experience, and the reader's. What about the gatekeepers..the editors, librarians, teachers and parents? What is their role? Should they stand back and allow writers complete freedom? Or are there roles to play in guidance, protection, setting boundaries? This, it seems to me, is the question that Meghan Cox Gurden is asking, and she goes about it in a more subtle and nuanced way than her critics allow.
On Facebook recently I read a conversation about rude words in a book for ten year olds. Could the writer get away with 'crap' and 'shit'? Surely it was unrealistic and old-fashioned to expect that modern youngsters would react to a big shock with anything softer?
In an instant, my anti-censorship writer's hat came off and my mother-of-a primary-age-kid-hat came on. I do not want my son coming home from school with books full of swearing, thank you very much. That can wait until he is at secondary school. I battle at home to teach him that some words are appropriate and some are not, I expect those writing for his age group to back me up. If not...fine...I'm not buying their books.
Secondary school is different. By that age you know your child will hear and probably use swearwords all the time -  in the playground. They won't hear them (one hopes) in the classroom. When I was writing When I Was Joe, I knew Ty would swear a lot, and I wondered how I could accurately reproduce his inner voice. In the end, I decided to imagine that he was telling his story to an adult he respected. The most taboo words would only slip through at times of great stress.
Some will be helped by graphic descriptions of  -  say -  self harm. Others might be tempted to give it a go. Others -  the majority, I imagine -  will find it curiously interesting and even exciting to find out about something that is mostly secret. (This voyeurism is something I touch on in When I Was Joe). That's normal, I imagine. Self harm is part of life, and all too often part of teenage life. I've heard  about people who haven't been able to read beyond this section of my book. I've even heard of someone who gave self-harming a go after reading it. I hope that neither reaction is widespread.
I completely accept that for some vulnerable teenagers, self-harming is probably not a great thing to read about. It may trigger an existing or dormant problem, it may be very upsetting, it may stir old memories. Those teens may encounter my book and others like it, and decide not to read it. Or they may be sensitively guided away by parents, librarians and teachers.That's what the gate-keepers are there for...not banning or censoring.
I'm less worried by graphic descriptions and profanity in YA than Meghan Cox Gurden. There are other things that worry me though, which she doesn't mention. I can't bear books which present death and an afterlife almost as lifestyle options, blurring the distinction between life and death with a range of cool 'undead' options. I don't like books which allow warnings about sex to obscure the fact that grls can enjoy a good sex and healthy sex life, which is not defined by men. Violence is a part of our lives -  but how far should a writer go before that violence is excessive and gratuitous?
As a writer, I tackle these things in my books. As a mother, I try and read the books my children read and am prepared to discuss them. As both I am grateful for the help I recive from the 'gatekeepers' in discussing where lines  -  if any -  should be drawn.
I'm also not so keen on traditional 'issue' books, in which one person has one problem, it is described and dissected, and eventually eliminated with the help of a wise counsellor. I fear that may serve to make kids feel as though most people are normal and only a few are 'suffering', and that help can only come from external and adult sources. My books try and reflect the muddle of 'issues' which make up life - and the diverse ways in which help may or may not arrive. Most of us are pretty resilient, and few meet the right cousellor at the right time.
Life as a teenager can be wonderful. It can also be tough beyond belief. Sometimes it's like a light, frothy romance, at other times the grittiest, gloomiest book cannot capture the sheer confusing screwed-up mess that teens can fall into. As a writer, I hope my books will help readers understand themselves, the world about them, and other people. As a mother buying a present for a daughter -  well, sometimes I'd turn away from those dark, dystopian shelves.
The book I'm writing at the moment contains some scenes of drug-taking. My reading group were unsure about those scenes. Could they give this book to their children? Would they be seen as endorsing drugs? I'm not going to censor myself in response to their worries. But nor do I think they are necessarily wrong. I think I tend to write books which teens will find for themselves, rather than be given to them by a parent.
I met a publicist for Walker Books at the Hay festival last week and she's just sent me two very different books -  Michelle Gayle's Pride and Premiership and Patrick Ness and Siobhan Dowd's A Monster Calls. One is light and funny and about the world of footballers' girlfriends. The other is a powerful, compelling modern-day fable about cancer, fear and loss. I'm delighted with both -  thank you so much, Ruth - and I look forward to reading them. And I know exactly which one my daughter needs this particular week.

Just do it

I was a bossy child. And I can be quite bossy now. My favourite job in journalism is news-editing, a job that legitimately allows you to boss around loads of people, including men and women far more talented and experienced than yourself. Oh, the joy of it. Four hundred words now, you lazy old hack, and if they are good enough I might put them in the paper.
According to my husband I am  'the world's softest parent', but my children know that if I say something loud and angrily, six or seven times, then I must be obeyed or something horrible will happen  - cricket practice will be cancelled say, or Heat magazine confiscated.
Mostly I try and curb my bossy side when writing this blog. I believe in the subtle soft sell, rather than yelling 'Buy my books! Review them on Amazon! Tell all your friends!' at my lovely readers. But it's half term, I have a book to write, children at home, a load of washing and ironing to do before heading for the Hay Festival (I'm speaking on Saturday along with Peter Cocks, tickets here...is anyone going to be there? Not sure if I'm more nervous about a full auditorium or an empty one).
So, the mask has slipped. Today I'm being bossy and horrible and telling you what to do. Disobey me and...and...you won't be watching Britain's Got Talent. I'll tell the guy who manages the cricket team that you are not allowed to try out as wicket keeper.More importantly, you may never achieve your dreams.
Right, here are your instructions. If you're someone who thinks that maybe, someday, sooner or later you want to write a book and get it  published, then buy Write to be Published by Nicola Morgan. Do it now. Click on this link  and place your order.
Done it? Why not? Do it now.  If you're looking for a present for someone who's an aspiring author, then buy it for them. And even if you've got no interest in being published (0.01% of the populations, as far as I can work out) then you may wish to buy it anyway, because it's an excellent read and you'll be able to throw it at anyone who tells you they're about to self-publish and become the next J K Rowling.
I can hear you muttering rebelliously (and that's quite enough of that cheeky behaviour). Why? Why should I buy this book just because you say so?  It's written by one of your mates, isn't it?
Well now. Write to be Published is written with wit, wisdom and immense authority. Nicola was herself an aspiring writer for  21 years, and since her first book came out in 1996 she has had 90 books published. She was Chair of the Society of Authors in Scotland. She has a writing consultancy, a well-read blog with a fanatical following, she has spoken at many workshops and festivals, she knows editors and agents and writers. She is the expert's expert. She knows her stuff.
But why do I have to buy her book, you whine. Why can't I get it all for free on her blog? I mean...I hardly pay for anything any more...
The blog is great. Follow it now. But the book is a different experience. You've got everything in one place, ordered, easy to find, up-dated and clear. Plus, actually buying the book, investing just over £7 (or just over £10 to get a signed copy from Nicola herself)  is a way of thanking Nicola for her generosity in sharing all this knowledge with you. There's a lot of  misleading old rubbish out there on the internet, and Nicola's pure gold.  She didn't have to give out good advice, she could have stamped on your dreams by telling you to write to agents in rhyme or send them toffees. She wants you to succeed. It's only fair enough to reciprocate.And you'd be daft to miss out.
Nicola cultivates a persona on her blog of beng a crabbit old bat -  a nasty, bossy, haranguing sort of person, who will shout at silly people who make mistakes until they see where they are going wrong. A Miss Jean Brodie kind of blog (Nicola is one of those sensible English people who has chosen to live in Scotland). In real life she's not bossy and horrible at all. She's lovely. Unlike me. What are you waiting for? It's for your own good.

Double Vision...by Phil Earle.

 One of the best YA books I've read in a long time is Being Billy, Phil Earle's story of an angry boy trapped in the care system, seemingly rejected by everyone. It's heart-rending, without ever being sentimental, and Phil pulls off the trick of  getting the reader to care desperately about Billy, while showing us how damaged and difficult he is.

One thing that interested me about Being Billy is that it's contremporary realism at its grittiest. As a writer of contemporary realism, I'm all too aware of how unfashionable it is at the moment (one day I will share with you the horror story of trying to get When I Was Joe published. Not yet. The scars are still raw). But of course, publishing is a business, and sales directors are right to make hard-headed business decisions about which books they think will turn a profit.

So how interesting, I thought, that Being Billy was written by the Sales Director of one of the UK's big publishers. Phil Earle works for Simon and Schuster, he knows the world of publishing inside out, and he's there in acquisitions meetings making decisions about what's in and what's out, all the time. What's he doing writing contemporary realism? Over to Phil....

Someone asked me the other week why I haven’t written a Paranormal Romance.

Why, when the vast majority of teen readers are desperate for tales of forbidden love between a girl and a vampire/werewolf/fallen angel/corpse* (*delete as appropriate), choose to write Being Billy -  a novel about an angry, abusive kid stuck in the care system.

Bloomin’ good question that, one that I should’ve had an answer for. After all, I’m only too aware of what is floating the YA boat at the moment, as I’m lucky enough to work in kids publishing.

Once I’d stopped kicking myself, I realised that the answer is actually a simple one, a response you hear authors give at many school events – write about what you know, write what you’re passionate about.

I love the YA genre, it’s what I read out of choice as well as write for, so I knew there was no chance of me sitting for six months on the bus, using my free hour of the day, telling a story that I had absolutely no interest in. It just wouldn’t happen. I’d end up playing ‘Angry Birds’ or heaven forbid, reading the ‘Evening Standard’ instead. How depressing would that be?

It does create an interesting dynamic for me though, as my job as sales director at Simon and Schuster demands me to think commercially so much of the time. There’s not always time for a lot of sentiment - I have to think to some extent, is there a market for this book? And if not, should we be publishing at all?

It was a stark realisation when I tried to imagine my own book coming to one of our acquisition meetings. Would I have been intrigued by the plot, or just have passed it off as something too worthy or niche? Would I have told the author to turn the kid into a vampire to tick the boxes that the current trend demands?

I know I wouldn’t, even if I thought it momentarily…after all, look at the number of YA novels that have gone on to be bestsellers or cult classics, despite being a ‘difficult’ sell.

Mark Haddon’s ‘Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time’ for example takes autism into the mainstream in a way that few people could, and what about Louis Sachar’s ‘Holes’?

Imagine the conversation in that acquisition meeting…..

‘What’s it about?’ asks the cynical Sales Director.

*Pause from editor*

‘Well, er, it’s about a kid who steals some sneakers and ends up digging holes in the desert as his punishment…’

‘Could he not get bitten by a radioactive snake or something…?’ sighs the Sales Director. ‘Or discover the jail is made up of vampires hungry for his blood?’

*Editor quickly scribbles resignation letter*

But that’s the great thing about the kids' book industry that I know, as there are enough passionate editors, sales folk or marketers who are prepared to see beyond the initial synopsis, to the thing that is really important in the telling of stories, and that is the voice it’s written in.

You can have a concept that no-one has ever dreamed of before, or a fast cash-in to a trend that is setting new records, but if the story is badly told, or without heart, the reader will see straight through it. And they won’t come back for more, no matter how nicely you ask them.

And that’s why I write the books I do, even if they aren’t in vogue. It’s because I feel compelled to.

It would be lovely if they sold well.

Well enough to allow me to spend more time writing and talking about them.

But truthful, passionate writing comes first – it has to, and I promise to remember that in our next acquisition meeting too.