Still waiting and it's torture...

This week I played my part in the torture and subsequent demise of our fifteen year old cherry tree....

 

I instigated this murder, encouraging my husband to hack at its thick trunk while I wrapped cord around a wart-ridden sprouting, below the neck.

 

From the corner of my twitchy eye I saw our neighbours peering through their nets or cowering behind fences. All were too afraid to mock. Very probably they were in awe of our strength and sheer determination. We were unfazed by the heat, wiping sweat from our brows, yanking and sawing at the cursed tree, refusing to give up. It dug in its roots, putting up a good fight, but we had weapons that we were not afraid to use. I stood back as my accomplice sliced through the torso with a circular saw. Then, together we took hold of the noose and gave the good-for-nothing eyesore one final heave. It landed on the lawn with a thump, shaking the ground, sending a colony of ants into frenzy.

 

My husband stood proudly over our victim believing his task was done, but I had another job lined up. ‘Finish it off once and for all,” I egged him on. “Pour the root killer into its stump and make sure it chokes on the lot.”

 

All year, the tree’s off-springs have been shooting through our front lawn, but they are all wilting now, keeling over as the poison sets in. While I wait for the roots to die, I calmly take hold of Sarah Hall’s, ‘Carhullan Army’....now this is disturbing stuff....

 

....Wow! That’s what I call a good ending....

 

I wonder what my agent thinks of my denouement?  

 

She’s had Ghost Towns for three and a half weeks now. It feels like an eternity......

Waiting for news....

 

I attended the Harrogate Crime Festival last week and collected a fine array of business cards. As I handed back my name scribbled on pieces of scrap paper I realised the Lynne Blackwell/ Author brand didn’t look very professional. Therefore, I’ve finally got around to creating a Twitter and Facebook account, which I intend to add to my very own business card. The only problem is that I haven’t been able to put my mobile down ever since...

 

If something is habit forming, compulsive and obsessive then we can assume it is addictive and I can’t focus on anything else. Surely, I’m not an addict? I only take the odd glance, every few seconds or so, in every waking hour...

 

Maybe, I’m in denial, which is another sign of addiction. I’ve got to face up to the truth and wean myself off Twitter and Facebook. I’ve learnt to ignore distractions in the past. I can’t recall the last time I visited a horoscope website. So, it shouldn’t be too hard finding the will power to stop pressing like buttons... if only for a day....

 

I last looked, all of two minutes ago, which seems like an eternity. All sorts could have gone on in the world and I’m missing out! OMG! I can’t leave it alone. I find myself checking how many followers I’ve got, which is only a handful. Does that mean I’m boring? Oh surely not me! I’m so ‘with it’. I’ve become hip and trendy. I’m doing what all the young people do. Social media is the rage and I’m part of it....But, I’m still not published.

 

My agent has the first draft of Ghost Towns and I haven’t heard from her since it landed on her desk. Perhaps, she doesn’t like it? She’ll have noticed those once agains cropping up, over and over again. There might be other mistakes. I’m so nervous.

 

Am I the only unpublished author to get so tweety and twitchy after the hard work has been done? Perhaps I should share this thought with my Facebook friends? Maybe the twittering community will empathise.....or perhaps I should get out more.....?

Once again...again and again....

 

 

When my husband proof read Ghost Towns, he cried and laughed in all the right places, telling me it was a rollercoaster of emotions. But was he biased? Did he want to keep up my fading spirits? After all, we were due to go on holiday and it would be unbearable sharing a hotel room with a grumpy unpublished author. That’s when I decided to have another glance before sending it off to my agent and, obviously, I couldn’t help but make further improvements.

 

I emailed it onto my agent a week later, leaving only a few hours to pack the suitcases. Our plane was almost ready to take-off and I couldn’t find the energy or motivation to move a muscle. I found myself consumed by an overwhelming sense of relief that I’d sent off the first draft, which made me sink into a lethargic stupor. It was as if I’d been transported into a yoga class, absorbed by the sound of mating whales, allowing every inch of my body to go numb. My brain was shutting down, switching off. I could have easily closed my eyes and keeled over.

 

After six months of hard slog, the time had come to leave the parallel universe of Ghost Towns, escape from this other life and concentrate on the real world. We were going to seek out a sunnier climate. Viva Espania....well Mallorca actually. Soon, there’ll be plenty of time to relax, but not until we’re on the plane.

 

I hollered out instructions to the family, delegated tasks and surprisingly they all got on without complaint.  This obedience allowed me the time to consider having another look at the sent mail box. It was tempting to peek at the manuscript, which was on the agent’s desk, just a little peep, only the first few paragraphs. Then, I’d be able to go away in the knowledge that my agent was going to be so impressed. I’d be drinking pina coladas by the pool, confident that she’s in London securing a deal with a hefty advance. 

 

Then I remembered the many changes I’d made after my husband had proof read: little additions that were now in the hands of David Higham. The urge to check them took precedence over packing. I soon found the first stupid mistake. In page one of the prologue, I’d written once again...again....and again.

 

At the airport, I recalled those words once again, then again on the plane and once again after checking into the hotel. The all-inclusive beer helped take my mind off the mistake for a few hours until I woke up in a hot sweat, repeating those words, once again, all over again. I became preoccupied by this error throughout the holiday, believing that in all probability there must be more!

 

I’m home now, concerned that those once agains have spoiled the agent’s read and that my chances of getting published might be diminished, once again......