FOUR DAYS AND COUNTING

Note-to-Self – Am not door to door salesperson.

Next time the publisher asks how many advance copies of my book I want to buy, I might give a moment’s thought to where I plan to store them and whether anyone in the family might like to eat at the dining table. I might also ask myself exactly what I think I’m going to do with four hundred copies. I was thinking the couches could do with being a little higher and  maybe next year with the right lighting and enough Sancerre nobody will notice the color of our tree…

 

January 13, 2012 by

FIVE DAYS AND COUNTING

Is everyone watching the costume drama Downton Abbey? Get to iTunes fast and catch up if you aren’t. It’s brilliant. It’s a wild success over here. Most Americans are intrigued by the English class system as well they might be. It’s complicated. There are so many British cultural nuances in the series that a quick guide might help.

There are broad categories: upper and lower working class, upper and lower middle class, upper and lower upper class. It doesn’t stop until it gets to The Queen.

Class isn’t all about money. It’s more like in Chess. Imagine the pieces as people. The queen doesn’t move around a lot but when she does she can go a long way in one direction. Everyone wants to be her friend and bask in reflected glory. She has a large family; Prince and Princesses, Dukes, Earls, Dowagers, Ladies etc. A pawn can turn into another piece but only at a certain point, maybe by winning the lottery or making a lot of money. The Bishops bring that little touch of religion people seem to need. The Knights are all classes nowadays but still pretty busy protecting things and popping up in odd places.

The class system is all about social mobility. The reason it’s more like Chess than Ping – Pong is that the rules are complicated, there’s more than two players and an awful lot of metaphorical and real balls in the air. It’s about your accent, your clothes, where you live, who you know.

Downton Abbey captures all of this exquisitely. Ultimately it shows that behind the veneer and the opulence lie real people dealing with the universal themes of money, career, health and love. Issues that cross the barriers of time, place and class. So you see it isn’t so different from California after all. Five days and counting until my book gets released and India Butler has to navigate her way through the social terrain of Los Angeles. Five days and counting…

January 12, 2012 by

SIX DAYS AND COUNTING

“I used to think that what scared me most was the idea of being abandoned until someone said to me, ‘only children can be abandoned. Adults can’t be abandoned because we have a choice.’” – Demi Moore, Harper’s Bazaar

Don’t you feel for Demi, or anyone who has to go through their heart -break in the glare of the media. Okay, we all know that there’s a love/ hate relationship between the paparazzi and anyone craving attention, but the last time I saw Demi she was onstage at an event my husband was hosting for “The Freedom Awards.”  I saw a woman giving her time and energy to publicize the outrage of modern day slavery. Go Demi.

Now, I know the week before my first ever novel gets published ( YES !! Wahoo etc…), I should be rallying every one I know to Twitter and Tweet and email and be as excited as I am about “India’s Summer.” According to the publicists, I should be using stories as “hooks” to make links about themes in my book. I should be at my wittiest, drawing new traffic to my blog. Instead, the connection that came to me this morning was in the word ‘traffic’ and I’m outraged all over again about ‘human trafficking.’ Please check out the link.

Having said that, I’m not turning into “Mother Thérèse” either!! Will be back with highlights of the build up in LA to the book launch and all the very exciting things you have to do after you’ve written a book, found an editor, re- written a book, hired a copy-editor, had rejections, landed an agent, pre-ordered so many copies nobody in the house can move, paid for a book party, worked out how to tweet, hired a web designer, hired a party planner, bored the ass off your friends and family, alienated everyone around you and gone into a blind panic that the whole venture was some  kind of mental breakdown and you should have just gone to the beach.

PS…This is a very long sentence but in between doing everything in the sentence I haven’t time to re- draft it and want you to read the other blogs so you can see I’m not illiterate.

http://www.freetheslaves.com/

January 11, 2012 by

The Terrors of Thérèse

“Very few, if any authors, write prose with the thought that one day they might have to read it standing on a stage in front of an audience hell bent on having a good time.”
– Howard Marks

This was a quote I fell upon by chance the night before my recent debut at Seven and a Half Minutes of Fame.

How true, I thought, but it’s okay. It’ll be a small crowd, an intimate setting, informal, a good opportunity to showcase and read a couple of short extracts from my upcoming novel. How bad can it get?

Very bad is the answer.

I struggle to describe my horror when the MC said he would be introducing me next. Next that is, after the young comedienne who was channeling Chelsea Handler and Sarah Silverman to thigh-beating, chair-rocking, belly-aching, sidesplitting, foot-stomping gales of laughter.

The terror in that moment came from the awful realization that this was not the right environment for a reading. My writing style was not suited to the occasion. I was about as out of place as Lady Gaga in her meat dress at a PETA convention.

Focus. You can do this. I told myself. There is nothing to fear but fear itself.

This turns out not to be true. There is plenty to fear. For one simple reason – it is terrifying. Nothing had prepared me for getting on stage and being blinded by klieg lights. Unable to make eye contact I had no sense of the audience that had fallen deathly silent with expectation.

Judging from the applause and feedback it went well. I remember nothing except feeling like I was about to be interrogated by the FBI or had somehow wandered onto the set of Dead Man Walking. If you ever decide you want an adrenaline kick like this, I suggest building up to it gradually by bungee jumping one weekend, walking on fire the next, and maybe trying out the high wire a couple of times in between.

Much as I find myself endlessly amusing, I am not a comedian. I am a writer and it turns out I am also clearly mad because I have absolutely no idea why I agreed to perform at the aptly named Witzend in the first place.

January 3, 2012 by

And now ….Give it up for Thérèse

Outside my office window, a palm tree is swaying in the breeze. The sky is violet blue. A tiny hummingbird is hovering on the hedge. It’s heaven. It’s California. It’s home. I’m hunched over my laptop desperately searching for words that like the bougainvillea on the garden wall will tumble effortlessly onto the page.

Ah! So now we have something. “Words tumbling effortlessly.” How lyrical. That doesn’t sound like the mood I’m in at all. If I were not sending this to the Fiction Studio blog, I’d have used a selection of words that would come tripping off my tongue with an eloquence rarely expressed outside of stream of consciousness writing.

I’m still not sure when it’s okay to use the “F word.” I’ve been told that for a writer it shows a lack of creativity. Frankly, I think it’s incredibly versatile as in “The f*cking f*cker is f*cking f*cked.” But this is America and you say “freakin’” when I say “tomato.” (Not quite right, but you get my drift.)

Anyway, the thing is, I am f*cked; frozen in the headlights and too far down the road to turn back. I’ve agreed to do a public reading of my writing. I’ve dreamed of a moment when a circle of avid readers will sit at rapt attention as I turn the page. I’ve even imagined entertaining a couple of stragglers come in from the cold to a little independent bookstore. But for my first-ever public foray, I agreed to read in a bar room setting not unlike the Comedy Club.

My photograph is on a poster next to an array of experienced performers all champing at the bit to get back on that stage at – Seven and a Half Minutes of Fame. They have guitars, they have routines, they tell jokes, they sing. They rehearse. They have one-liners at their disposal for hecklers. They’re slick. They’re American. This is California; they all want to be discovered. They deserve to be discovered.

So I am trying to come up with an entertaining introduction. But all I can hear in my head is F*ck, f*ck, F*ck.

November 30, 2011 by

Which Way Is Up?

Americans are all born with internal compasses. If you want proof just ask directions from any American. In LA it goes something like this –

“So how do I get to your office from here?” (Me, desperately hoping this will not involve a freeway.)

“Go North on Wilshire, take Bundy south for two blocks, turn east on Sepulveda, west on Barrington and our office will be on the north side of the street.” *

Now this confuses me for a couple of reasons. First, why is the office in the future tense? Surely the building ‘is’ already on the north side of the street. Second, when I finally get out of the car, where is north? How do I know for sure? Do I just somehow sense it?

And how come if the earth is round we aren’t all clinging to the edges? Okay, I may well be clinging to the edges, because as I write, a lovely man from Rota Rooter is clearing out the drains of our house (which is on the middle of the street, on the left if you have turned right on the cross street and on the right if you have turned left.)

This is because yesterday I read an article about Feng Shui, the ancient Chinese art of placement, which made it abundantly clear that a blocked drain is a very bad thing as it symbolizes blocked finances.

I have no clue if our drains are blocked, or where they are, but as my book is about to be published I am taking no chances. Guess I have a better understanding of things mystical than physical.

* Don’t try this, I made it up by way of example and you might end up on the freeway, or in the ocean. Not sure which would be worse.

November 18, 2011 by

Only in LA

There’s a myth that California is full of airheads, a myth so firmly lodged in the British psyche that there they call it “La La Land.” And yet according to USC research, “there are more artists, writers, filmmakers, dancers and musicians living in Los Angeles than in any other city at any time in the history of civilization.” There’s also a huge manufacturing industry and seven Fortune 500 companies.

So, clearly we don’t spend all day lying poolside, margarita in hand, (not ALL day obviously.) And not everyone has a trout pout or has taken to anus bleaching, (though we do think white teeth are a good idea). And yes, we like our therapists and our yoga. We intend to grow old disgracefully and to reinvent ourselves on a whim. But does this make us airheads? Hardly.

Before moving to Los Angeles, I lived in England in Stratford on Avon, birthplace of a writer who achieved worldwide fame without ever blogging. I brought with me a husband and two teenagers. Our two cats had been flown out earlier and were staying at The Best Little Cat House, a facility offering cat concierges, rooms with views, web cameras, complimentary manicures, pedicures, daily massages and a choice of menu. Okay I admit this sounds a little over the top, but they were emigrating too.

In the following weeks, I discovered that life here was certainly a little different; my new assistant thought she was a reincarnated angel. Our son was coming home from sleepovers with tales of Jack Nicholson and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Our daughter was sporting an American accent and doing a round of Bat Mitzvahs that would have made Cher’s stage set look bland.

But there was barely time for culture shock. Within a few short weeks we had 9/11 and the world would never be the same again- for any of us. This was when people rushed to our door to see if we were okay, inviting us to their homes, bringing round cookies.  This was when I hung a tiny American flag from our window and knew I’d come home.

October 28, 2011 by

French

Youth is wasted on the young.  – George Bernard Shaw

Opening the bedroom shutters this morning, I was a little surprised to see six men dismembering my neighbor’s roof and more than a little pissed to see that much of her roof was landing in my garden. I high tailed it next door through a haze of debris and let my feelings be known. My neighbor is ninety- three. She knew how to talk me off what was left of her ledge.

It is a wonderful thing to be around a woman who makes no concession to her age, especially in a city obsessed with youth. She tells me I remind her of herself when she was younger. I’m flattered. One day I hope to be like her; to be in the thralls of my third act, living every minute to the full and tearing my house apart.

Mimi Weddell, another of my role models, began her modeling and acting career in her sixties. She appeared on the pages of Vogue and Vanity Fair in her nineties. She wasn’t nipped, tucked or liposucked. She was beautiful inside and out.

I have given this a great deal of thought. I believe the answer to eternal youth lies in reinvention. At any point in our lives we can become an entirely different person. There’s plenty of inspiration out there. For me it always starts with shoes or boots.

Pulling out last season’s clothes I see last year’s woman. She was okay, a little preppy for my tastes, a tad sensible. This year’s woman will have more edge.* She will be French.

“How so?” I hear you ask, “for you are many things, but you are not French.”

A mere accident of birth; my inner French girl has waited too long, stifled, closeted. I’m coming out. There. I’ve said it. “I’m French.”

*trendy style term frequently used in women’s magazines.

October 13, 2011 by

Portrait of a Lady

“If you had one shot… Would you capture it or just let it slip? Yo.” – Eminem

Only five more days until my professional photo-shoot. I’m very excited. The last time I had a “formal” photograph taken was at The Elvis Chapel in Vegas wearing a Priscilla wig, a rhinestone dress, and working a twenty- foot veil. (This may give you a sense of my understanding of the word “formal.”)

For the book jacket I need something completely different; an image that conveys ebullience, vivacity, and a degree of gravitas; I’m thinking Tina Fey crossed with Whoopi Goldberg with a smidge of Ellen DeGeneres.

I was also thinking that framing would be important, chin on elbow, head cocked to one side sitting at my Louis XVI secretaire replete with old fashioned roses, coffee table books, and the Annie Leibovitz photographs of my kids.

At least that was what I was thinking until I turned my attention to the Fiction Studio house style. Close examination revealed that something approximating a holiday postage stamp is what is actually required; a tiny image barely visible to the naked eye. I looked at other imprints and even Lauren Weisberger, she of The Devil Wears Prada, barely has room to breathe on her photograph.

I was channeling Shania Twain, thinking I’d need these photographs for the posters in Borders’ window and for the side of the bus when we’re doing big city tours and for display on easels at Hollywood book parties. I felt deflated. Borders has gone into liquidation, and I don’t own a bus.

What would Kim Kardashian have done? Would she have lowered her expectations, packed away her Agent Provocateur, and bought a white shirt? I don’t think so. Would Victoria Beckham settle for anything less than a tuxedo and her Yves St Laurent platforms? Of course not. Even a head and shoulders shot starts with the shoes, which is why next Thursday there will be Veuve Cliquot, and dips, and clothes rails, and makeup, and runners, and stylists, and shots at sunset on the beach in Malibu.

September 28, 2011 by

Uniformity

schooluniformsSt. Pancras reminded Margaret of infinity. “Howards End.” E.M. Forster.

Every so often I feel the need to go to Loehmann’s. This is not simply an impulse to shop, it is much more specific than that. It is an impulse to shop at Loehmann’s.

Loehmann’s allows the possibility of reinvention, infinite possibilities – a jumble of personalities. The possibility that maybe today I will emerge with a whole new persona. Maybe today I will come to understand the batwing sleeve and learn to love color. Maybe…

I blame having to wear school uniform from the age of three for a lot of my obsession with clothes. Yes I know a three year old looks beyond cute in a panama hat, plaid skirt, navy sweater, oversized blazer and ankle socks but take it from me, she doesn’t ‘feel’ cute. She feels like that mushy bit of avocado inside a BLT sandwich; invisible, squashed. Fast -forward fifteen years and picture that same girl decked out in exactly the same outfit, (in a bigger size obviously.) This is a total of eighteen years; approximately four thousand five hundred days of her life wearing navy blue. It’s a criminal thing to do to a kid. It’s an appalling thing to do to a teenager.

And then you are hurled out into the world. Clueless. At this point you may be thinking ‘but didn’t you have weekends? Parties to go to?’ Well first, I allowed for holidays in my calculations; four thousand five hundred days over eighteen years was based on two hundred and fifty days not the three hundred and sixty days that are in a year, which times eighteen years comes out at…well…a lot…which is always the right answer when you have to do a hard mental -arithmetic sum. Second, all of the weekend activities involved wearing other equally predictable uniforms, sometimes made out of even more synthetic materials.

So, flung out into the world with no sense of how to pull it together, you start looking for clues. Nobody escapes your scrutiny and then you realize you can’t afford the ‘look’ and thus, an obsession is born and along the way you discover discount shopping and the rest is history. Would that it were as simple as that. It’s not. You seek out ‘the look,’ you find it, you buy it and then when you put it on it doesn’t feel quite right. It’s not ‘ you.’ Then you go on a very long process and discover that you only feel like ‘ you’ when you’re wearing a blazer and navy blue (go figure.) But you HATE blazers and navy blue and begin to realize that the grown ups who are voluntarily wearing navy blue blazers are not your tribe and so… you seek out the ‘ the look,’ you find it, you buy it and when you put it on it doesn’t feel quite right. It’s not ‘you’ after all and the other people who are wearing skirts with mirrors and fringed handbags and tribal bracelets are not your tribe either…and so you seek out ‘ the look’… I think you know where I’m going with this. Frankly, like any obsession it’s exhausting.

I think I told you that my novel (yes MY NOVEL,) “ India’s Summer” will be published soon (yes PUBLISHED.) I only need a head and shoulders shot for the book jacket. Now you would think that would be simple but not so. I refer you to the words ‘head’ and ‘shoulders.’ This could involve a hat. This could involve a jacket. It may involve a manicured hand, maybe earrings. Infinite possibilities. This will definitely involve Loehmann’s.

September 22, 2011 by