To celebrate my recent 50th birthday, I want to give something back. I’ve enjoyed some glorious writing moments during my forties, but I’ve never forgotten how long it took to achieve my dream of a book deal in 2015, aged 44. Before that, I entered every writing competition I saw, followed numerous authors and listened to their advice, endured rejection after rejection, posted my work in writing groups for critique, and worked and worked and worked on my craft. So I’d love to reward another writer in some tiny way.

My short story competition is open to absolutely anyone at all; experienced writers, new writers, young, old, any gender, anyone. The prize is £50 (to fit in with turning 50 – plus I’m skint and can’t afford much more) and I’ll share your story here on my website too.

THE RULES:

The story should be no more than 2050 words (see what I did there, adding a 50) simply because it’ll only be little old me reading them. It can be on any theme or topic. It should be a Word doc, please. To make it fair, I want it to be anonymous so please don’t put your name in either the document or the email. So, just send the story to me, attached as a Word doc, with the title in the subject line, nothing else. Competition closes 1st December 2020. Within a week or two, I’ll choose the winner, based simply on the story I most enjoy, and contact you. Here’s the email to send it to: Louise.beech13@googlemail.com

Good luck! I’m very excited to read them…

Writers often apologise when they share glowing newspaper reviews or a reader’s praise of their books. I often see them saying that it feels like ‘bad form’ or that it seems somehow vain to retweet positive blog posts. They admit that they feel they are perhaps supposed to – in order to be visible, to promote their work – but that it feels cheap. Some have said that it maybe doesn’t count if it comes from them. They seem embarrassed, like they’ve committed some grave error or sin.

And that makes me sad.

I always share the positive reviews that I’m tagged in. I also share ones that I’ve read if they touched me. I never apologise. I’m not humble about it. I retweet or share or post a link without shame, without apology, without regret.

Here’s why.

It took me ten years to get a book deal. It took me four novels and thousands of rejections to finally see my debut in print. I spent between three months and a year writing each of my so far nine books. I lived and breathed the characters for the whole of that time. I didn’t sleep when a plot had me in tangles. I scribbled notes in the dark when a poetic paragraph came to me. I sweated over every word I wrote; I tightened each sentence, deleted entire pages and rewrote them better, then edited again and again and again. I took on critiques from beta readers and tightened each novel further. I edited again for my publisher. Then again. Then again. I gave my full heart and time and effort to the process each time.

I loved every moment. I made my book the best I hoped it could be.

So, I don’t think it’s wrong or vain or embarrassing to share any praise that happens when my book finally goes into the world. I think it’s fine not to share if you don’t want to, but if you are going to, be glorious in it. Be proud. Be loud. Joyful. You deserve to be. I am. I will not crawl quietly into the shadows. I’m grateful for every review. For every kind message. To each and every blogger and reader. They took the time to review my book and I want them to know how grateful I am.

I love seeing other writers share theirs.

Please, dear writers, be loud and joyful with yours too. Nothing makes me happier. You earned it.

Writing was hard for a lot of authors during lockdown, what with everyone suddenly stuck in the house, and home-schooling, and job losses, and other life changes. I’m one of the lucky ones. Despite the stress, I managed to put down some words. Perhaps because of it. Writing has always been there for me in the hardest times. During lockdown, it was the sisters I couldn’t see. It was the son I couldn’t visit. It was the daughter I couldn’t hug. It was the theatre I couldn’t work in. I wrote my memoir, Daffodils, which is now out on submission.

I also read some words. Quite a few. Some brilliant ones. Some affecting ones. Some powerful ones. Some close-to-home ones. Some not-even-out-yet ones. Here are reviews of some of my favourite books of the last few months…

THE MINDERS by John Marrs

I was so lucky that I got to read an early version of this, and was yet again blown away by Marrs’ ingenuity. He is one of the most original thriller writers of this decade. This one, involving five ordinary people selected to have the country’s secret information implanted into their heads via genetic coding, is very Black Mirror, set in the near future, and with clever nods to Marrs’ other works’ themes/storylines. He has replaced Sidney Sheldon for me, in that whatever he turns his hand to, I have to read it and can never put it down.

SKIN DEEP by Liz Nugent

This one was recommended and gifted to me by Susie Lynes. Oh, she knows me well. Such a difficult book to categorise, which are often my favourites. But one that I read in two or three sittings. The writing is sublime, the settings alive with reach-out-and-touch vividness, and the main character, Delia, is the most dark, fascinating and terrible woman I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know. Did I say it was dark? Did I say I love the dark? I do.

LULLABY by Leila Slimani

The baby is dead. It only took a few seconds. Who could not read on after these opening lines? This brief, precise, breath-taking book is another I won’t forget. Louise is a nanny. Not a Mrs Doubtfire kind of nanny, that’s for sure. That’s it. I’m not going to say any more. Just read it.

MY DARK VANESSA by Kate Elizabeth Russell

Another recommendation/ gift, this time from John Marrs. This was such a deeply disturbing but necessary read. Vanessa thinks she had a relationship with Jacob Strane. She thinks he was her first love. She believes this. But she was just fifteen and he was her teacher. A clever, clever book about how grooming is so subtle the victim doesn’t even know it’s happening – even looking back as an adult.

DIARY OF A YOUNG NATURALIST by Dara McAnulty

This absolutely beautiful book is by a young autistic boy with a passion for nature. The language is so evocative, it made me cry. If this is how he writes at fifteen, I can’t wait to see what he produces in years to come. His deep love of wild spaces around us, folklore, and history is truly joyful to experience.

We have more time than ever before to read. Even those of us who are still working – either from home or as key workers – have long evenings without pubs or restaurants or theatres or friends to visit. However, many book lovers online are saying they’re finding it hard to concentrate at the moment. Understandable. Though I’m writing furiously, I too find I read a few pages of my latest book and drift away. So I’ve tried to come up with a helpful list of lockdown literature; of books old and new, in a variety of genres, that are either lockdown-themed, my recent favourites, or just the pure escapism you might need.

Lockdown Classics

If you want a book that’s quite literally isolation in motion, you can’t go wrong with the epic Life of Pi by Yann Martel. It’s one of my top ten all-time faves. In this fantasy adventure, Piscine Patel – or Pi – is a Tamil boy from Pondicherry. After the ship he’s travelling on sinks during a storm, he’s left stranded on a boat in the Pacific Ocean for 227 days – with only a Bengal tiger called Richard Parker for company. The book explores issues of spirituality, storytelling, and survival.

Flowers in the Attic is the pulp fiction 70s classic by Virginia Andrews. I devoured it when I was fifteen. The fantastic tagline was: Such wonderful children. Such a beautiful mother. Such a lovely house. Such endless terror! In the book, siblings Cathy, Christopher, Carrie, and Cory are hidden away in the unused attic of an old house while their mother tries to re-win the affection of her rich father, who must never know she had children. Total soap opera sass, but utterly addictive.

In many ways, Jane Eyre is a Lockdown Classic as well as a love story, and a tale of feminine strength. Jane is hired to be the governess to a young girl at the secluded Thornfield Hall, owned by the foreboding Mr Rochester. But what secret is he hiding in the attic? One of my favourite books of all time too, this is a beautiful, gothic tale of betrayal and lost love.

I think The Book Thief might be my favourite book ever. It’s up there with The World According To Garp, which is not a lockdown-themed novel, just wonderful. The Book Thief is cleverly narrated by Death as he watches us humans making a mess of life. He closely watches young Liesel in Nazi Germany during 1939. After her family are taken to a concentration camp, she falls in love with books, and steals them from wherever she can. Then, when her foster family hides a Jew in their basement, her world changes forever.

Newer Lockdown Reads

The Waiting Rooms by Eve Smith, which is out in ebook 9^th May, could not have been timed better. Reading it in the current climate was scary and tense, but utterly addictive. The tagline – No Drugs, No Miracles, Just Fear – could be describing the Covid-19 crisis. If the themes are dark and topical, the writing is exquisite, so don’t avoid this if you’re scared it will be too close to home. I got to the finale with my heart in my mouth.

What Lies Between Us by John Marrs is out 15^th May and has elements of Flowers in the Attic, except that in this dark and descript novel it’s a daughter, Nina, who keeps her mother, Maggie, hidden away in the attic; quite literally locking her down with a chain. Why would anyone do that? Who is the one really keeping secrets? And can I use this excuse with my own mother? You’ll have to read it to find out the answer to the first two questions.

If you want to get lost in magic, and you love spooky houses in the middle of nowhere, then Wild Spinning Girls by Carol Lovekin – which is out now – would be perfect for you. There are ghosts at the window. There is wild weather. There are lost dreams and found people. There is Cloud House, with stopped clocks and secret bureaus and all the answers. This beautiful book has all the Welsh magic you’ll find in the land’s poetry and music.

Pure Escapism

If you want to read a book that has nothing to do with any sort of lockdown and is just a blissful escape, I absolutely loved Daisy Jones and The Six recently. Everyone and the world had read it before me, and I kept seeing it everywhere. Finally, I gave in last month, and was rewarded with a hedonistic tale of rock ‘n’ roll in the late seventies. The plot follows Daisy Jones and band The Six when they join forces and become the biggest group of the decade. What. A. Ride.

The Lies We Hide by SE Lynes is a complete departure of genre for her, but she outdoes herself in this gorgeous, emotional novel about family and the strength of a mother’s love. It touched me profoundly, perhaps since I have experienced a lot of it. The intelligent and sensitive exploration of redemption, forgiveness and survival make this a truly unforgettable book. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble forgetting lockdown and social distancing when you’re reading it.

In The Day We Meet Again by Miranda Dickinson, Phoebe and Sam cross paths by chance at St Pancras station, each heading in opposite directions. There’s an instant connection. They agree to meet there again in one year. Will they turn up? What will happen in between? This beautiful book explores all the what-ifs in life; the ones we control and the ones we don’t. Romantic and warm, this is heaven if you want to escape all the Covid-19 news.

Gill Paul’s Jackie and Maria is an addictive novel set during the Kennedy era, and exploring the relationship between Maria Callas at the height of her operatic career and Jackie Kennedy as she copes with her new life in the public eye. Gill is meticulous in her historical research for novels, and always brings the characters so vividly to life. And this book is no exception. It’s an era I LOVE – the 1950s and 1960s, much of it in the US, and my heroine Marilyn gets a little walk on part too. I lived the book for days, looking forward to being transported to their luxurious yet tragic lives.

I’m a huge Louisa Treger fan and either of her books are perfect for getting lost in another world. Her newest novel, The Dragon Lady, tells the story of Ginie Courtauld, a boundary-breaking woman with an extraordinary tattoo snaking up her leg, in a time before this was common. The narrative spans enormous cultural change, and travels from the Italian Riviera to Scotland to Rhodesia. The language is gentle and the story uncoils beautifully snakelike. Treger has a way of making you feel like she’s whispering the words to you, and that you hear it alone.

I read The Last Paper Crane by Kerry Drewery at Christmas and knew it would be one of my books of 2020. Let it transport you, as it beautifully did me, to Hiroshima in 1945, just after the bomb drops. Ichiro survives the devastated landscape and is left to care for his dead friend Hiro’s five-year-old sister, Keiko. In the chaos, he loses her. The writing is just breath-taking, a mixture of poetry and prose, with gorgeous sketches scattered through as well. It’s about the power of books. About a lifetime of guilt. About love and hope. Amazing.

I hope I’ve whet your appetite for reading again. While I have you, my online launch for I Am Dust will happen on Facebook Live on 16^th April from 5.30pm. I will be giving away each of the brand-new April books in the image below. So do join me then for readings, chat, Q&A, and an abundance of great reads.

I’m currently looking for some daffodils; four bunches in particular. These ones. I saw them the morning my mum jumped from the Humber Bridge. I stopped to take a photograph and then got the shocking news and forgot about the image for a whole month.

But today they’re still sleeping.

On my walk along the river this morning, whipped by the wind, I hoped a splash of yellow would greet me. But it must be too early; they can’t be ready. Though daffodils are the most reliable spring bulbs – flowering year after year, withstanding most weather, often with little attention – they might be avoiding this angry February. Perhaps it’s the storms that have been raging – Storm Dennis, then Storm Ellen.

I did see a cluster of that other hardy perennial; the snowdrop. Pure white against blades of green and a moment of blue sky, they were a small compensation. I took a photograph just as I did almost a year ago.

• 

• 

Then I carried on walking. And I’ll go on walking, go on waiting, continue looking. I’ll keep you posted. Because in eleven days, it will be a year since I first saw those sunny wonders in the original picture.

Today is nine days until the daffodil anniversary, and I saw some on my walk. But they weren’t the ones I want to see; not the ones near the water, in that solitary spot, captured forever in my photo. These were a sunny yellow huddle in someone’s front garden. I was hopeful, smiled, thinking mine would have arrived too, and hurried down to the river. But no, not yet. Almost; there were small green stems pushing through the overgrown grass near the water.

Will they bloom before the anniversary, surprise me with an early arrival before I go away next week on my book tour? For now, I’ll carry on walking, carry on waiting, continue looking. I’ll keep you posted.

Today is seven days until the year anniversary of my mother’s suicide attempt. She is doing much better now; in a wheelchair, but mentally on the mend. I walked, as always, along the river. Still no blast of yellow. I felt deflated. I’m going away in three days and don’t want to miss that first sighting. There were plenty in a different spot, closer to the place where my mum jumped. But, pretty as they were, they are not mine.

Today is five days until the anniversary. My last walk before going on tour. I’m going now and will report back…

There was one; a solitary daffodil, buffeted by the wind, barely blooming, but there. As if to reassure me. A new cycle begins. Life changes. It goes on. I guess I wanted to see the four bunches from last year to know this. But those ones are never coming back. Not exactly as they were. I have to face that. But I’m happy with my one yellow bit of sunshine.

And today, sharing this piece, is exactly one year since that shocking day last year. But like the daffodils, we’ve all withstood the storm to bloom again.

I wrote my new novel, I Am Dust, twelve days after that day. It helped me cope. Got me through. It’s now available in eBook… https://www.amazon.co.uk/I-Am-Dust-Louise-Beech-ebook/dp/B07X8SSJV7/ref=sr_1_2?qid=1582370486&refinements=p_27%3ALouise+Beech&s=books&sr=1-2

I typed and retyped the first line of this about a hundred times, the way I usually do with my novels. Where to start? With a book, it’s not always at the beginning, but usually at the most interesting point.

What a week. I was very sad at the election results. I still am. Sad and angry. But despite that, I accept that 43% of people voted this government in. I don’t like it, but I accept it. I tried to vote based on my own experiences and what I have seen in the world around me, not just read in the newspapers or online.

And this is what I’ve experienced.

In the last nine years I’ve seen my daughter’s disability benefit not just slashed but entirely cut. I’ve seen her NHS care drop catastrophically, resulting in debilitating complications with her condition. I’ve seen funding given to a fantastic organisation I volunteered with cut so harshly that the children in care who benefited from it now have nothing. I’ve seen my husband’s regular eye appointments (he has a disease where he’s slowly going blind) diminish from three-monthly to non-existent. He now has to ring them repeatedly just to be seen, never mind receive the essential laser surgery. I’ve experienced first-hand the dying mental health services, the lack of beds, the lack of help available. I’ve seen more people living on the streets. I’ve seen foodbanks open. I’ve had to fight a little bit harder every year for the most basic things. I’ve seen my young friend with special needs in abject poverty because of the new Universal Credit system. I’ve heard teacher friends tell me of children coming to school hungry.

So when it came to the election, I read the manifestos of all the parties. Then I made my choice based on the party that closely represents what I believe in and want. The one it turns out I’ve always voted for. Had they got in, they may not even have done the many things promised, but the fact that they want these things to happen mattered to me. They didn’t win and I’m disappointed but as one profound tweet I saw this week said, just because you lost, doesn’t mean you were wrong.

Of course, not everyone is me, or has my life.

Not everyone thinks or feels how I do.

This piece isn’t to persuade anyone to vote the way I did, I just wanted to explain why I made my choice, in a rational and diplomatic way, before I get to my ultimate point. These are just my reasons. Yours might be different. This is good. This is how we are humans. I’ll listen to yours too, any time, if you speak to me with the same consideration. Because I won’t block or unfriend anyone just because they voted differently to me.

How does that help any of us?

I work with people who voted differently to me; people I get along with. On my street, the windows have had a mixture of blue and red posters in windows. I won’t ignore neighbours I’ve chatted to for sixteen years because their choice of colour wasn’t my choice, though I bought fewer Christmas cards this year (just jokes, people). They may have reasons that I don’t know or understand for making their decision.

I’ll only call out hate when I experience it directly.

I’ll only call out any sort of extremism when I experience it directly.

This week I’ve seen (shared by others because I don’t follow her) far right, extreme hate from a certain conservative ex-Apprentice contestant; things like ‘God bless the white farmer’ and her telling a British woman of colour that the party is OURS now. I’ve seen similar from prominent so-called journalists. It began trending on Twitter that Tommy Robinson (far right activist) was joining the Conservative Party, but there are no credible news sources to back this up. I’ve read comments to this ‘news’ that we can now take back our country. Our country is here, you fools. It’s right outside your window. There. Look.

But these extreme examples are not everyone.

They are not all people.

Because I also saw a band on Twitter telling their 20k followers that anyone who voted conservative should not buy their records or come to their gigs anymore, that they ‘don’t fucking want you’. I saw people online saying they would block or unfriend anyone who voted conservative.

Block those who are hateful or extreme, yes, but it’s ridiculous to block 43% of the country. Democracy has spoken, whether I like the results or not. And I just don’t have the energy in me to hate 43% of the country. What good would it do? Most of them are probably as human as I am. We can protest further cuts if they happen under this government. Protest if we disagree with policies implemented. Protest if the NHS isn’t protected. But the election has been decided. Be the change you want. As we go into a new decade, I’m going to make the effort to be kinder. To look out for that elderly, widowed neighbour. To talk to those who are homeless a little more. To give more.

Of course, I didn’t feel quite as calm as I seem now when I first saw the results on Friday. I’m only human. Of course, I ranted. Of course, I conjugated the words cunt and fuck in ways they have never been conjugated before. But I didn’t take that online or out of the house. (Poor husband. That is all.)

Come at me with your thoughts, and we can talk.

Come at me with discussion, and I’ll engage.

But if you come at me with hate, be ready for my cuntery.

Whatever you voted.

I was nineteen and in the second year of my A levels when I found out I was pregnant. To say it was a surprise, would be an understatement. My boyfriend of two years – a soldier who was frequently away – was equally surprised, but initially supportive. I decided – in the iconic words of Madonna in ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ – hmmm, I’m gonna keep my baby. As she also sang, I decided, we can raise a little family, maybe we’ll be all right, it’s a sacrifice. Then my boyfriend changed his mind when I was six months pregnant. Aside from five minutes in a courtroom a year later – trying and failing to get maintenance for my son – I have never seen him since.

And so I became a single parent.

Just like that.

I lived at home with my single mother and three other siblings, in a small council house. I had no savings. Of course I didn’t. I was nineteen. Though I’d had summer and evening jobs since I was fourteen, I’d never expected to be a mum so young, and so suddenly, and on my own. I put my name down on the council housing list as it was the only way I might be able to move out and not have to pay a huge deposit. Nothing happened. No offer of anything. I wasn’t ‘desperate’ enough, which is absolutely fair, since I had a roof over my head, even though I was sharing a bedroom with my mother – not the best experience with a heavy drinker – because my twin sisters shared a tiny room and my brother, being now twelve, had to have the other.

My son Conor was born at the beginning of 1991. I fell completely and utterly in love. Despite a thirty-six-hour labour, and a whopping 9lb 9oz boy, it felt like magic to hold him in my arms. I’d been looking after my siblings since I was four so, really, it was the most natural thing in the world to me. He slept in a Moses basket baby on the landing. (My mother didn’t want to be disturbed by him in the night.) In January. In a council house with no central heating. But I’ve always felt this made him the hardy creature he is, very rarely ill. I’d often fall asleep there, next to that basket, feeding him in the night on the landing, both of us wrapped in a duvet, the sweet scent of him something I can still smell now.

Eventually, when Conor was nine months old, I’d saved up enough for a deposit and got a cheap rented property. There was no heating apart from one small gas fire in the living room, and no double glazing. But I made it homely. I looked for work. This was a time before the CSA enforced maintenance from absent fathers and so I had to pay for everything Conor and I needed. It was also a time before Tax Credits at least topped up low incomes and helped with childcare. Whatever I earned would have to pay the rent, childcare, bills, food and clothes – for two of us. There was no job I had a hope in hell of getting that would cover it. I had no experience. So I went on benefits. I got £80 a week. That was for everything. I wasn’t a scrounger. I wanted desperately to work. I went every month to the job centre to see if there was something that paid enough.

At times, I was lonely and depressed. All my friends were at university or travelling the world. My own father had not been in life since I was fifteen. Now I had a son with no father too. I had zero self-pity though. I’d made the decision to have my child, and that came with all the risks of ending up alone. But very few single parents end up that way by choice. Very few are scrounging or lazy. I used the words single parent rather than single mum as I know it can happen to anyone.

Once Conor went to nursery and then school – when childcare was therefore minimal – I went back to college and then got a job in a hotel. I eventually met my husband and had our daughter. And finally, when my son was eight, I got maintenance payments from his father.

Now, when I’m on the bus and see a very young mum with her baby, I feel huge compassion for her, and if there’s a chance, make a fuss of her child. She may not be alone. There may be a partner. I don’t know the full story. And this is the thing. We never do. But the fact is that behind every single parent there is an absent parent. And which is worse? A parent who is there – or a parent who isn’t?

They say you should challenge yourself. Stretch yourself. Do things that scare the bejesus out of you. I don’t know who they are, but in the last three weeks I’ve done three things that scared the bejesus out of me – four if you include having to cut my mother’s toenails – and one that set my bowels aquiver, but wasn’t quite as bejesus-y as the others. Why on earth did I do them? For the reasons above, to stretch like a laggy band and be challenged like a Krypton Factor contestant? Well, yes, actually. Yes, partly…

The first bowel-contracting thing I did was take to the stage. Become a thespian. Tread the boards. Break a leg. Friend Chloe, who I work with at Hull Truck Theatre, has written a beautiful script, I’ll Bring You Flowers, which was being showcased at The Roundabout in Lincoln, and she needed an actress in her forties. Having only actor friends much younger, she turned to me. Obviously the first thing I said was that I’d have to age up significantly, that people might not believe I was older than thirty. The second was that I’m not an actress. The third was a nervous yes.

So we rehearsed. Amelia, the other actress, suggested after two read-throughs that we go off-page. Off-page? Without the page? Without the words in front of me? Already? I put my script aside like I was abandoning life-saving medicine; then stumbled through while the other girls spoke with grace and confidence. On the bus, I listened to a recording of us to help me learn. At home, I listened to Chloe’s lines and tried to respond with mine in the gaps. I didn’t want to let her down. Look like a fool. Then we spent a weekend in Lincoln, rehearsing over and over and over, for hours and hours and hours. I realised something. I was enjoying it. I knew my lines. I was the character. But then we had to go on an actual stage and actually do it for actual human people. I waited in the wings for my cue. And went on. And bloody loved it. The buzz. The audience. The adrenaline. The applause.

Will I go on stage again? Never say never.

The next bowel-contracting thing involved being thrown wildly into the air, risking life and limb. Well, maybe not exactly like that, but I want you to read on. On a weekend walk around Hull Fair with husband Joe – where palmists who have ‘done’ celebrities like Mavis Riley, Jack Duckworth, and Sonia Fowler, will tell you your future – I suggested we go on the Big Wheel. This isn’t just a big wheel – it’s a fuck-off, mahooosive wheel. I’m petrified of heights but thought I’d get a nice snap of the view. Nope. I just clung to the central post like a really crap pole dancer and begged Joe not to move, not to breathe, not to speak, because then we would fall to our deaths.  We didn’t. I recovered and got a bag of brandy snap.

Will I go on a Big Wheel again? Never.

The next bowel-contracting thing I did is something that most people fear. Public speaking. Can there be anything more stomach-churningly horrifying than standing in front of eighty people, alone, and talking for an hour? No. And guess who did, last week, for a Ladies Group? Me. Just days after the Big Wheel. Could it be worse? Actually, no. There was tea and good biscuits, for a first. There was a prayer at the start, for a second. Then I walked up to the front, thinking, ‘You’re not going to die, you’re not going to die … well, unless that huge cross falls on you.’ It didn’t. And the ladies could not have been more welcoming. I ended up loving it.

Will I do a talk again? Yes.

Now, the other thing. The thing not quite as bowel-quivering or bejesus-y as the others. On Friday, I interviewed another writer as part of the Festival of Words literature event. I loved the book so much – a beautiful memoir called I Never said I Loved You – that I was only excited to chat to Rhik Samadder about it. That excitement almost eclipsed my fear of public speaking. Almost. I still felt fluttery in the green room beforehand, but Rhik was so warm and kind and funny, that it was like going onstage with a long-time friend.

Will I interview anyone in public again? You bet.

I wonder now what it is I’m actually so afraid of. I guess, I’m afraid of failing. Of being criticised. Of being an idiot. Of being laughed at (for the wrong reasons). Of being ugly. Of being stupid. Of being utterly vulnerable. Don’t we all feel that way though? Is it just me?

So was it worth it, doing things that scared the bejesus out of me? Did I learn anything? Yes. I’m still alive. Yes. I felt chuffed for succeeding. Yes. Proud that I stepped out of my comfort zone. But has it prepared me for the next scary thing? The scariest thing of all. I’m not sure. I’ll only know when I click Open on my new Word document. On the file called Daffodils. On what might be my new book. On my own words. Not fiction. Not escape. Not adventure. Just me. A memoir.

PS – Back to my mother’s toenails. No. No. Never again. Well, until she asks me…

PPS – I also went to the dentist, but let’s just keep things simple.

I’m endlessly fascinated by other writers’ processes; by how the story forms for them, by whether they plot or don’t, by whether they know where they’re going when they set off. But then I also love the idea of this process being a total mystery and I don’t want to ruin the fantasy that some magical, impossible-to-explain thing occurs when we write. To be honest, it feels a little that way for me, and I guess I’m ultimately wondering if I’m the only one.

I find my stories by writing them. The act of physically writing delivers the novel to me. I don’t plot. I don’t know exactly where I’ll end up or how I’ll get there when I do. I might vaguely have a destination and a few stop-off points in my head, but some of those don’t happen, and others occur as I go. It’s a bit like getting on a bus for a mystery trip. Maybe I’ll know the region we’re heading for, but not the exact town. And I’ll have no idea how long it’ll take to get there.

I feel like if I know the full story before I set off, I won’t have those wonderful moments where a reveal or surprise naturally occurs. I feel like I won’t listen to my characters and let them lead. I believe the words my characters say when they say them and so hopefully on the page, for the reader, they ring absolutely true as well. So if I learn something new about a character along the journey, the shock I feel is raw and that hopefully goes directly into the prose.

I do begin a new notepad with each novel that I write. I still have most of them. They are full of random scribbles; of ideas that came to me in the night; of things I thought of on the bus. There is no order or pattern. I’m OCD everywhere in my life except in my writing. I’m OCD about my surroundings, my plans, my cupboards, my lists, my shopping. I guess my writing is the only place where I’m truly free.

When I started my current novel, I Am Dust, I knew it would be set in a theatre. I knew there had been a murder and I could see my main characters. I had a feel for it rather than a clear vision. I didn’t know who had killed the lead actress in my show until I was at the halfway mark. Then it was like I had always known, somehow, on a subconscious level. It takes the writing of the story to open that information up for me. Today, at the 55,000 words mark, I realised that one of my characters has been lying to me. I was as shocked as if a friend had done so. But because I didn’t know until now, everything I’ve written about them will seem true because I believed it was when I wrote it.

Am I ever afraid that the story won’t come? That the white page will remain blank? No. It always happens. I guess if it doesn’t, then my writing days will be over. How about you? Do you plot carefully … or do you just set off, loose ideas in your head, fingers on the keyboard, and trust in the process?

One of the huge highlights of having a new book out is the blog tour – or perhaps that should be #blogtour since these things can go viral, and are all about social media. With most people’s lives being lived online today, it’s the perfect way to share the #booklove. But these tours involve a lot of very dedicated people – and I’d like to thank them here.

Thanks to the sixty-plus people who came on the #CallMeStarGirl tour, it ended up trending. Thanks to the sixty-plus people who read and reviewed my first #PsychologicalThriller, other readers told me they now had to read the book too. Thanks to the sixty-plus people who shared and retweeted each other’s blogs, my timeline was full of glorious stars.

Bloggers, know that authors are so very grateful to all that you do, for nothing but the pleasure of it; for taking time out of your own busy lives, and writing the reviews with such passion and joy. I felt I had to take a moment out of my life this morning and thank you. Thanks for putting #CallMeStarGirl on the online map. Thanks for making April a bit magic.

Thank you also to the magnificent Anne Cater for arranging it all. I saw how she personally thanked each blogger. I saw how she shared and quoted each blogger. I saw how she commented on their websites thanking them too. She has her own busy life and she did all this and changed mine. My publisher Karen Sullivan does the same – she shares and thanks and comments on all the posts, not leaving a single person out.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you.