MUMMY'S GIRL IS ON THE SHELVES

My book has arrived! It's taken almost a month to sort it all out but I now have a paperback book, a kindle version, stickers and even decals for my car.

I've spent weeks planning what I would do when I was finally ready to go, working out plans of campaign in a state of dizzy excitement. But now that the day has finally arrived......well, quite frankly I feel sick. Suddenly all the pushing and thrusting and marketing that had seemed so simple in the abstract feels like mission impossible. The temptation to slide the whole lot quietly into a drawer and forget all about it is almost overwhelming.

But I've come this far. I owe it to myself to shake off my terror and press on. Sometimes the right path is the one that twists and turns through the dark woods....

So, (deep breath) may I introduce you to Lucinda Fox. She writes stories for teenage girls (and boys who might want to know how teenage girls think.) Her new book, Mummy's Girl is available on Amazon as either a paperback or a download by clicking here and if you're really lucky she'll sign your copy for you and give you a cool sticker or two to put on your planner/bag/lunchbox.

Wish me luck....

Imogen x

ALMOST THERE...

Progress is being made.

Notwithstanding my slightly pedestrian approach to all things technological, I have managed single-handedly (I think) to get to publication with my book. Huge round of applause and a stiff drink for the woman typing frantically in the corner.

So, as far as I understand the situation, the paper mock up is being printed as we speak and will be winging its way to me for approval during the course of next week. At the same time, the digital version is sauntering down the virtual corridors of Kindleland and should be ready to go even sooner.

And how does it feel to be a nearly published writer? Truthfully? Odd. The pragmatic side of me is well aware that the chances of anyone who doesn't already know me buying the book are extraordinary small. I am highly unlikely to become the next Jacqueline Wilson or Louise Rennison and I'm not banking on retiring to the sun on my royalties. The whole enterprise is also tainted by my crippling fear of vanity publishing and making myself look arrogant or foolish or quite possibly both.

But somewhere, deep inside I'm also really excited. Very soon, anyone in the world will be able to buy a book by me....well.... by Lucinda Fox, my literary alter ego and purveyor of fine novels for pre-teen and teenage girls. That is a pretty cool feeling.

So watch this space. Soon there will be a website and a Facebook page and my mate Lucinda might even start tweeting. If you want to download Mummy's Girl when it goes live (at a very reasonable 99p) then please do. I think the paperback will be £5.99. And if you or someone you know actually reads it, please get them to leave a review on amazon - a real one that actually reflects your view. Five stars always look very suspicious to me!

Thank you all for your unfailing support. It means so much. Were it not for the encouragement that you give me, I'm not sure I would ever have found the nerve to come this far.

Imogen x

BIG NEWS FROM THE PEN OF IMOGEN CLARK

They say that throughout your life you should challenge yourself, push a little harder, step out of your comfort zone, take a risk....Irritating isn't it? I like my comfort zone. It's comfortable. But 'they' are right.

And so I have decided  ( drum roll please...)  that I am going to publish one of my books myself.

Just seeing those words written down makes my heart race and my head hurt. I've been bouncing this idea backwards and forwards for what feels like forever. Indeed, part of the reason that I'm announcing it here, in full view of everyone, is to make it more difficult for me to change my mind again. But I need to do it so that I can stop wasting so much energy prevaricating about it.

You see, this is not how I envisaged my burgeoning writing career progressing. When I started writing novels,  I didn't factor in the enormous reluctance that I feel to let anything go. I thought I'd end up with lots of finished manuscripts and then I could try my hand at getting them published like everyone else. How hard can it be to write it, send it out and deal with the rejections? Well, harder than you'd think as it turns out.

Also the publishing world looks very different to how it did when I started writing five years ago. In my head, those who self-publish have always been either arrogant or rubbish or quite possibly both. What's that terrible expression? Those who can, do. Those who can't self-publish.

But I'm reliably informed by those who know these things that the industry has moved on. Of course, there are still those authors who fall into the categories listed above (please don't let that be me) but there are also writers who actually choose to take the self-publishing route because it allows them to keep control of their work, how it is published, priced, marketed and distributed.

I do have to say that I am still cloaked in doubt and fear but on the basis that I'll try almost anything once, I have decided to self-publish my young adult novel, Mummy's Girl. Very soon. It won't be under my own name - I'm not that brave- but don't worry oh loyal blog readers. As soon as I'm ready to go you will read about it here and no doubt have the opportunity to purchase said novel and tell me what you think.

So if you know any girls aged between 12 and 15 who like a rip-roaring yarn about how hard it is to grow up then watch this space. I might have just the thing for them.

WHEN THE FIRST-BORN LEAVES HOME....

In four days time, I will launch my precious first-born into the wider world to fend for herself as she starts University in a city, far, far away from home.

Of course, this doesn't come as a shock. In many ways, her entire almost nineteen years of life so far have been leading, with a sense of dogged inevitability, to this very moment. How many times over her lifetime have I joked about getting her ( and her siblings ) off my hands? Oh the plans I have made for when I finally 'get my life back'....

That's not really how it is though. A parent never gets their life back and which parent would want a life without children anyway? What we really mean is that we will have more time to do what pleases us on a day to day basis. Our lives will always be inextricably linked with those of our children on some level or other no matter what our relationship with them.

Anyway, less of this tuppenny philosophy and onto the far more important task of navel gazing! What does it actually feel like to have a child move away from home? Well, I can't speak for anyone else of course but I don't think I'll be treading any new ground if I say it's pretty odd. A year ago, six months ago even, I couldn't even contemplate the idea without a lump forming in my throat and my eyes brimming with emotional tears. The children would look at me questioningly. 'Are you crying, Mummy? Again!!'

But slowly my mindset has changed. Just recently, my 18 year old child has blossomed into an 18 year old young adult. The process reminds me a bit of being in year six. Suddenly those at the top of the school look, like cuckoos in the primary nest. Their legs are too long, their jumpers too short. They clearly belong somewhere else.

And so is it now, here. My eldest has outgrown us. Not in a never coming back way. It's just that our life here at home can no longer provide her with what she seeks. She needs to venture out and discover it for herself.

And how does this feel to me, her mother? Well.... as long as I don't think about her saying goodbye to her siblings or leaving her on her own in her new student flat (or try to write a blog about it) then I'm OK. This is just what happens next, how it must be. Life should move forward all the time. It's not always what we want or what we think we can deal with but that's just how it is.

So it's not with a heavy heart that I help her pack her room up into cardboard boxes ( and ridicule some of her more impractical suggestions as to what should make the trip.) She is setting out on the most exciting journey of her life so far and my job now is not to make her look back at what she's leaving behind but to help her look forward to make the most of what's to come. But I do have a packet of tissues in my pocket.....

Imogen.

THE SCHOOL REUNION - CLASS OF '85

In 1985, I left school with a clutch of A levels and a driving passion for the exciting, new life that I felt certain was about begin. Those of you with a penchant for numbers may have noticed that 2015 is the 30th anniversary of that great event and such anniversaries are often marked by reunions, grand or otherwise.

And so it was for me, slightly complicated by the fact that, due to flitting about as a child, I was part of the 1985 cohort at more than one school. Two schools. Two reunions. One night. Ain't that always the way?

I chose the do for the school that I attended the longest - the now defunct Gainsborough High School. Mine was the last cohort. After us, the school became co-educational and changed its name and so there is a certain pride amongst us old girls that we were a piece of something now lost.

As part of our reunion, someone had kindly organised a tour of the old place, recently reopened after years of disuse as the Sixth Form centre of the mixed school. At 2.00 pm I walked up the school drive nervously. I hadn't seen any of these women for 32 years. Would I recognise them? Would they recognise me or or would it be excruciatingly awkward, reminiscent of the start of Celebrity Big Brother? I needn't have worried. It took all of twenty seconds to identify everyone that was there. Most of us don't change, not really. The essence of what makes us us always shines through.

We were shown round by some very willing sixth formers who we horrified with our tales of strict discipline and sexual impropriety, still a heady mix to a 17 year old. The memory is a strange thing. Some parts of the building were as familiar as if I'd visited them every day. Others were huge black chasms. The library - now devoid of books - rang not a single bell in my nostalgic head. Eventually, I pieced it all together using a mixture of grainy, faded photographs and stories remembered by the others. Gradually my school experience fell into place like a second-hand jigsaw puzzle - the picture identifiable but with a few pieces missing.

Later, over a drink and some food, we chatted over our collective memories of life at GHS. There was a lot that we had experienced together but some things that we had kept to ourselves. We discovered that of the 14 people there, four of us had been badly bullied by the same girl. We were each shocked to learn that it had not been just us. This made me sad. We have each carried that hurt in our hearts for thirty years believing that we were alone in our suffering when we would have had the collective power to prevent it had we but spoken out.

I'm not sure about looking back as a rule. Life lies in the future and not the past. But sometimes it is good for the soul to touch base with our history, to remember what it was that formed us and made us who we are. School days, whilst they last for only a few short years, often set the pace for rest of the life's race. I am glad that I had the chance to look back, albeit it briefly, and remember those few years spent at Gainsborough High School, a grammar school for girls, with such fondness.

BRICK WALLS AND HOW TO AVOID THEM

I'm stuck. I can't do it. It's not working. I don't know why I ever thought I could do it. I should just stop harbouring such ludicrous ideas and give up. It's a waste of my precious time. Everyone will laugh at me because I thought for a few minutes that I could have a chance at something even though it was patently obvious to anyone with half a brain that I was on a hiding to nothing. They probably are laughing already. I should stop telling everyone what I'm doing anyway. It just makes my inability to do it worse. What was I thinking?!!!

In short,  it's not going well......

I've been messing about with the start of this rewrite for three weeks. I'm clear about where I'm going. I have the story in my head and I know how it's going to slot into the main story ark. I'm not short of things to say. And it's exciting, this bit of the story. It's powerful stuff....

Or it would be if I could only work out how to tell it because, sure as eggs is eggs, the way I've tried to do it so far is not good. It's not good at all. I write a bit. It seems ok as I'm working and the story races along but then when I come back to it later, it makes me cringe. That's not good is it? Cringing at your own work!

So what do I do? Should I plough on telling the story and hope that as I go I'll stumble across something that I like and can nurture into something stronger? Or do I tinker about at the edges experimenting and thinking but getting nowhere? I don't like either plan.

So I'm left, wasting time. A blog post, for example. Some research into what they wore. What was Number 1 back then anyway? What were we all watching on the telly?

Of course, I know the answer to my problem. I have to keep experimenting until I find what it is I'm looking for. Whilst I'm desperate to just dive in and tell my story, that would be the wrong thing to do. I must be patient and keep trying until I've found something that feels right. And in the meantime, I have to remember that I love to write and not lose heart.

No one said it would be easy.... Deep sigh.

Imogen.

CHANGING VOICES

My last assignment of the year is submitted and so my attention turns to my real distraction - Postcards from a Stranger.

For those of you don't know, this is my latest novel and the one that I've decided not to pack away in a virtual drawer. Having commissioned an editor's report on why it isn't yet a best seller, I am now armed with all I need to magically transform it into one. Well... that's the plan at least.

So my next task is to start to tell parts of the story from another character's point of view. This is all well and good. Telling her story is one thing. Deciding HOW she'll tell it is quite another.

It's not that I don't know Anneliese Ferensby. She's been in my head for over a year now and she's even spoken out loud from time to time. I know quite a lot about her, enough to be able to write it all down but what does she sound like? How does she string her sentences together? How does her mind work?  And, most importantly, how is she different from her daughter Cara who has been doing all the talking for the last 85,000 words?!

These are big questions and ones that I need to get right at this stage as my hands hover over the keyboard waiting to begin.

And it's not just her voice that I need to find but also how I, as the writer, should express that for her. First person or third? Past tense or present? In her head only or floating above her and watching her every move? I read voraciously, trying to absorb every writers's techniques and skill. This influences how I approach my work. It's not Oasis and The Beatles exactly but what I read does make me think about how I'm writing.

I started yesterday - 815 words, third person, past tense, omniscient narrator. I'm not sure it's right so today I'm going to rewrite what I have differently and see if I feel any more confident. It won't come overnight, Anneliese's voice, but at least if I set off in approximately the right direction it won't be so difficult to rediscover the path when the snows come.

Anyway, I'll let you know how I get on.....

Imogen.