Of holidays, fan letters and lost envelopes...

Ah, holidays. Long days of chateaux, wine-tasting, museums, the occasional bit of canoeing or Via-Ferrata-ing (not too much, though), the smells of grass and sunshine and the salty stuff they put on vineyards... Followed by long evenings of driving through the French countryside looking for a campsite, long hours of arguing about which road that 'Camping' sign was actually pointing to, and long minutes of staring at French responsables of said campsites and saying, 'How much?!'

Oh, and food. Did I mention the food? Not the restaurants so much (although I'm not complaining), but the crackle of a fresh baguette, the squeak of saucisson between your teeth, the light crumbly folds of a pain au chocolat or a croissant. Not to mention my new discovery, the Paris-Best, which is like a doughnut-shaped profiterole filled with nutty creme patissiere and topped with flaked almonds. Although all of this palls beside the way that, after a day in a not-very-cool-bag in a hot Land Rover, everything tastes of cheese. Yum.

I've been away. For a whole month, more or less. (That's one benefit of being a writer, I guess: no one notices your absence.) And now I'm back, serene and relaxed and extremely glad to be sleeping in a bed.

Not much has happened in my absence. This is both reassuring (no one's died, my agent hasn't dumped me, no one has yet discovered that I falsified my tax return* I plagiarised all my novels I was married already er-hem anything bad), and depressing (I haven't won any prizes, no one desperately wants the film rights to my books**, I haven't unexpectedly inherited a massive legacy from an anonymous reader). Oh well.

But there were a couple of things which I found in my inbox. Nice things. I love hearing from you, dear Readers, and it was lovely to get back and find you'd been in touch. I won't boast about you here (because quoting one's own fan letters is possibly as bad as quoting your own good reviews***) but thank you. You are very nice. :)

However, there is one exception to the don't-boast rule, for reasons which will hopefully become clear. I don't often get real, physical letters, especially not from outside the UK, and in this electronic age there's something particularly nice about it. (I was going to say, especially when it's a nice letter, but I suppose if it's not then you can actually literally burn it in a cathartic sort of way.) The downside, of course, is that it's not easily retrievable if something... hypothetically... happens to it. If you know what I mean.

This is the point at which you're all nodding wryly and assuming I spilt a glass of wine over it. Right? Well actually you're wrong. I am in the delightful position of being able to blame this entirely on my agent, who opened the letter and threw away the envelope before he realised what it was. Yes. He threw away the envelope. The one on which there was, presumably, a return address. This is the sort of quirk of fate that put paid to Romeo and Juliet. Hmph.

So Halleye (sorry, not sure how to do the accent here), if you're reading this, apologies for the delay and THANK YOU! And can you email me your address, please, so I can send you a proper answer? I feel like your letter definitely deserves one. :) My email address is on my 'Contact Me' page. (Then again, if you sent me a proper letter in the first place, you may not have internet access, in which case I'm talking to no one. Oh dear. Very R+J again...)

And now... back to work.


* This is for comic effect. My tax return is TOTALLY HONEST. Trust me, I'm a Quaker.
** Actually the film rights for The Traitor Game are already spoken for, but that's another story.  
*** Quoting your own bad reviews is very good form indeed. (When I'm feeling down I google a book I love and console myself with the thought that there are a lot of idiots out there.)

I'm back!

So, it turns out that the slightly valedictory tone of my previous post might have been a little bit histrionic, as I did, in fact, survive the flights to and from Qatar. (Without getting too nervous, as well, which was nice.) Not to mention the conference itself.

Me (in blue) in a workshop led by the wonderful Zeinab Mobarak 

But "survive" isn't quite the word. The conference was brilliant. I loved it. It's been a long time since I've spent three days with such interesting, intelligent, amusing, warm people - even if the conversation was so unrelenting well-informed and incisive that I had to resist an urge to lower the tone. ("Revolution in Egypt?! Has there been a revolution in Egypt? Why wasn't it in Hello! magazine?") As a translation conference, it was probably always going to attract clever, open-minded people with a heightened awareness of international affairs - but honestly, it was so high-powered it was verging on the ridiculous... And yet no one made me feel like an impostor, despite my lack of any relevant expertise (when people asked me whether I was a delegate I always said, 'Who, me? No, no, I'm only an author.'). The speeches and workshops were stimulating, everyone seemed to talk to everyone - and immediately cut to the chase about things that mattered, rather than, you know, accommodation or the weather or how long our flights were - and, to cap it all, with careful planning you could eat five meals a day. I felt exhilarated and privileged to be part of it.*

And the place was pretty amazing too. The photo on the left is of the Doha skyline, taken from a courtyard at the Museum of Islamic Art, which is itself an astonishing building (think halfway between a modern mosque and the National Theatre, but with an incredible austerity and grace). There's not much that's old in Doha, as far as I could tell, but the architecture is varied and energetic and really exciting. (On the whole. Our bus did drive past a derelict-ish apartment block, half boarded up and half just falling down, with a helpful facade claiming that it was "VERSAILLES". But I didn't have my camera that day.)  

I would also add a photo of my hotel room, because it was far too good for the likes of me, but there are levels of smugness to which even I will not sink.

I got back yesterday and am still recovering after not going to bed for 32 hours, so I'm not going to go on raving about what a lovely time I had. (Also I am running out of adjectives, and Roget's is in the other room.) I will just leave you with my favourite photo of all. Yes. It's a watermelon. But not any old watermelon. This is a Faberge watermelon. There were others, actually. But this one was the best.

Strangely enough, one of the keynote speeches was the great Daniel Hahn talking about his translation (or was it? well, it's funny you should ask that - what is a translation, anyway?) of a picture book called Happiness Is A Watermelon On Your Head*** (or as the Amazon web address puts it, with a certain threatening terseness: "happiness - watermelon - your head"). Which made me feel that this picture was particularly appropriate.

And now back to real life. And rain. And work.****

But any more invitations are welcome...


* Note to any British Council readers: is this enough, or should I lay it on a bit thicker? I do want those "expenses"... **

** This is a joke. I am actually deadly serious about all of the paragraph above.

*** It is an odd and wonderful book. Buy it. In English.

**** Or should I say, back to good intentions scuppered by the World Snooker Championships? Somehow I know today, at least, is going to be a dead loss. But that's OK. Maybe one day I'll write a book about daytime television, and it will all have been worthwhile.)

A glimpse into the glamorous life of an author...

...i.e, me.

On Tuesday I had a launch party for The Broken Road (I know, I know, only two months late) at my local Waterstone's. It was a fantastic evening - I saw so many of my friends there that I started to feel like I was at my own wake (in a good way) - but the best thing about it was: the CAKE.

As an incentive, I had promised everyone in the publicity that there would be CAKE. (Yes, in capitals. It's just not the same when it's in lower case. Believe me. I am now stuck in an eternal caps lock that is specific to the word CAKE. I am going to have to avoid the topic entirely in my next novel or face major problems with my copy-editor.) And that the aforesaid CAKE would have a sugarcraft lynch-mob on it.

The CAKE was not a lie.

And... for those of a squeamish disposition, look away now. (Or rather - sorry, you should have looked away a few seconds ago. Oops.)

Yes. A sugarcraft medieval lynch-mob. Don't you wish you'd been there? Made, I hasten to add, not by me but by a great artist of CAKES called Jackie Grover.

And here, if that photo wasn't enough, is a close-up - just in case you didn't catch their expressions...

I could add more pictures. There are a few of me cutting it, and probably a few blurred ones of me reading, or brandishing a glass of wine and grinning like an idiot. (Or maybe, on second thoughts, after all that wine it wasn't the world that was blurred...)

Anyway. I had a fantastic evening. I read and talked about myself and signed copies of my book and generally had a lovely time.

But really, I just wanted to show you the CAKE...

The glamorous life of a writer...

I was a little bit fragile last time I posted... I won't apologise, though, as I feel like it's important to share these things. Mainly because when I'm having a crisis of confidence it cheers me up no end to know that someone else is feeling bad. Hopefully that works for you, my lovely readers, as well - meaning that moaning and whining are in fact providing a useful public service. Wait, what do you mean, that's just me? :)

However. Thankfully things are looking up. (Or, as I mistyped that initially, "looking yup". I rather like that.)

So, NaNoWriMo, plays, love affairs, and books all end. But hey. Here is something which will always, always cheer me up. Yes, that's right. Lunch.

Especially lunch at someone else's expense. And especially lunch at my agent's expense.

In this case, wood-pigeon, twice-baked goat's cheese and thyme souffle, white chocolate and chestnut tart, and coffee. And wine, of course. Although not too much of it because I had to catch the train home and didn't want to doze off and wake up in Hastings. (I have nothing against Hastings but it's right at the end of the train line.)

And it was lovely. The food, obviously (see above) but also the company (my hopefully-soon-adult-book-agent*) and the conversation (about me)... We were talking about my grown-up novel, The Two Lives of Edward Leigh, which I sent off months ago and managed to forget about - only to get an email a few weeks ago which said that she was really excited about it and could we meet for lunch? Cue great jubilation in the Collins household. And added to that, the agent in question worked with me on The Traitor Game before it went out on submission and was a wonderful, incisive, tactful editor - so I was (and am) really pleased that she's interested in Edward Leigh. Now I just have to redraft it...  

That was Wednesday. And on Thursday I was at the Bloomsbury Christmas party - Quality Street, pretzels, satsumas, wine - chatting to my editor and copy-editor and lots of other nice people. (The big names included N. M. Browne, Celia Rees, Mary Hooper, Mary Hoffman, Mark Walden, Gareth Jones... and possibly lots of other lovely writers whom I met too late in the evening to remember clearly. My apologies if you're one of them. You were lovely, anyway.) It was fantastic. I came home on Thursday night feeling very glamorous and exuberant. Just those two occasions made up for many long weeks of slaving away alone over a hot computer.

And I'm not, contrary to appearances, just saying that because of the free food.


* Fingers crossed. If I manage to implement all her terribly sensible suggestions. Watch this space... :)

Stranger Things and Other Things

Last week, as you might remember if you follow this blog, I had the UK premiere of my first full-length film, Stranger Things, at the Raindance Film Festival. Which was amazing and bizarre in equal measure. Try seeing your own face, very close up, on a big screen when you're only sitting in the second row... I'd imagined it was going to be like watching the DVD only bigger (logical enough, when you think about it) but actually the whole experience was different and weird. Mainly good but also... odd. It hadn't occurred to me to be nervous beforehand, but so many people asked me if I was that by the time I went into the cinema I was feeling very jumpy indeed. And of course watching that first scene with the zombies didn't relax me much...

The really nice thing, though, was that I found myself forgetting that it was me onscreen, and just letting the film tell me its story. Sometimes I think that story-telling is really the thing I love best about acting (or possibly about everything) - and in film you don't get to do it yourself, you're only providing the raw material for someone else to do it. So seeing it all put together and looking beautiful is a lovely eureka moment. Oh I see, I said to myself. I understand now...

On a less thoughtful note, I hope and pray that I am better-looking in real life. Several of my friends assured me I was. But then, they're my friends... Maybe I should ask an enemy.

Anyway - so that was Friday. Then on Saturday, just as I was going to bed (a little bit addled from my father's birthday dinner)* I had a phone call from Ron, one of the directors, saying we'd won Best UK Film! I had to check on the Internet the next morning in case I'd dreamt it... Very exciting. And it also won an award for Best Direction at a different festival the day after. Honestly, Ron and Eleanor (the other director) are so successful it would be unbearable if they weren't so nice.

So I radiated glory and triumph for about two hours yesterday morning before I had to go to rehearsal for King Lear. And had a splendid time forgetting my five lines and being restfully dead. I'm loving rehearsals at the moment.

Oh, and did I mention I sent Mazecheat to my editor? So it's Liberty Hall chez moi at the moment, as I'm not exactly sure what to work on. Slash novel? Historical novel? More blog?

Time for writeordie, I think.


* I had scallops with pancetta and chillies, calf's liver with fig sauce, semi-freddo and coffee. Since you ask.

Garden Macaroons, Rain

I feel like Garden Macaroons, Rain should be a haiku. Or a still life.

I was going to write a long post explaining everything, but you know what? I'm just going to stop here, and let you speculate.

Montpellier mon amour...

I got back from France last night, after having spent three days or so down south in Montpellier. I love the south of France - I haven't been there that often, but when I have it's been wonderful. The sun! The wine! The tapenade! And this time there was the beach, as well... It definitely made a change from getting up at six to go to talk to schoolkids. (Nice as they were, I hasten to add.)

Anyway - we were there because the French Boyfriend's grandparents live there, and were celebrating various birthdays en famille, so we spent lots of time with FB's relations. And actually that was perfectly nice. It made me realise how well my French has come on - a year ago it would've been absolute purgatory. And then there were a few moments round the edges when we (FB and moi) could be alone together, pretending to be properly on holiday.

But now I'm back. And back to work.

Writing? Oh, yes, I used to do that.

I am suddenly, strangely, busy.

This is very unusual for me. Normally I've got a daily routine of writing, going to the gym, cooking, watching films, going to bed... The writing gets done because it's the only thing I really think about.

But in the last few weeks I've actually been doing things. Like, I'm in a production of a play (What The Butler Saw, at Trinity Theatre in Tunbridge Wells) which goes up tonight, so I've been rehearsing for that. And I've been to Wales - did I mention Wales? A week in a lovely little cottage near Fishguard, walking, reading... oh, and we had one of the best meals I've ever had.

(Skip this paragraph if you're not interested in the details of said meal: I had scallops with pancetta and lemon and laverbread butter to start, then venison with a fruity, chocolatey sauce and unlimited vegetables (including but not limited to red cabbage, mashed turnip and a wonderful garlicky potato gratin) and then I had a lemon and apple parfait with Calvados. I left the restaurant about a stone heavier than I went in, and I didn't even care.)

Anyway. Came back from Wales to rehearse, and went on rehearsing while some American friends stayed, and then Marc (my lovely Frenchman) stayed, and then there was the Royal Wedding which of course I wat-- no, wait, that was the day of the snooker semi-final, right? Well, I watched some of it, between frames... And while Marc was here we worked on my CV, as I have a kind of plan to move to Paris, and it would be great to find an actual, proper job there. That felt very (bizarrely) professional - it's so long since I had to do any of that stuff. Incidentally, did you know that French people put photos on their CVs? Even when they're not actors or models? I found that a little bit strange...

And then Marc left again and I went on rehearsing and now it's production week. And this morning I spent doing emails and judging a book-profiling competition (of which more later, in the next instalment).

So, have you noticed the deliberate omission? Yep. This means it's months since I did any writing.

But after the play there will be a long sad desert of not doing anything. And then I will get back to work. Promise.