Authors Electric

November. We’ve just had two weeks in the North Lake District, where the autumn colours were glorious and the weather was sunny apart from a couple of squally days.One morning we woke to see the first snow on the top of Blencathra. I managed to see something I’ve long wanted – the falls at Lodore. Because of all the rain, they were thundering down in grand style, but that meant that the ‘path’ up to them was treacherous, so after a gallant but failed attempt to climb up closer, we saw them from a viewpoint by the hotel, but only the lower stretch was visible.   The falls are the subject of a poem by Southey, not the best poet laureate we’ve ever had, but I like this bit of it:  Dividing and gliding and sliding,  And falling and brawling and sprawling,  And driving and riving and striving,  And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,  And sounding and bounding and rounding,  And bubbling and troubling and doubling,  And grumbling ...

I booked a New Year’s hotel break for myself and my husband in the Lake District, somewhere I’d never been before. I didn’t realise I’d chosen a hotel that caters mainly for the partially-sighted, and it was a revelation. The staff were the nicest, most caring people I have ever met, without exception, and the building, although elderly, was designed with the blind in mind. The notices were all in Braille, as well as conventional script, and the paths outside all had handrails. There were guide dogs galore, the best-behaved dogs you will ever see, who frequently knew one another but never let anything distract them when they were at work. The exception, I was told, was when people stayed for Christmas, and the dogs had their own presents which arrived in a sack that they instantly recognised. They were allowed to go mad for half an hour, after which they all went straight back on duty. I was surprised by the upbeat atmosphere – and boy, did everyone know how to party when it came ...

Actually, the real reason the postman never visits is  because we ate him. Very nice he was too. Although we passed on the Chianti. And the fava beans. And here's another thing - where's my post gone? I love my computer, I really do. It makes writing books and articles so much quicker and easier - no more cutting out sections of text and taping them together again, no more blotty scribblings in margins never quite wide enough, and no more carbon paper, usually inserted the wrong way round and only discovered at the end of the page. My partner once gave me a present of a box of Sellotape, scissors, Pritt Stick and Tipp-Ex: he meant it as a joke, but I got good use out of it. But my computer and the internet has robbed me of my post- most of it nowadays seems to arrive via my email inbox. Gone is the pleasure of receiving letters: proper letters, not just brief communiques usually written in haste. Oh, email has its place - but as brief ...

With my article writing hat on, this month I've written a piece on Beatrix Potter, seeing as 2016 marks the 150 th anniversary of her birth. Doing the research it surprised me to discover that she was an indie author herself at the start of her writing career – apologies if everyone except me knew this already!! But for those of you who don't know her story, Beatrix loved wildlife and exploring the countryside and made pets out of all kinds of wild creatures such as rabbits, frogs, mice and the like. These little animals and birds were the inspiration for her stories in later life along with farm animals when Beatrix took up sheep farming in the Lake District. In 1893, Beatrix was on holiday in Eastwood, Dunkeld when she decided to write a letter to Noel Moore who was the five year old son of a former nanny, who was poorly. She wrote: “ My dear Noel, I don’t know what to write to you, so I shall tell you a story about four little rabbits… That let...

It's not looking good for your latest submission... OW. It hurts. Someone, some stupid, bigoted, illiterate, stuck-up barsteward, has rejected your writing. HOW VERY DARE THEY! Quick, get onto facebook, get some lurve from fellow-writers who will understand your agony. ‘Just had a rejection from ‘Crappy Ezine’, so upset! Doubting my entire life’s work. About to set fire to my pile of typescripts. ☹’ Friends zoom in with verbal chicken soup for your infected soul. ‘Ignore them, they are jealous of your genius!’ ‘Never heard of it!’ ‘Editor probs only publishes their mates! Sod them!’ ‘I think you’re brilliant, strong, talented, you don’t need them!’ All hoping you'll not have to say the same to them. Yeah, right.  Yes it does hurt to have the outpourings of your inner being, carefully crafted into art by hours of self-scarification, sent back, regardless of how many famous authors we are told were also rejected numerous times . In fact it’s harder to be rejected now ...