Climbing to the diving board

It’s that time again… a novel finished; the usual early morning routine of writing and knowing (sort of) what direction I’m heading in finished. When I say finished, I mean finished to a certain point. It’s had a good edit and is being read by a few friends to see what they think after which I’ll read it again with their comments in mind and see if it needs a further overhaul. It’s been an immersive journey, this one, even more than Londonia; a story so convoluted at times that I became utterly lost in my own overgrown maze of continuity, or rather non-continuity but I think the maze has been pruned sufficiently now to allow reader exploration. So far I’ve had one effusive response, very effusive so I’m hoping that’s a good sign.

Writing something as long as a novel is oddly comforting, or at least I find it so; a sort of safe place and alternative zone, a rolling project, a cave ( bed with hot water bottles) to retreat into as the real world becomes increasingly complex and worrying…

So, the diving board. I hang my protective towel on a hook and approach the first steps feeling chilled with apprehension. Half way up I’m distracted with a thought of safety and warmth, a return to the changing room, a café, an easy trawl through social media, papers, distractions but then I’d feel empty, unchallenged and in the end, uncomforted. The top platform is empty and stretches away like a small airstrip. I pace carefully forward and peer over the edge. The water is crisply untouched, unruffled. The blank rectangular blue page in effect. I know ideas will emerge if I swim. Arms raised, body trembling, knees bent I push down, arc and plunge.

This morning’s unknown is slightly more known than I had anticipated. I’d had a time travel story wandering about in my mind for a few days and then recalled a novel I’d started a couple of years back based on a short story called The Couch. I dug it out from the recesses of the laptop, read through and wondered why I’d stopped where I had. Possibly as Londonia had taken over at that point. I need only leap from a shorter hight, a good body of words already completed, my imaginary world waiting.

An extract – The Couch experiences a night in a Tooting Bec garden.

The rain gathers pace, the drops becoming a stream of water. I suppose my stuffing will dry out again but what might happen to the desk’s tropical wood veneer . . . someone is going to be in serious trouble with the brittle designer woman. The someone appears suddenly from the back entrance to the garden with a bundle of green plastic sheets. He unwraps them, throws one over the desk, then the chairs, runs around them winding bright yellow string, swearing loudly. The last one is for me. The grey daylight morphs into dark green shadows. I feel the string bunching up the crunching fabric against my legs. Then he’s away, cursing as he walks. 

The rain now patters on the tarpaulin as I steam gently. The night encroaches and animals claim the garden. I hear their small movements on the gravel, feel fur against my wood. Cats snarl at each other; an owl makes its echoing call, another responding from some distant garden. There are other presences out here, people who have claimed this patch of London for themselves over time, odd snatches of conversation warped by rain and time. I don’t fear ghosts. There were many in the chateau even though the various owners invited priests and other psychic cleaners in to oust them. I doze under the plastic lulled by the constant faint drumming of the raindrops.

Publishers Weekly review of LONDONIA

Rather a delay in reviewing due to Covid confusion but worth waiting for.

 

British author Hardy debuts with a dystopian yet enchanting novel set in the early 2070s, a period some three decades after the Final Curtain, a cataclysmic occurrence whose exact nature is never revealed.

The elite live in the Cincture, an area that corresponds to central London, which is now contained within walls of ‘shining coopery metal’. The citizens of the sprawling area outside the walls called Londonia muddle along by sharing what little they possess and bartering.

Hoxton, a beautiful woman in her 30s, wakes up one morning in Londonia with no memory of what went before. She is soon befriended by Jarvis a wily old soul, who immediately reckons that she would make an excellent Finder: someone who barters for goods and seeks out items that clients want, such as spectacles or an ‘Ikea cabinet, circa 2025.’

During a visit to the Cincture on business, Hoxton discovers she has a son, and her search to find him and understand her past begins. The author does a fine job portraying her Dickensian characters. Hardy’s almost hopeful view of the world’s inevitably chaotic future lifts this entertaining and well-told tale.

Agent: Sandra Sawicka, Marjacq Scripts (U.K). (July)

Londonia is available from Tartarus Press/Amazon/Bookshops as a magnificent hardback or in Kindle format.

 

Book Launch in pre-dystopian (just?) times.

 

Slight cheat as this is a mostly copied post from my other blog – writing and other stuff but I’ve been meaning to post on here for a couple of months and have failed due to house-selling and moving… The book launch of LONDONIA took place in The Shoreditch Treehouse, in Shoreditch (Sureditch 2072 spelling) on March the 13th 2020, JUST in time before everything we perceived as normal changed dramatically. Reading this now, it seems years, not a few months ago but I’m eternally glad that we did manage to applaud the book’s emergence with an unforgettable evening. Thanks, my dear Brother and partner, Sophie, and friend Terry for all the amazing catering, Mark for the incredible Londonia soundtrack, Sid, Ruth and Mark for the live music (The Gorecy potatoes as featured in the story) to Tartarus Press, and everyone who braved the streets and public transport to turn up and celebrate with us.

Back to just after the event…

Londonia is a dystopian tale, albeit a relatively cheery one, but I didn’t expect to be shoving it off from its moorings in quite such an extraordinary moment in time.

Having planned the event for many weeks the thought of the whole thing being called off was depressing to say the least – and I know thousands of other folks are in a similar and worse situation with far bigger events to worry about. Anyway, we did it – just in time, on Friday the 13th of March 2020.

Wednesday.

Arrived early evening in London and headed for our favourite home-from-home cheapy hotel, St Athans, in Bloomsbury. Visited the local Indian restaurant for a plate of veg curry, returned and slept soundly.

Thursday.

Mad day of trawling Oxfam shops for a selection of plates, mugs, glasses etc to ‘prop’ the food section of the venue. (As the book is largely concerned with the heroine’s profession of Finder and super scavenger, I felt an eclectic mix of old crockery would be appropriate). Also found a suitable recycled outfit for me, including a goodly hat from a clothes jumble emporium in Covent Garden, red stiletto boots from Goodge street Oxfam and a five quid Aquascutam jacket to which I added a large embroidered bird motif – added later at three o’clock in the morning when I couldn’t sleep…

Took it all back to the hotel, replied to about fifty emails all concerning whether the launch was going ahead – some people being nervous, most encouraging me to do it. The venue staff were fine, my brother doing the food was fine, nearly everyone was coming, so I stopped worrying and continued writing lists.

Supper in bizarre 70s time-warp Italian restaurant on Southampton Row, where there were many suited men with tattooed bald heads, and appalling music. The food was good – after I sent it back for being undercooked.

Friday.

I didn’t sleep apart from about two hours during which my dreams were more chaotic than usual, so was feeling somewhat dazed. Had breakfast in a caf round the corner and earwigged lots of conversations about The VIRUS, one including the phrase: ‘so does pasta and bog roll kill the virus then? Har-har-har-har…’

Went and queued up outside Waitrose along with many people peering through the glass doors to see if bog rolls had been re-stocked. Eight o’clock, the doors opened and their was a gentle, middle-class stampede for the afore-mentioned items. I was after unusual beers that I could soak the labels off and use for my own ‘Stripy Horse Drinking-House beers’ plus some wine box wine that could be bastardised and put into demijohns and a few cakes to alter. Paid scary bill and left it all to be collected later.

Went back to bed for a bit and stared at the ceiling. Got up and met our lovely relatives who were going to help with the event – Nick having agreed to be MC. Indian resto lunch, collected all the china, food etc and went to the venue. Gill and I went to buy a vast quantity of Indian sweets (barfi) and got lost; cab back and three hours of really mad prep. All exhausted as the venue is up three flights of stairs – but well worth it. Link below.

 

Londonia is a dystopian tale, albeit a relatively cheery one, but I didn’t expect to be shoving it off from its moorings in quite such an extraordinary moment in time.

Having planned the event for many weeks the thought of the whole thing being called off was depressing to say the least – and I know thousands of other folks are in a similar and worse situation with far bigger events to worry about. Anyway, we did it – just in time, on Friday the 13th of March 2020.

Wednesday.

Arrived early evening in London and headed for our favourite home-from-home cheapy hotel, St Athans, in Bloomsbury. Visited the local Indian restaurant for a plate of veg curry, returned and slept soundly.

Thursday.

Mad day of trawling Oxfam shops for a selection of plates, mugs, glasses etc to ‘prop’ the food section of the venue. (As the book is largely concerned with the heroine’s profession of Finder and super scavenger, I felt an eclectic mix of old crockery would be appropriate). Also found a suitable recycled outfit for me, including a goodly hat from a clothes jumble emporium in Covent Garden, red stiletto boots from Goodge street Oxfam and a five quid Aquascutam jacket to which I added a large embroidered bird motif – added later at three o’clock in the morning when I couldn’t sleep…

Took it all back to the hotel, replied to about fifty emails all concerning whether the launch was going ahead – some people being nervous, most encouraging me to do it. The venue staff were fine, my brother doing the food was fine, nearly everyone was coming, so I stopped worrying and continued writing lists.

Supper in bizarre 70s time-warp Italian restaurant on Southampton Row, where there were many suited men with tattooed bald heads, and appalling music. The food was good – after I sent it back for being undercooked.

Friday.

I didn’t sleep apart from about two hours during which my dreams were more chaotic than usual, so was feeling somewhat dazed. Had breakfast in a caf round the corner and earwigged lots of conversations about The VIRUS, one including the phrase: ‘so does pasta and bog roll kill the virus then? Har-har-har-har…’

Went and queued up outside Waitrose along with many people peering through the glass doors to see if bog rolls had been re-stocked. Eight o’clock, the doors opened and their was a gentle, middle-class stampede for the afore-mentioned items. I was after unusual beers that I could soak the labels off and use for my own ‘Stripy Horse Drinking-House beers’ plus some wine box wine that could be bastardised and put into demijohns and a few cakes to alter. Paid scary bill and left it all to be collected later.

Went back to bed for a bit and stared at the ceiling. Got up and met our lovely relatives who were going to help with the event – Nick having agreed to be MC. Indian resto lunch, collected all the china, food etc and went to the venue. Gill and I went to buy a vast quantity of Indian sweets (barfi) and got lost; cab back and three hours of really mad prep. All exhausted as the venue is up three flights of stairs – but well worth it. Link below.

So. The soiree.

                      

                                         The wonderful Shoreditch Treehouse

the Oxfam china

food table and Sid from ‘The Gorecy Potatoes’

Me making ‘gnole’ labels

Me and my bro – Adrian who did all the magnificent food, with the help of Sophie and Terry

   

                                           Rosalie, Ray (publishers) and me

Nick the MC – questions and answers

                                              Me, sister in law, Katherine, and Nick

                                                                   book signing

Mark playing his ‘Londonia Suite’ at the close of the evening

Wonderful in every way. Ray and Rosalie from Tartarus – my publishers, appeared with incredibly heavy boxes of books (it is a big tome); Nick was brilliant as MC; his and Gill’s son, Charlie wonderful as Bert-the Swagger in the introduction; my brother and team surpassed themselves with the food; intrepid and lovely friends, family, agent and new acquaintances all appeared, and Mark (husband) arrived hot-foot from the airport only a little late.

Music was provided brilliantly by Mark, Sid and Ruth – who appear in the book as the Gorecy (hot in Polish) potatoes.

I answered Nick’s questions, read three sections of the book, and, yes, even though I am British, totally enjoyed being the centre of attention for an evening; to mark this personally important moment in time when a long-standing project finally came to fruition.

After Mark had played his ‘Londonia suite’ on the venue’s magnificent Steinway, people gradually left and a mad clear up followed. Stood yawning waiting for a cab outside and back to the hotel where one of the lovely staff suggested in his slow, mesmerising Russian accent: ‘I get you nice cup of tea?’

Which he did and it was nice. Very.

Saturday.

Good sleep but not enough.

Breakfast at the Bloomsbury coffee-house downstairs, then a long walk around Regents Park, Camden, and Euston to meet friend Claire for the Diwana Bel Poori House (wonderful vegetarian buffet) experience.

Nap, and met more friends for tea in Museum Street after which I gazed at my book in the window of Atlantis Bookshop…. Wow. Author happiness indeed. Signed books and then carried on to my favourite street in London – Cecil Court, where sits the very dangerous Storey’s antique map shop. Had a browse, resisted buying a huge 1765 map of London, had a good chat with the owners then called in to Watkins and Goldsboro books to go on about my book – which they put up with charmingly.

  

Covent garden was scarily business as usual mass eating, drinking, self-admiration, shopping… Walked swiftly back to the hotel and out to very quiet favourite Italian restaurant called Montdello in Goodge Street which has all its 70s decoration and original owners firmly in place, praise be! Hotel. Bed.

Sunday.

Taxi to Liverpool St Station, Train to Stansted (we have given up flying but this was the only option for this occasion). Airport was similar to Covent Garden in its shopping frenzy-ness. We didn’t partake of shop, eat and relax as we were late. Boarded three quarter-empty plane and spent most of the time gazing down at all the thousands of tiny villages and towns, wondering about each household’s reaction to the eerie and rapidly changing virus advice unfolding via the various governments media teams.

Home. Dogs were fine, our lovely dog-sitter, Amy, fine; chickens, fine . . . all the madness and planning finished and end result very much enjoyed.

I’m writing this on Tuesday, back in my writing studio (bed with hot water bottles). It’s Mark’s birthday and we’ve just eaten a very fine roast lunch. Strange times, and I think I will stop at this point and make a new blog book. Feels like a fitting time. If the dystopian scenario in my novel were to come to pass . . . blog safe on paper and within cardboard . . . well, seems like a good idea.

Toodle-oo.

Book can be ordered on link below, or from most bookshops/Amazon, etc.

http://tartaruspress.com/hardy%2C-kate-a-londonia.html?LMCL=I773tb

                                               A quieter London – canal near Camden

Milestones and impulses

I’ve had a reasonable amount of them: Certificate for best swimmer in my junior school, first boyfriend (oaf) degree, first real job with scary responsibility, getting married, producing an infant, kids book publishing deal, moving to France, finding an agent for my novel, finding a publisher, and the final book arriving on a memorable day: first February 2020.

This milestone was a particularly vivid one, partly as it was marked by the mother-ship (UK) deciding (or some of its inhabitants deciding) to become a small leaky boat de-moored from the safety of the European landmass, and partly as the book was so extraordinary.  I knew it would be beautiful as I had seen the artwork, but . . . well, suffice to say I spent most of the day getting on with stuff but just sidling up to the stack of books just to check they were really there, and that my name was indeed printed on them.

And impulses.

A friend asked me the other day about what inspires or drives me to write in a particular genre. An interesting question and one that I never considered when I started writing, or even now. I just write about things that seem important to me. I can’t imagine setting out to write a crime story, or a historical romance, and I feel that only when being true to yourself can the work be satisfying to push uphill, follow around winding paths or wherever it takes you.

A couple of times when faced with rejection I have thought: Okay. What would work . . . Hm, Vampire Western ? interplanetary detective agency? but in the end my genre seems to be human relationships within a dystopian/speculative/futurist setting; often London as it’s where I feel fictionally most comfortable. I suppose my concerns lie with where are we heading, and what can we do about it? I do listen to a great deal of collapsology podcasts, along with videos on food production, sustainable living, recycling, alternative architecture, possible future societies, etc, and have always been interested in such subjects. It’s a challenging time to be alive in, but one where we still have choices we might take now to avert whichever apocalyptic scenario is likely to occur first. Cheery stuff . . . So, my genre . . . Dyst-hopia. Yes, that sounds about right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Landed safely with only a few bruises

So . . . the moment arrived, the one I had let wander about in my head a few hundred times: my novel, Londonia, listed on a real PUBLISHER’S site. The publisher being Tartarus, producer of ‘strange literary fiction’ with an impressive catalogue of titles all encased in their signature cream jacketed hardbacks . . . Oo, that’s a nice thing to read out loud: cream-jacketed hardbacks.

It’s been a long journey from initial idea to finished tome with valuable input from so many readers, and several re-writes, but I think that’s what it’s about – learning on the job, so to speak. I was listening to Will Self speaking about his work at Politics and Prose bookshop earlier and he said something along the lines of ‘creative writing’ courses being a load of bollocks and that all you need is to live and read a lot. I think he’s probably right (to a certain extent) in that you have to be in it for the long-haul and accept there is no magic injection of inspiration and skill. Storing up life experience, observing and listening seem to be the tools, the mistakes one’s chance to do better. My knowledge of grammar was zilch at the outset, and I’m still not sure about commas after but, and many other things. I suspect that grammar is like paint: you have to learn the basics about colour but then spend a Hell of a long time getting splashed, mixing bit all up and finding your own style.

There’s still uncertainty of course – will people buy the book? I hope so; will the sequel see the light outside of my USB key? that would be great (,) but I’m thrilled to have reached this point. Really thrilled.

Londonia can be pre-ordered from Tartarus – link below, and a sample chapter is available on their site.

Link to my book at Tartarus Press

The book cover from a painting by Karl Fitzgerald

Moments in time

Yesterday I received my contract with Tartarus Press for my novel.

Some way to go yet: editing, etc, but I’m thrilled.

So . . . all those years of ideas, tentative attempts, previous try-out novels, and learning . . . well, how to write really – my North London Comp school education didn’t really furnish me with any actual skills in that department.

Over the years I’ve come to view grammar and words rather like paint. You can learn the theory of how to apply it to canvas or wood but it’s through experimenting for hundreds of hours that you begin to see how it works; how it can be smeared, scuffed, diluted, scratched, etc, to form your own style.

The other thing I have learned in long-distance scribing (novels) is the importance of writing everyday. Even if it’s just a couple of hundred words. Keeping the idea moving along, keeping the characters in your mind, and always leave a little thread of plot dangling for the next time you approach the A4/notebook or computer . . .

 

Mapco/ David Hale image of the Borough of Southwark – 1775. St Leonard’s Church near the centre of the map. St Leonard’s is the pivotal building in the book (although the story is set in 2072) Mind, it could look rather like this map again . . .

 

Nearly four months on

Long time no post.

A tricky few months with life-stuff swamping most creative activity but yesterday while sighing over another other small problem that had arisen, an email plopped into my inbox which pushed all frettings aside. My lovely agent has found a home for my novel. Details still sketchy and a few days to wait to finalise but, Yow, what a difference a few words can make. All the years of writing, editing, culling piles of manuscripts, agent-hunting, receiving rejection letters, starting afresh, crying, raging and laughing are all totally worth it.

One project that has been a constant over these afore-mentioned months has been getting my other blog – Writing and other stuff – (nearly ten years worth) into BOOKS. Yes, real hardback books . . . A surprisingly easy process – half an hour or so (after all the weeks of editing) and the Blog2Print site showed me a screen mock-up to flip through.

Wondering if the Real Thing might be a slight disappointment, I was utterly delighted with the three beautiful volumes that appeared within a couple of weeks – they had said within a month – even more impressive. Husband Mark commented it was a bit like ‘This is Your Life’ and it is somewhat, but in this age of us no longer making up photo albums, as we did before the digital age, they are a wonderful, and will be, a treasured documentation of our family, dogs, garden, projects and our home.

 

The small and leaky boat of indecision

I seem to have climbed into it this morning and shoved myself off from the mooring without oars.

That’s what happens – to me anyway, if I don’t write for a few days.

It’s been a long and enjoyable summer with our son being at home from art college; days concerned with running our small bed and breakfast, socialising with family and friends, but always writing, every day. First thing.

I’ve just taken the lad back to college, including a road trip of a few days so the laptop and notebooks got rather abandoned. Now back at home, the other half is back at work and suddenly everything feels very large, empty and a little worrying, with winter jobs looming – stacking wood, organising chimney sweeps, fixing broken guttering, etc etc. I know what I have to do. Start writing again and immerse myself in the next project. My on-going novel is with my agent and I have a choice of which way to go next – a follow up? It’s written but as the main book has gone through so many changes, the back half is now not relevant. I’ve started re-jigging it but . . .possibly best to wait and see what happens with the first one . . .

On a long hike yesterday, Mark (afore-mentioned other half) suggested I should start something new. I think he’s probably right. There is a story that’s been hovering around my mind for some months, based on a short I wrote called, The Panto-horse End. Like all my tales it will have links to the other books so I’ll feel safe in this new world ready to be created.

Just have to jump into the sea and tow the boat back to land. Starting this afternoon.

Nothing to do with oarless, leaky boats but I just had to post this beautiful image

Usefulness of Google

While trawling for a cover picture of my back-catalogue kids’ book, Alfi Beasti Don’t Eat That! I found this delightful photo of someone reading to their appreciative offspring. An image like this makes all the process of writing, illustrating, editing, endless meetings, and waiting totally worthwhile.

Thank you, ‘Red Rose Mummy’, for posting that image.

 

16th August 2018

A memorable day for me as I signed and sent off a contract agreeing to be represented by Sandra Sawicka at Marjacq Scripts in London.

Wheeeeeeeeeee!

After a silence and an occasional tentative email prod from me over the last few months, Sandra wrote to me a few days ago saying she would love to take me on and work with me on my novel. There’s still quite a way to go with editing, discussing and finally tidying before the book can be sent out to prospective publishers, but this feels like a massive step forwards.

I was struck by Sandra’s enthusiasm for my work when she first asked me to send her the whole MS, compared to the other replies I received back regarding initial chapters. I had a feeling that she would be the right champion for it, even though at that stage there were many changes to work on for her to truly consider the book.

So, what have I learnt from the process of trying to find someone to take me on, and what could I relay to anyone else involved in this often spirit-crushing task?

Number one – you have to be able to bin large chunks of script that you may have felt perfectly happy with, and feel able to take a lot of constructive criticism from someone who knows a lot more than you do about how the industry works. Of, course this may not be the same for everyone but I feel I am continually learning by taking on big edits and re-writes, and cannot imagine the process ever being very different.

Number two – Hone and hone and hone the letters and synopsis, synopsises? synopi? to be sent out. I cringe now when I look at my early attempts. – far too much waffle about my past, typos, badly-summed up plots, etc , etc . . . it’s worth taking the time and it can become enjoyable (!). A few posts back when I was attempting to approach agents with an earlier version I turned the whole process into a sort of art-performance piece, complete with dropping off hand-inked, tea-dipped letters off to my chosen ‘prey’ before sending the chapters out. It was an interesting exercise but failed utterly – one response being ‘I don’t know why you authors go to all this trouble and expense. We don’t appreciate it’.

Number three. Never give up – if you feel writing defines who you are and what you want to be.

So, his morning, I will slip my agent-contacting book away on a shelf, clear up my writing corner and start editing with a feeling that my efforts have been validated – officially. Feels . . . great.