A Woman Walks Into A Post Office

She’s carrying a package. The package is big enough to warrant using both hands, but she manages with just one, and an awkward elbow. Her other hand is hooked between a gaping satchel, a swollen purse and the trailing strings of her I-pod.

Joining the queue, she wonders whether she’ll be late for work. She isn’t as anxious as she might be; she’s frequently late for things. The package in her hands, for example, ought to have been sent three weeks ago. She’s tried very hard not to worry about that either. Her arm aches.

The queue is mostly made up of much older, murmuring women, some of whom are wearing hats. They shuffle past penny sweets and chocolate bars, row after row of glimmering foil.

The whole post office feels like it has been sent to the woman directly from her childhood. As does the brown paper of her parcel. She dips her face when the queue moves on. Such a satisfying smell.

The package is so neatly wrapped too. And painstakingly labelled. Her handwriting doesn’t slant or wobble or shrink away. There are no fingerprints smearing those hospital-corners, no stray hairs caught, incriminating, beneath the tape. She has taken such care; it’s not like her.

She’s the kind of woman who sheds and drops and forgets things, a woman who doesn’t ever quite manage to speak up when she should, who blurts the wrong words when she shouldn’t. And she’s always late. When she finally reaches the counter and the parcel is taken from her, as if it’s nothing, she remembers these facts about herself. She remembers them acutely.

Shit, she thinks, feeling the empty air throb between her empty hands. What have I done?

But in the next moment she’s dropped to her knees, she’s laughing and apologising. Scrabbling for silver as the coins go raining from her purse.

My Current Draft ...

of The Lives of Ghosts is now COMPLETE


(I think)

(I hope)

yay?

On Rewriting*

Random thoughts along the way -

I love you words

I hate you words

But where’s the time?

Where’s the coffee?

Have I forgotten to get my characters dressed (again)?

Am I late picking my daughter up from school (again)?

Don’t drink that wine …

Drink the wine!

Walk and think and walk and walk

This novel is amazing

This novel’s a disaster.

This novel. This novel. This novel. This novel. This novel. This novel. This novel. This novel. This novel. This novel. This novel. This novel. This novel.

This novel.






*I’m aware I may be flogging the whole ‘On Writing’ title variations. But currently there are other words to think about, so I’ll just blame Stephen King. In general.

New Podcast! Podcast News!

Back in January, I was invited to take part in an interview and reading for Write Lion, the brilliant literature division of Nottingham's phenomenal cultural guide, Left Lion.

In conversation with the incredibly insightful and patient James Walker, I'm in between two completely fascinating Proper Writers, Paul Reaney ('Shoot'! 'Family Guy'! '24'!) and Rod Madocks ('No Way to Say Goodbye')

The podcast is now available right here.

(apologies for any ums and errs and giggling involved. I could blame it on the fact the interview took place on the Monday after the weekend of both The Dawning's release and my birthday and I may have been feeling a little, um, sketchy - except that it might feel familiar if you've ever heard me read before ...)

Bookmunch!

The Dawning seems to have taken over the brilliant Bookmunch site this morning

(yippee!!)

I'm honoured to have been interviewed by the incredibly talented Annie Clarkson - and what a challenging and enjoyable interview it was too. She really made me think about my writing

Annie also posted a very kind review

Thank you tons Annie
Thank you Bookmunch

Vocal Books Tour

Attention East Midlanders!

My wonderful publisher, Weathervane Press, have just launched an exciting initiative, the Vocal Books Tour, a scheme designed to bring writers and readers in the East Midlands together.

Here’s how Weathervane Press describe it –

Vocal Books Tour from Weathervane Live.

Weathervane Live, a group of five Nottingham based authors whose dynamic character-driven novels have all been published by Weathervane Press in the last twelve months, feel it is time to ‘make some noise’ and get out on the road.

If you run or belong to a library group, book club or literary cluster of any description and would like a couple of us to read from and talk about our work at one of your meetings, please email us at:
mail@weathervanepress.co.uk.

So, if you're interested or would like further information, please don't hesitate to get in touch.

I think it's going to be fun (-:

While Not Writing …

I thought I'd share some of the novels I’ve enjoyed reading recently. A couple were written by very talented local authors, but really there’s no theme or reason to this selection (I generally like to read randomly), aside from the fact that these five are especially great and they happened to be part of what I've been up to while Not Writing.


Before The Earthquake by Maria Allen
Breathtakingly evocative and hugely enjoyable, 'Before the Earthquake' takes place in rural Italy at the turn of the century and follows 15 year old Concetta's search for lost memories - her emotional journey is as finely wrought as the book’s unique setting. A stunning debut.


Attention Deficit by Nigel Pickard
By turns, funny, heart-wrenching and hard-hitting. A tale of life and education told in parallel through the compelling and distinctive voices of incorrigible teacher, Harry, and disruptive pupil, Lewis, as they each stumble towards crisis. I was swept along. A completely cracking read.


After You’d Gone by Maggie O'Farrell
This novel was recommended to me during a discussion about writing flashbacks. Somehow I’d never read O’Farrell before and I’m very pleased I finally have. This story expertly weaves together different threads and her work generally seems to be all about secrets (which is perhaps my very favourite subject too). I’ll definitely be catching up with more.


Little Bird of Heaven by Joyce Carol Oates
I love Joyce Carol Oates. I love her unstoppable energy and her courage. I love her true and twisted vision of how we are and how we might be, and the strange, dark, rhythmic poetry of her prose. Basically, I just love her.


Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
What can I say this book that hasn’t already been said? Quite frankly, nothing. Except that for me, it's perhaps even better second time round (I first read it 20 years ago – 20!!! How did that even happen?)

I’ve also been reading (and chatting about) my own novel too. This month, ‘The Dawning’ was featured at a lovely evening reading event at the gorgeous and truly pioneering independent bookshop, The Bookcase, in Lowdham and also at the Independent Press Fair at De Montfort University. (Thank you The Bookcase for lovely wine and nibbles and lovely people. Thank you States of Independence for such an incredibly inspiring day).


P.S. You may be relieved, or completely un-bothered, to hear that I’ve now allowed myself to start (re)writing again. It’s driving me crazy. I’m loving it. Thus the usual insane balance of my universe has been restored.

On Not Writing

I’ve been trying not to write anything creative lately. I’ve gone two weeks already, I'm hoping for three. But I’m not very good at it. (I’m often not very good at writing either, but that’s a whole other post).

I’m attempting to gain some space so that when I return to take another long, hard look over the latest draft of my third novel, The Lives of Ghosts, I’ll be more likely to see it as a reader might. That’s the idea anyway.

In the meantime, I’m not letting myself anywhere near brand-spanking-new novel 4 either (despite its muttering) and I’m not even allowed to approach that dusty file of half-baked, half-finished short stories either.

There have been lots of fabulous happenings to keep me busy*, but mostly I’ve been trying to focus on just reading.

And I love reading. It's the most important thing - without reading, why would I write? And many of the books I’ve been reading have been brilliant*. But at the moment, it’s not enough. I’m still waking early, but instead of stumbling, zombie-style, for the coffee pot and a notebook or my laptop, I’m simply lying there, amidst the flotsam, thinking strange things or the same things, over and over again, around and back.

I miss my secret dark mornings twitching with words (even when the words were wrong). And I miss that feeling of dropping right off the edge, into a story. Those melting moments when the story becomes more real than anything else. I’m also even missing fiddling with a single sentence for twenty minutes before deleting it altogether in a huff.

I may have already cheated a little too. My brief notes scribbled on the bus (quick - while I remember!) sort of . . .grew. As did a letter to an old friend until it wasn’t really anything about us anymore.

And I seem to be blogging (/blithering) more than usual too*. Apologies for that.

My husband thinks that writing provides an outlet for me, especially for any weirdness, or sadness. He reckons it’s what keeps me (relatively) sane. Right now, he’d better watch out in case he’s right.



*details to follow in yet another post – I bet you can’t wait!

Nottingham Evening Post Review

And another one (!) this time in today's Evening Post -

Page-turner set in the Peak District

The Dawning, Megan Taylor, Weathervane Press, £7.99

On a momentous New Year's Eve amidst the backdrop of the Peak District, the seemingly ideal Haywood family unravels in this tense second novel by Nottingham author Megan Taylor. The characters are all intelligently formed, with mum Stella the stand-out personality. And whilst some scenes are uncomfortable to read, there is a deliciously realistic atmosphere plus some clever plot devices.

- Oonagh Robinson

It's brilliant to see it in the paper (- and with Rose Tremain reviewed next door!)

A lucky week this week, for sure (-:

Vulpes Libris Review

The truly marvellous booksite Vulpes Libris features a review of The Dawning today. Here's a glimpse -

'Taylor writes like a modern D H Lawrence. The quality of her rich and poetic prose wraps you round like a fur coat on a winter’s night . . . read slowly to savour it.'

- Wow!

Enormous thanks to the incredibly talented, indomitable and very generous Anne Brooke. What a wonderful surprise this was to wake up to :-D

States of Independence - This Saturday, 20th March!

INDEPENDENT PRESS DAY

Clephan Building, De Montfort University, Oxford Street, Leicester

10.30am – 4.30pm, Saturday 20th March.

Stalls from dozens of independent publishers.
Workshops, readings and book launches.
Independent presses from across the region (and some from around the country) will be on site, together with many regional writers whose work is published by large and small independent publishers. Join us for an hour or two or the whole day.

Open to all and free of charge.

How can you resist?

A brilliant, buzzy event, with bucket-loads of inspiration and imagination for every kind of book lover. There will be poetry and crime fiction, novel and magazine launches, industry insights, short stories and so much more ...
And I'll be reading in the afternoon too (but please don't let that put you off - in fact, come and say hello)

For further information visit http://www.statesofindependence.co.uk/

Cheers to you Nottingham!

When we decided to move for my partner’s job almost seven years ago, I wasn’t even quite sure where Nottingham was (I know - I’m sorry!). I’d lived in South London all my life; I was surrounded by family and old friends. My son was still at infant school, my daughter still in nappies. Things were safe and happy, if in a bit of a skint, day-to-day bumbling-along, unthinking kind of way.

Moving away with hardly any money and no guarantees and small children to re-settle wasn’t easy, but I soon started to discover brilliant Nottingham things (wonderful countryside nearby, some excellent eating, music, cracking cocktails, lovely people …). And I had no idea that books would become such a part of my life here too.

Before I moved to Nottingham, I wasn’t published. Although I’d always loved writing and becoming an author was a long-term daydream, I had never considered studying creative writing and I rarely shared my stories. Firstly, living in Nottingham gave me the space to start taking my writing more seriously. And later on, it offered me support.

Nottingham Writers’ Studio has been inspirational, presenting many opportunities, along with introductions to a varied and vibrant range of writing people from poets to journalists, playwrights to publishers (including my wonderful second publisher, Weathervane Press). There really is an awful lot of fabulous writing business going on in this town. And the fiction produced here is amazing.

I’ve just finished reading Maria Allen’s hugely enjoyable and evocative debut Before the Earthquake. Just before that, I was blown away by Jon McGregor’s third masterpiece, Even the Dogs - and before that, I was enormously moved by Frances Thimann’s haunting collection Cello and Other Stories. Over the next month, I’m looking forward to reading Nigel Pickard’s Attention Deficit and Roberta Dewa’s Holding Stones. And last Saturday, while attending the East Midlands Writing Industries Conference, the supremely talented Nicola Monaghan (acclaimed author of The Killing Jar, Starfishing and The Okinawa Dragon) came over to ask me to sign her copy of The Dawning! I already knew how lovely and supportive Nicola was from reading with her last year – nonetheless, I was dead chuffed. And very pleased, and very grateful, to be writing in Nottingham too.

Fiona Reviews!

Fresh from the success of her brilliant Blogsplash, the talented and lovely Fiona Robyn has nonetheless taken the time to read and review 'The Dawning'

http://www.plantingwords.com/2010/03/dawning-by-megan-taylor.html

Thank you Fiona!!

Thaw Blogsplash

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.

Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.

*

These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.

The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.

I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.

So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?

Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat; books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.

Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about; princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.

I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say; ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for’, before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.

Continue reading tomorrow here...

Or buy the complete novel right now, right here (-:

I will Never, Ever Cease to feel Excited at the Sight of My Book on a Shop Shelf

I went into Waterstones in Nottingham yesterday, and there it was.

Small, but perfectly formed.

I will never, ever cease to feel excited at the sight of my book on a shop shelf. It's what I used to dream about when I was little. It's what I frequently still dream about now that I'm big.

I'm very, very, very, very, very, very happy.

(now somebody just has to buy it, so that they'll order in some more ...)

3 More Brilliant Book Things

1.
A very kind review of 'The Dawning' at the unique and fabulous Literary to Sensory blog site

2.
An invitation to read and chat about 'The Dawning' at the amazing Independent Press Day at De Montfort University, Saturday 2oth March.
(There will be so much buzzy independent stuff going down here - stalls, launches, talks - and it's all free and open to EVERYONE. You should really come along)

3. An interview with the esteemed Ms Shanta Everington over at the innovative, incredible View From Here
just a little bit EXCITED!!!

Feel the Fear – And Bumble Recklessly Onwards Nonetheless

It’s brilliant being published – but it’s also a little bit scary. Don’t get me wrong - every nanosecond of that scariness is more than worth it, but (if you’re a bit of a blundering scatter-head like me) it can also be sort of . . . challenging.

For a long time, reading my work before an audience made me milky-kneed. It’s not quite so difficult anymore. I’ll never be a performer, but now that I’ve finally understood that it’s about connecting with people rather than scrutinising my own unliterary accent, or my wobbly tone, or my hair, or my lipstick (or whatever) it’s definitely easier (and sometimes I actually, secretly, rather like it).

But then this week, I was invited to my local BBC Radio station to talk about ‘The Dawning’. My publisher happened to meet John Holmes, and then happened to foist (I’m sure in a very friendly way) a copy of my book on him. John liked it, and invited me on his show. I was completely honoured. And utterly terrified.

But John was lovely. And so were so many supportive friends in the nervy run-up.

I gabbled – it passed in a blur. And you can Listen Again here for the next seven days (apparently I’m on 47 minutes in), if you should so wish. I’m not sure if I will, but you can because I’m feeling brave. And hugely grateful (I really can’t tell you how much that support has meant). And very, very lucky.

Thaw

"I feel strange after writing today. Like I have a blackbird in my stomach."
(p21, 'Thaw' by Fiona Robyn)

A vivid and delicious lyricism runs throughout Fiona Robyn’s compassionate and compelling third novel, ‘Thaw’.

‘Thaw’ tells the story of thirty-two year old Ruth, who ‘doesn’t know if she wants to be thirty-three’. Her life is meticulously ordered, her relationships painstakingly detached – her loneliness devastating. ‘Thaw’ is Ruth’s journal, covering three months, as she decides whether or not she will take her own life.

Last year, I interviewed Fiona after reading her assured and sensitive debut, ‘The Letters’. There was a delicious ease to reading that novel, a pleasure that I compared to sinking into a warm bath – although similarly lifted and illuminated throughout by Fiona’s deft, poetic voice, ‘Thaw’ is very different.

Describing deep-seated loss and self-destruction, it is a necessarily darker, spikier read, and yet the pacing of its diary structure makes it difficult to put down. Most of all, there is an authenticity about Ruth and her struggles that cries out for understanding, reaching far beyond the novel’s pages.

It is this sense of empathy, combined with the beauty of Fiona’s prose, which makes ‘Thaw’ such a valuable and unforgettable book.

"She is all curve and smooth skin. She looks like a seed or a bulb; if you planted her in dark compost and waited patiently, she'd burst into flower."

('Thaw, p.42)

Fiona is celebrating 'Thaw's publication with a unique, literary, internet experiment. From March 1st, she will be blogging the entire novel, for free, here!*

In order to spread the word, she's beginning with a Blogsplash and she needs as many bloggers as possible to get involved. If you'd be willing to host the first page of the fantastic 'Thaw' on your blog on March 1st, please do get in touch ...

*though I personally think it would be better not to wait. You can buy this beautiful book right now.