EBOOK!!

If you prefer digital to paper, you can now buy The Dawning in eBook format too

(just thought I'd mention it)

m xx

Fairies

Mid-Summer at the station and the air is full of fairies.

Cotton-fluff, you tell me and sweep one arm towards the trees, as if those rippling shadows and foaming leaves could explain anything clearly. I turn back slowly, through the soft.

The afternoon hugs us, closer than our skin. The sky melts into your face and I smell the grey sludge of my old sun-screen, and cooking metal, from the fence ribs and the tracks.

Fairies, I insist.

And though you join me, you remain begrudging, at first.

Except there are so many, it's dizzying, giggling. Irrisistible. And they're easy to catch. Wilting to white spiders in our hands.

Soon we're both leaping and laughing, wishing relentlessly. Clapping each time we flick them free. You're with me now, completely -

After all, there's a lot to wish for. A blizzard of dreams burn bright between my sticky lashes. There's hope in your high-pitched, hitching breath.

The train's not here yet, but the air thrums. Secrets spiral, rising, blurring with the whir of a swallow's wing.

Summer Reading

On holiday, and around the edges, some of the books I've (splashed with Sangria and gritted with black sand) loved lately -

Forgetting Zoe by Ray Robinson - completely stunning, beautiful and brutal, this utterly blew me away

Train by Pete Dexter - further intriguing and complex Americana, not quite as good as his glorious and devastating Paris Trout, but almost

Like Bees to Honey by the lovely Caroline Smailes - everything I was hoping for, and more. Loss, redemption and Jesus at the bar. Take it away with you, or curl up at home. You'll love it however

Bury Me Deep - more sheer Megan Abbot goodness, this time noir in elegant thirties shades

Not So Perfect - Mr Perring provides some surreal and superb snapshots of the way we are or might be in these perfectly proportioned short short stories

A Fair Maiden - another twisted fable from the indomitable Ms Oates, Joyce Carol I will love you forever

Weathervane Summer Sale!

In the spirit of holiday reading (be it lost in the grass, cocktails at dusk, a leaky cottage or simply a Sunday lie-in) my magnificent publisher, Weathervane Press, are having a Summer Sale.


For a limited period, you can pick up any Weathervane title (including The Dawning) at half-price - that's just £3.99 - and with FREE P&P too!



Just what are you waiting for?!?


oh - here's a bookshop link

Discovering Megan Abbot

She’s been collecting awards and accolades for years, but I’ve only just discovered Megan Abbot.

I started accidentally, on a whim, with her second novel, The Song is You. The book’s styling made me pick it up (my husband’s a bit partial to pulp art and I’ve grown to have rather a soft spot too, our dining room is walled with it), but as soon as I began to read, I fell hard and I fell fast. Just the way you should with such a book.

Abbot writes period novels in the hardboiled/noir tradition. She’s frequently compared to Chandler (and I love Chandler), but there’s both a succinctness and sumptuous lyricism to Abbot’s writing that is absolutely her own. She’s everything I might have hoped for in this genre. And so much more.

There are bent cops and wayward starlets, cloudy bars and glittering casinos, each crackling, sizzling story accompanied by perfect pacing, hooks and twists. The moral ambiguity is brilliantly layered – everything and everyone has a beautifully rendered seamy underside - and while Queenpin is simply dazzling, in each of her novels, her female characters are outstanding.

And this is hugely appealing. Personally I’ve always had a thing about fictional ‘bad girls’ (Oates’ Foxfire is one of my all-time favourite books). It’s also more generally refreshing – not that this is some simple redressing, the chilling brutality of gender politics runs in dark threads throughout Abbot’s books.

Most of all though, she tells fascinating, stylish and irresistible stories.

And her covers truly are amazing. And she’s called Megan. What’s not to like?

Wimbledon

After he’d left us, during those final weeks, I’d rush home from school each afternoon to find my mother spread across the sofa cushions, watching the tennis.

At least she appeared to be watching it. The room was so dimmed it was difficult to tell. The French windows often stood wide open, but she kept the curtains closed. The garden’s heat and buzzing drifted in, in small, squeezed pieces, although now and then, the lined hems quivered with a more persistent, fruit-tinged breeze.

And from the television, that very English murmur:

"Fifteen – Love"

Before the furred, steady thud of the ball resumed. On and on, like a heartbeat. Back and forth, like breath.

My mother watched the screen and I watched her. I’d never seen her looking quite so blank, or pale, or still. Not in the flesh, anyway. She looked like an old photograph of herself, perhaps one of the perfume campaign shots, when they had swathed her in silk, behind a misted lens. She looked just as dreamy and beautiful, and as unnervingly unreal . . . When the telephone rang she hardly stirred. She’d glance up, but that was all, or shift to rearrange the cushions at her neck, but she wouldn’t rise. She never answered.

While it trilled though, she sometimes smiled in my general direction and once or twice, she raised her glass to me. She winked.

Or seemed to wink. Through those blowsy shadows, that uncertain light.

And I do remember crossing the room. Not to answer any call either, but to sit on the rug beside her. Beside her glass, filled with gin and tonic and shifting ice. And I remember how meticulous her movements were when she lifted her drink over my head. I remember that hiss and icy tinkle, while the ball-girls ducked and ran in circles, then fell hastily back into place.


(from The Lives of Ghosts)

Lowdham!

A quick reminder!

I'll be reading and chatting this Saturday morning at Lowdham Book Festival, alongside the splendid and talented Nigel Pickard and Ian Collinson.

Come along! You know you want to
(-:

Tell Me Stories of Your Trinkets

You were on my bus. I didn’t notice you, at first.

Through the window, there was rain, cars, a smear of trees. Each wet day the patterns are almost the same, grey and green, dissolving. And watching the pavement melt into the leaves, I felt that pinch, that small longing, like I always do.

Your perfume found me first. A smoky-brown scent, patchouli hints, resurrecting memories of park benches and my own growing up, of shop-brand cola, generously spiked. Nonetheless, for a moment still, I kept my forehead to the glass.

It was the sound of you that made me turn. From across the aisle, you jangled. And then you sparkled, and I wondered.

I studied your earrings first. A matching, flamboyant pair. Dangling loops of shivering gold, with wooden animals attached. Camels or llamas, maybe cats. Souvenirs, I thought, from somewhere exotic, Morocco or Kenya or further East. Those earrings spoke of holidays, of escape, or perhaps merely of hoping. A desire to be gone.

There was a single metal ear-cuff too, on your left side, clipped higher, catching stray hair. That might have been when I thought of ballpoint pens. Of pinning you in place.

There were two strings around your neck. The first a set of love-beads, multi-coloured seeds that drip-drip-dripped between your woollen breasts, bright as the candy necklaces we’d fight over as little girls. Pinging elastic in search of treasure, chasing summer flavours, pastel dust.

The second string was tighter. A black leather lace, suggestive of a noose, or dog-tags. Maybe even a lead. Perhaps a gift – did he like to see it there? There was a pendant attached, stone-like, bone-like; I couldn’t read the words it bore (if words they were), but its shadow was distinct. A second secret message smudged red against your skin.

In your lap, your folded fingers. Your hands revealed a single ring, and the space where one once was.

The ring was gold, with a green stone, shining with a broken, antique light. An heirloom, surely, passed down from some austere aunt, or a shadowy grandma . . . Unless it had simply belonged to your mother? I wondered how frequently you felt its weight. How much you might still miss her.

And that paler strip of skin on the third finger of your left hand; it betrayed you so that I hardly needed to guess. Except – instead of looking stripped bare, that fine line glowed, a milky glimmer. It looked younger than the rest of you. A thread of newborn flesh.

You lifted that hand then, to the pole. Already, it was your stop.

The bus bell buzzed, but I hardly heard it. I was distracted, freshly captivated, charmed by the charms about your wrist, those tiny, flickering trinkets. I wasn’t close enough to see them; nonetheless, I did my best. I pictured a silver figure and a glinting guppy, a perfect doll’s house clock. You chimed – jangling once more – as you heaved yourself upright.

I could have cried out as you rose; your bracelet sang, but you only sighed. And you remained mostly faceless, shapeless; I’d hardly started – I didn’t want to let you go.

LeftLion

I was in the fabulous Broadway cinema's cafe last week, leafing through the latest issue of Nottingham's culture bible, LeftLion (as you do when waiting for your friend to reappear from the bar with wine AND cake) when - lo and behold - I found a new review of The Dawning!


Although LeftLion were kind enough to feature the novel previously on a podcast, I didn't expect to come across the review and I was deeply chuffed. LeftLion is amazing - funny and insightful and truly unique.

And while The Dawning perhaps proved a little 'ominous' for reviewer Robin Lewis with its 'general air of creeping disaster', apparently 'Taylor has crafted an involving picture of a family in a tailspin'

(well done Taylor!)

If you're not lucky enough to live in Nottingham, I believe you can download the complete, free magazine from their website. Not only do Leftlion provide reviews, great comment, brilliant interviews and top listings, they also publish quite possibly the best star-signs in the Universe.

(ie; 'Capricorn - If you want to keep a cool house this summer then buy a beagle and train it to smoke. Surveys have suggested that a smoking beagle is the coolest house pet you can possibly have, ranking above a juggling monkey and a cat in a jumpsuit. Do not put the beagle in a jumpsuit.')

Lowdham Book Festival 2010

My lovely publisher says ...

Weathervane Press are delighted to announce they will be hosting an event at the excellent Lowdham Book Festival final Saturday on June 26th.

We will be launching the Weathervane Live Vocal Books Tour at this event, which takes place at 10.30 am in the Lit & Phil Tent behind the Village Hall. There will also be readings by Megan Taylor from her thriller 'The Dawning' published in January and Nigel Pickard from 'Attention Deficit' published in March. All Weathervane books will be on sale at the event and throughout the day from our own stall at the Book Fair also in Lowdham Village Hall. The event is free - no ticket required.

Full details of the Lowdham Book Festival programme can be found at http://www.lowdhambookfestival.co.uk/

I say:
Come along! Say hello! You know you want to!

'Like Bees to Honey' - Chapter 13

Open publication - Free publishing

It's a total pleasure today to host Chapter 13 of Like Bees to Honey, the stunning new novel by the wonderful Caroline Smailes

In the run-up to next week's publication, the whole story is buzzing from blog to blog - just click the cover to delve in.

The next installment will be available from Bubblecow

To retrace the adventure from the start, you can find Chapter 0 on Caroline's blog.
Or you could just buy the whole marvellous novel.

You really should - Caroline's audacious writing is always beautiful, heart-breaking, shiveringly good.

New (and rather lovely) Dawning Review

A while ago, when I first began bumbling about amidst this strange/ bewildering/ beguiling bloggy-internet-land, Eli got in touch via my original MySpace to let me know she'd enjoyed How We Were Lost.


I was over the moon, especially when I discovered what a talented woman Eli is (she's a truly fine photographer and a poet too!! Her first collection, 'i scrubs' has just been released - please do check it out).


Now, as I continue to go on bumbling, Eli's blown me away all over again with this very kind review of The Dawning.


Thank you tons Eli - it means a lot xx

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 (-: