A flair for the 1970s, auld acquaintances forgot, selfpublishing comes of age, big thank-you from a horsey girl

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The 1970s.

The era whose tastes are ... noteworthy.

Dave certainly thought so when I chose a house from that period for our anniversary holiday this year (26 years of being grown-up and married).

'We're staying in a 1970s bungalow?' he exclaimed.

After a few days there, I found him scribbling the following message as he wrote postcards: 'Roz was right.'

Welcome to the Anderton House in Devon, UK.

We were smitten. Let me show you around.

The bold tiling. The split levels. The glass. The audacious gaps, the beckoning sightlines and the angled corners. The roof that appeared to float high above all the walls and bring the outside in.

It was Thunderbirds, Emma Peel, Peter Sellers in The Party.

It was like a house half-remembered from a book of avant-garde architecture, a semi-transparent, spacious vision of the future.
Where you longed to step into the page to find out how it worked and how you might live there.

You could watch the sun rise over the arm of a vintage Eames chair.

Capture the sky in the glass of a table.

My camera had a lot of exercise.

In the guestbook, a visitor wrote about how he knew the house in childhood. Because of it, he had become an architect. Now, visiting it again, 40 years on, he realised he had spent his life trying to recreate it.

This space was enchanting, exciting and formative for him. It shaped his aesthetic values for his entire professional life. I'm sure it is also bedding down in my mind, becoming a place I'll draw on. If at some point in the future you spot it in one of my books, you read it here first.

And so, darling, I think we need one of these kaftan coffee pots.

PS You can hire the Anderton House from the Landmark Trust

Work in progress

Noveling... Remember in January, when I put this ring on and vowed to spend proper time on my third novel Ever Rest? I've achieved that and I couldn't be more surprised with the manuscript I have now. I'm even hopeful that it might be ready for beta readers early next year.
What should you expect? Well, it's in tune with the mood of my previous two ... and also an evolutionary step onwards. Such coy vagueness! But I hate to be analytical when it's still growing. Moving swiftly on...
Editing and mentoring... I'm about to work with a radio dramatist and a writer of science and futurism books. Both are masterful in their own story media, now launching into novels.
In early 2019 I'll be helping an author develop a book for musicians about performance anxiety. You might have spotted a subject connection, as My Memories of a Future Life draws on the emotional relationship between performer and art. Also, in real life, I had a (shortlived) phase as a singer, with first-hand experience of stage collywobbles. So this writer and I will certainly be in harmony. I'm looking forward to working with her.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot... at the conference

So you're speaking at a conference, dispensing wisdom from your many years in publishing, and one of the delegates says 'ah, I remember you'.

And in her mind's eye, she's seeing this.

It was the Self-Publishing Exchange on 3 November in London.

In a seminar at the end of the day, an author asked a question about using characters drawn from real life . We discussed tone and humour and I handed her a copy of Not Quite Lost as an example.

'Alderley Edge!' she exclaimed, reading the opening paragraph. 'I went to school there.'

Yep. My school.

'You look great!' she said, remembering the Bunty pigtails above.

'Likewise!' I said, because I remembered she had ringlets like Bo-Peep, but she was now a glamorous globe-trotting memoirist in python-tight leggings. Reader, she was two years below me. The sister of one of my classmates. We'd gone through the entire day's conference without an inkling of our auld acquaintance.

And so to professional matters.

Here I am on a panel with (from left) Aki Schilz of The Literary Consultancy, Tom Chalmers of New Generation Publishing and Jared Shurin of creative agency M&C Saatchi. Apologies for my face. When I speak I always look like I'm singing.

Behind the camera was my friend Karen Inglis, children's self-publishing dynamo, who spoke at an earlier session. All of us are veterans in self-publishing, and some also in traditional.

And, interestingly, so were the audience.

I've been to this event for several years now and this time I noticed a major shift. Hardly any of the attendees were beginners. Many already had several published books, or were professionals in other arts. Playwrights, ghostwriters, academics, film makers, performers, games makers. These are the people who are now coming to self-publishing, and self-publishing is reaching a new maturity. Interesting times, in a very good way.

But wait! Here's another auld forgettance.

See my fellow panellist Jared?

Back home after the event, I looked him up to tweet him. I found he was connected with Anne, an editor at Hachette, who had come to my house for supper last year ... with her partner... whose name was Jared.

Jared whose sense of humour and breezy accent, now I thought about it, had seemed itchingly familiar today. I had spent an entire evening with him, probably cooked him something whacky, and failed to remember any of it.

Feeling like a complete goof, I messaged him. 'You must think I'm an idiot, but ...'

He replied: 'I have just had a similar conversation with Anne!'

Therefore, my friends, we must treasure the internet, books and our other halves. Because auld brain cells are no good at recognising people unaided.

On the blog

This month I've had a bumper post about what to do if - gasp - you've finished your first manuscript. It's a handy digest of all my advice about publishing options, self-editing and getting feedback. It goes out with special congratulations to my friend Rosalind Henfrey, who has crossed the finish line of her first novel and now has the writing bug forevermore.

Unforgettable Byron - thank you, everyone

Last month I reported the heartbreaking news that I had to say goodbye to my amazing horse Byron. Since then, I've received cards, flowers and cake delivered to my door. So many sensitive and thoughtfully composed messages through all the internet channels. Handwritten poems, photographed and emailed. This unexpected and moving tribute from Henry Hyde, who made the film of us in the summer - a souvenir that is all the more treasured now.

I owned Byron for 23 years. He seemed eternal, like one of those ancient redwoods that endure through the centuries. This isn't the end of horsing for me, and I will have more adventures to bring you. But although life goes on, his departure still sometimes catches me unawares. To each of you who has shared your thoughts or taken the trouble to mark his passing, I'm very grateful.

So as 2018 draws to a close, I wish you a refreshing holiday. I hope you've had a rewarding year and can look back on proud achievements, inspiring places and - most of all - cherished companions.

I'll see you in 2019. R xxx

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