Okay, who ate my scarf?

Do you ever have a day when you cannot even control your own clothes, let alone be expected to manage Life with all its whimsy? I am having such a day. It started when I woke from being semi-smothered by my pillow. You know the day bodes badly when your own bedding is conspiring to kill you.

My cardigan on the tube turned into a giant flopping beast, determined to make friends with my tube-dwelling neighbours. Somewhere under Islington my ear-phone wire (what is that called? I somehow suspect not 'ear-phone wire') did something funky with the buttons and the whole shaboodle tied me in a knot while I was trying to get off at Kings Cross. Getting off the tube in the rush hour requires nerves of steel at the best of times; let alone when I have somehow constructed a reef knot from my clothes.

My gloves fell out of my bag as I dug deep for my travel-card; my socks keep bunching down into my trainers, and my top has decided to saucily wink a small crescent of tummy just when I least expect it. Look, clothes, I have work to do today, and I cannot keep checking if you are in the same place as you were this morning. Don’t do this to me! I am supposed to be looking corporate and business-like, despite the fact a conker* dropped out of my bag as I walked in the office. Whoops.

Sometimes I wish I was a monk. They seem to be so sorted in the fashion sense of things. Just a big brown sack – what can go wrong? Although you know I’d have problems roping it in the middle. It is my dream in life to own a slanket.** Seen them yet? A giant blanket with a head hole and sleeves. If I Were an Author (sung to the tune of ‘If I Were a Rich Man’ from Fiddler on the Roof), then magazines would picture me in my gorgeous home, notebook in hand, draped in my slanket. I would be at the forefront of slovenly female author fashion. Until those heady days, however, I am stuck with the evil cardigan and the top of doom.

*A conker is a horse-chestnut. They fall from the sky! Well, trees. Children of Old (sorry, mum) used to drill a hole through them, string them up, and bash them together to see who had the strongest conker. Cheats used to bake them in the oven first so they were like little round bricks.

**This is a slanket. My continuing laughter doesn't halt my desire, strangely.

Preconception vs Reality

Today I lugged the latest print out of the novel to the nearest coffee pouring establishment to sit and read it in peace and quiet. Sadly the only place open was Sainsbury’s, so I sat in their franchise of Starbucks reading amongst screaming cupcake fuelled children. It wasn’t quite the scenario I had pictured when doing the final read-through, but that has been the way ever since I decided to write this book. Everything I thought I would do – write with a smile on my face every single day, actually have a desk, open champagne on finishing – hasn’t actually happened yet. Okay, let’s list it.

Preconception: All authors write from a book-lined room in peace and quiet.
Reality: I write between bursts of my mum telling me the plot of Midsummer Murders, including the repeats.

Preconception: All authors write every day.
Reality: Try it after a three hour commute sandwiching an eight hour day in the office. Some evenings I can only write the word ‘ug’.

Preconception: All authors have their own desk.
Reality: I think I told you before I use the ‘Twisted Author’ pose in which to sit on my bed and tap on the computer which rests upon a chest of drawers. This is as comfy as indigestion.

Preconception: All authors have a local homely café in which to edit their novels and think Great Thoughts.
Reality: The local cafés around my gaff smell of fried egg sarnies and attract people of a certain disposition, i.e. mad.

Preconception: All authors will write with an occasional wine glass close to hand, if they fancy it.
Reality: Vodka. Lots of. If I fancy it.

Preconception: All authors will own a printer that works.
Reality: My printer only works if I stare at it.

Preconception: It won’t take that long to write a novel.
Reality: Har har har har.

Preconception: Every day authors are really happy and eager to start writing.
Reality: Some days I cry.

Preconception: All authors are brilliant at Scrabble.
Reality: Faced with the board, the only word I can ever spell is ‘suds’.

What’s in a Name?

Have you ever looked to see where your surname fits on the shelves in your local book-store? Which other authors surround you? Whether your surname will be a help or a hindrance?

I had a very interesting conversation with a member of staff in my local book-shop today about surnames. (Actually I hate the term ‘member of staff’. My thoughts fly to ‘member’ – phallic object, and ‘staff’ - long wooden stick for aging Druids. They do not fly to nicely helpful shop worker. This could be because I am blessed with a mucky mind though.)

My question to the nicely helpful shop worker was which letter of the alphabet works best as a surname for authors amongst the shelves. He didn’t even bat an eyelid (which is why I love and adore the folk who work in book shops). Without hesitation he told me that surnames beginning with ‘A’ do well, as do ‘M’ and ‘S’ – however he said this was because there are a lot of authors with surnames already beginning with those letters so people often head to that part to look for a specific author, and maybe pick up other books while they are there.

The reason for the question is that I was musing on which name I would publish under when the great day arrives (sings as in Gospel choir – Great Day). Now a few of you already know that I actually write this blog under a pseudonym.

Don’t be dismayed that my name is not Jayne
I did not mean to be a pain
Or to confuse, or to lie
You see the reason is I’m really quite shy

But the name ‘Jayne Ferst’ is dear to me, not just chosen at random. That will be a post for another day. But I didn’t think about whether or not it would be good on the shelves - damn, missed a trick! Had I but thought about it I could have been Jayne McFerst. Or Jayne Serst (which sounds like Jayne’s Erst – erstwhile life, maybe?)

Nicely helpful shop worker said he thought ‘F’ wasn’t a bad letter for an author’s surname; he reeled off a list of literary dignitaries that jostle around that area. If I keep with ‘F’ I would be in good company. No one else has the same surname, unlike the real one, which is already glorified by three other authors already, and whose web-domains went with the beginning of the Internet.

Where do you sit on the shelves? Do you think your surname will be a help or a hindrance?

I will draw the results of my contest this weekend - either Friday or Saturday. Sorry - week has been hectic!