To bee or not to bee

 

The husband of my midwife friend works for pest control. His work mate keeps bees as a hobby, and gets a regular supply as they are not allowed to kill bees, so when ever they are called to a honey bee infestation he collects them up and takes them to his apiary. 

Last week the two of them got a call out to a large warehouse with a bee problem, so they donned their bee suits and went over. When I say bee suits, they weren’t in black and yellow stripes gear by the way; just the white all-in-ones and hats, thought it would have been funnier if they went in costume.

However, leaving that aside, they collected a huge swam and the beekeeper filled up his bee box almost to bursting with sleepy bees. He drove off in his car, with my friend’s husband following behind in his. Both men were still wearing their white bee suits, but both removed their bee hats and slung them casually on their passenger seats.

As they got up to speed on the motorway, the beekeeper’s car hit a minor bump, jolting the bee box in the back. The lid of the bee box, improperly fastened in haste, flew open and gradually more and more bees began seeping from the box. The bee-keeper, now travelling at 60 mph, was suddenly aware that he had passengers in the back, and saw at once his only option was to quickly put on his bee keeper hat and mask.

My friend’s husband glanced over and saw the beekeeper now travelling at 60 mph, wearing a full facemask, with a huge swarm of bees loose in his car. They moved off the motorway in convoy, my friend’s husband watching with delight as all the other motorists and, when the beekeeper pulled up opposite a bus stop, a huge crowd of people realized that there was a man taking his swarm for a nice drive in the country.

We were speculating as to what would happen if he had been pulled over by the police  - can you be done for threatening and officer of the law with some bees?

‘Can you wind down the window please sir?’

‘Really … you’re sure about that?’

Stupidly happy!

I have won a competition! I don't think I have come first in anything since I won a watch through the unicorn theater when I was nine. I had to draw a picture of when Asterix the Gaul met a unicorn, and trust me, back then a digital watch was a pretty big deal, this was when a sony walkman cost the equivalent of £300.

Anyway, I think I am just as amazingly pleased now to have won a prize thanks to my pal Rachael (mother of Ruben, which I write like this as it sounds so wonderfully Old Testament) who saw it advertised on Mumsnet. To level with you, I was not totally clear what the prize was, but the challenge was to write a 150 word pitch for an unpublished novel, and the winning pitch was going to be chosen by two editors at Bloomsbury, so frankly had the prize been to make their tea I would have done it!

So - here is my, and oh how I love saying this - winning pitch -

Grigory Dankovich and his family escape Soviet Russia in 1968. After an early marriage and life as a boxer, he is drawn into the underworld. Gradually sickened by what he has become, he tries to escape but instead looses his family and goes to prison for a murder he doesn’t commit, to save a naive boy.

Twenty-six years later British artist Saskia Cooper comes to New York and scratches a living as an interior artist. Marriage, motherhood and a divorce later, she feels her life has run aground, until she meets ‘Danko’ when she’s commissioned to paint murals in a strip club. They embark on a passionate affair, which offers him a second chance at a family life and sets her creativity free at last. Her jealous ex-husband and a misguided but vengeful gangster from Danko’s past threaten their future together. To save her, must he loose her forever?

And here's the most joyful email I have read this week - 

Congratulations! You are the First Prize winner of our competition held in collaboration with Mumsnet. Your entry was chosen from 120 entries and was judged by Helen Garnons-Williams- Commissioning Editor at Bloomsbury Publishing, Ele Fountain-Senior Commissioning Editor at Bloomsbury Publishing and Alysoun Owen-Editor of Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook.

We will be featuring your winning book idea and the editors’ comments on our website from tomorrow, but in advance, here is the review written for your entry:

This pithy, fast-paced description hints at a story full of thrills, intrigue and passion. It has all the ingredients for a rollercoaster of a ride through the murkier parts of the protagonists’ pasts and presents. I defy you not to be caught up by the drama that has been so concisely but dramatically evoked. Will Danko and Saskia get to live happily ever after?

As First Prize winner, we are also pleased to offer you a free How Strong is Your Book Idea? review (RRP £119.99) from an established Editor and top Literary Agent. I will send a further email tomorrow with details on claiming your prize. In the meantime, here is a link for further information on the How Strong is Your Book Idea? review service.

I will of course keep you all posted and for now, continue to dance round my front room in the sort of happy bubble unencumbered by a digital watch! 

(Thanks to Marcus for my photo btw, probably not book jacket material but hey, you never know! And also thanks to Gary at Bubblecow who's e-course on pitch writing has clearly been worth it.)

Scribbler: So, how's the research going then?

Scribbler: So, how's the research going then?: (Or - haven't you finished that book yet?) If you do keep an eye on my scribbling, you may remember that I had a big sulk at the start of...

So, how's the research going then?

(Or - haven't you finished that book yet?)

If you do keep an eye on my scribbling, you may remember that I had a big sulk at the start of the year about needing research for my book, ‘At night all cats are grey.’ This was mostly the product of soul shattering self-doubt that inflicts us all from time to time, and me once a week, but it’s never a bad thing.

            So, I hit the internet and the library  and netted a few books on a variety of subjects related to the environment in which my book is set – namely New York gang culture, the seventies art and ,music scene and the Russian Mafia. I have to confess my reading list from the libruary caused a few raised eyebrows – Alpha city tales from the heroine infested slums of New York, next to a book on chocolate wedding cakes (although the later is not for my novel as such.)

            Having never really done research about anything, or rather, having never researched for a book before, I wasn’t sure how to start – but the process seemed to break down into a few remarkably easy to follow stages.

1)     Read the first few pages of everything. Mood swings from pleasure at finding exactly what you feel you need, and desperation that there is no way you will ever be able to convince in this genre, what the hell were you ever thinking, you don’t know this world and you must look like a tight tit for even trying.

2)     Sulk.

3)     Refuse to give in to sulk, and read some more. Start under lining things in the books you actually own, stick paper tags into the library books. This at least feels like you are doing something, like when you did ‘A’ levels.

4)     Find something, which really climes with your book, which you thought you’d made up, but is apparently exactly how it was – feel elated and a little spooked – because it’s so exactly like you’ve written it must be a sign from some collective unconsciousness your tapping into.

5)     Write five chapters in a hurry retelling the events described in the research material as if you’d thought of them.

6)     Feel smug: feel sure you’re talking like a native.

7)     Read them back. Hate them, feel you sound like a tit.

8)     Edit the five chapters ruthlessly until only one line remains.

9)     Realize that line is crucial, that it gives that elusive hint of reality without over powering your narrative, and that you would never have written it without the five preceding chapters of stuff now languishing in the bin.

10)  Return the books to the library, three of them un-read – and wait until the next cycle of self-doubt sends you back there to check them out again.

And I presume I should add ‘and repeat’ after that lot.

I can say that, after research, my book is shorter but better and I know what happened to all the characters and why, but the reader doesn’t need to. It is very tempting to write footnotes along side every subtle detail – (the reason why character a is wearing a Thai silk shirt is that the Crime boss smuggles conflict diamonds from Africa to Thailand where they are used to buy heroin, which is then brought to America inside consignments of TV’s) but in fact, this is not what the book is about, it’s the foundation the research has allowed me to build the novel on. As it’s not actually about heroin dealing at all, it’s only important to me that I’ve worked it out. Oh, and the character likes the feeling of silk on his skin, but to work that out took a whole lot of other research….

Deadlier than the male....

 

            ‘Mathew – hello?’ Mr Peters answered his door, peering at me from inside his cardigan. ‘If this is about the bins son, it’s not really a good time-’

            ‘Quickly!’ I demanded. He relinquished the door handle and I was in his hall before his letterbox stopped rattling. ‘Hush.’ I put a commanding finger too my lips, peered outside and closed the door firmly behind me. I leant against its frosted glass panel and inhaled deeply.

            Mr Peters blinked owlishly. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked. ‘Whatever’s the matter – it’s not the Mormons again is it?’ I heard concern in his voice and that he hadn’t put his teeth in.

            ‘Mr Peters,’ I fixed him with my gaze and said sternly. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at Sandra.’

            ‘What?’ Mr Peters face quivered, his jowls flushed crimson then went ashen. ‘Whatever do you mean Mathew?’

            ‘Quiet!’ I flared my nostrils, ‘that’s how it starts.’

            Mr Peters steadied himself, his meat pie hand griping the flock wallpaper.             ‘Mathew, I don’t know what you mean, really I don’t – but you can’t just come in here and -’ he squirmed under my gimlet stare, ‘you can’t possibly imagine that I’d-’

            ‘Oh I don’t.’ I said, flaring my nostrils. ‘That’s just it, Mr Peters I don’t imagine - I know.’ I hissed. Stepping forward I asked more calmly. ‘Would you like to sit down?’

            ‘What?’

            ‘Sit down - shall we?’ I took hold of his elbow and gestured toward his sitting room with my free hand.

            ‘Mathew, I really don’t think that I…’

            ‘Trust me Sebastian – may I call you Sebastian?’

            ‘My names’ Wilfred.’ He said.

            ‘There’s no time for details Sebastian – you need to hear this.’

            ‘Look, what ever this is there’s been a mistake -’

            ‘It’s for your own good man – believe me,’ I propelled him down the hall, pausing only to run a finger along the top of the sitting room door.

            ‘Bugs,’ I raised an eyebrow at him, ‘you never know.’

            Mr Peter’s sitting room was the same shape as mine but had been spared the merciless spotlight of Sandra’s decorators eye. It had been allowed to moulder, eschewing zeitgeist for brown floral comfort.

            ‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ I said, my hand on the red brick mantelpiece. ‘I’m not here out of misplaced jealousy.’

            ‘Now look Mathew,’ Mr Peters sank into his vinyl armchair like a portion of trifle on too small a plate. ‘I … I know I came round about the recycling last week and accidentally – accidentally mind - caught Sandra in her bath robe but believe you me, no one regrets that more than I do and-’ I let out a slightly hysterical laugh and pressed my knuckle to my teeth. Mr Peters gawped; chewed over a selection of words and settled on, ‘look lad - if you and Sandra are having problems, it’s – it’s just one of them things. No need to … you know, get all unnecessary about it?’

            ‘It’s not me that has the problem,’ I said and turned on my heel to face him. ‘This is just the start, believe me, I’ve seen it before.’ I threw myself onto the sofa and sat, elbows on knees and head in hands, fingers matted into my hair. The orange glass mantle clock bravely attempted to fill the silence until I raised my head.

            ‘Sex, Sebastian.’

             ‘Good God son,’ he choked, ‘whatever this is please, I … I really don’t think I’m the person you should be talking to.’

            ‘Don’t you see Sebastian- ’

            ‘Wilfred.’

            ‘Exactly Sebastian – it’s her, she’s insatiable man, insatiable!’

            ‘Oh crumbs!’ Mr Peters swallowed. I hugged myself and rocked backwards and forwards.

            ‘You don’t understand – one man is never enough for her, never!’ I fought back a sob. ‘It’s alright when you’re young, you know, when you first meet her – it’s great even.’

            ‘You are young son …’ Mr Peters lent forward. ‘You’re not forty yet are you?’

            ‘You’re joking?’ I laughed and scratched my head furiously for an instant. ‘I’m twenty-three – twenty-three.  That’s what she does to a man – she leaves a husk, a hollow, empty shell – I’ve seen it before,’ I darted toward him – he yelped as I clasped his hand. ‘You’re not the first,’ I whispered.

            ‘The first what?’

            I nearly let my tears break through, then tore away and went back to the mantle. I cleared my throat and smoothed my hair, looking at my reflection in the sunray mirror on the wall.

‘You’re a man of the world, Mr Peters, may I speak plainly?’

            ‘I thought you were?’ he rasped.

            ‘Indeed,’ I turned to face him. ‘You must forgive my outburst. It can be hard sometimes.’

            ‘I’m sure it can,’ he nodded. His chins agreed with him.

            ‘It’s you I’m worried about. You’ve seen the robe, that’s how it starts - but there might still be a chance for you.’

            ‘A chance?’ He pushed himself up against his seat. ‘Mathew – I had no idea, what - why is she like this?’ I crouched beside him, not meeting his gaze.

            ‘Sometimes,’ I breathed.

            ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t think she’s quite human.’ I whispered.

            ‘Good grief – does the council know?’ He put his hand on my arm. ‘They know me, I’m always on at them about the rubbish and they’re really quiet helpful – should I give them a ring for you?’

            I cut him off. ‘Do you remember Janet and Geoff?’

            ‘What - from on the end?’ His fleshy mouth quivered at me.

            ‘Yes, Janet and Geoff from on the end.’

            ‘Wasn’t it heart failure?’

            ‘That’s just what she wanted him to say.’ Mr Peters smothered a gasp.

            ‘No! Mildred and I were wondering - it was so unexpected.’

            ‘Yes – and Rodger Davies from number six.’

            ‘What about Rodger Davies from number six?’ I stood and faced his mirror again. I heard him wheeze up behind me. ‘Not him as well?’

            ‘I’m afraid so.’ I adjusted my tie. ‘He’ll tell you it was just a routine hip replacement, but ask yourself - would a man who drives to the corner shop wear out two hip joints before he’s sixty five?’ I allowed myself a knowing chuckle.

            ‘Goodness me.’ I could see Mr Peters shaking his head. ‘I always wondered why a single man needed three bottle bins.’

            I turned to him and held out my hand.

            ‘I’m glad we’ve had this talk.’ I said, with my face full of Dunkirk spirit. ‘It helps me get through the dark times knowing … knowing I’ve saved someone.’

            ‘But am I safe - what should I do?’ He said clasping my hand and letting me pump his arm. I narrowed my eyes again and held his hand a moment longer.

            ‘Don’t let her in - don’t talk to her - don’t look her in the eye. All it takes is for one word, one smile and you’re lost.’

            ‘Right, okay.’

            ‘And warn the others. If she can’t have you then … just warn the others.’

            ‘What others?’ He looked up eagerly.

            ‘Everyone,’ I intoned, ‘everyone you know.’

            ‘All right, well - I will.’ Mr Peters nodded furiously.

            ‘I’ll leave you now,’ I said as if my warhorse waited. He walked me to the door, still shaking his head. At threshold I turned back.

‘She must never know we’ve spoken about this – never.’

‘Of course – shouldn’t you try and get some help my boy?’ I closed my eyes briefly as I shook my head.

            ‘You’ve helped me more than you can ever know, Mr Peters.’ I clapped him on the shoulder fondly.

            ‘You know me,’ he smiled, ‘ like to do me bit!’ He started to close the door but I caught hold of it.

 ‘One more thing.’

            ‘Yes?’ He flinched. I raised my eyebrow.

            ‘You’ve never heard of - the hive.’

            ‘What hive?’ He asked.

            ‘Exactly - good man.’

            He gave me a supportive ‘thumbs up’ and I let him close the door at last. I saw his shadow linger in the hall; then he padded away. I stood for a moment and surveyed the close from his front porch. The day was bright, the afternoon ripe with the promise of a six o’clock Chardonnay and vengeance.

            Try to break the routine,’ the marriage councillor had said from under her earnest hairstyle, ‘perhaps try bringing an element of fantasy into the bedroom – try and rediscover a sense of humour about sex; stop it being just a chore or a duty – that can really help couples re-discover the spark they feel is missing. ’

            ‘Humph,’ Sandra had snorted, ‘he doesn’t have a sense of humour about anything, least of all sex!’

I surveyed the houses opposite ours, and watched Rodger Davies pull up and get slowly out of his BMW. I breathed in deeply.

‘There we go Sandra,’ I said as Rodger inched painfully past his azaleas, ‘how d’you like them apples. We’ll see who’s got a sense of humour about sex now, won’t we?’

Sometimes the universe provides...

After my earlier post about the research idea that has tickled my fancy - though that is a terribly frivolous term seeing what I am researching - but as ever the world is showing me the way - this pod cast about the famine in Ukraine and the west's denial of it was broadcast recently and hits the nail on the head! It also brings in Alistair Crowley and all sorts - sex and drugs and holocaust denial!

Becoming self aware

 

Okay…breath. Breathe out, breath in – that’s it. Oh yes, I need this; I need me time. I’ve been really looking forward to this all day, really I have. Clearing my mind, calming down all those negative thoughts, letting my nagging inner voice just fade into the back ground. That’s it, fading away, hush now nagging voice, hush…hush…hush

            I should have worn big pants; this thong has gone right up my crack.

            Shh for god’s sake, just let all those concerns drift away like…like…

            Ouch, crap, that’s really hurting. Even squirming hasn’t sorted it out – bugger bugger bugger. Okay, no one can see, they’ve all got their eyes shut – just stick your hand down your trousers and hook it out before it cuts you in half.

            But what if the woman behind me sees?

            No, everyone had got their eyes shut, she won’t see.

            Oh crap, I haven’t got my eyes closed, what if she hasn’t either? She always looks so bloody perfect anyway; I bet she’s got organic whole-wheat pants with ethically sourced bleedin’ elastic. Bet they aren’t up her bum.

            Okay – right – she’s a class swot, so she’s got her eyes shut for England. Rock forward, slowly onto the right hand…transfer weight…right hand down tracksuit…wiggle…wiggle. Damn I can’t get it, gonna have to look round and…

            Bollocks – she’s looking, she’s seen me! Knuckle deep in my backside as well!

            Face front, breath - breath – pretend like it was nothing, pretend like it was the downward facing dog or some shit!

            Never mind, never mind – find your centre, breath…breath.

            Why do all yoga positions sound like sex positions? Oh god I’m horny, single and horny and stuck in a yoga class I only did because I thought that bloke from human resources was going to be here.

            No, that’s not true – you’re doing this as part of your promise to yourself to get fitter and healthier – to give yourself some me time.

No, you’re doing this because you’re too much of a coward to do real sport and this seemed like a less scary option than actually sweating. Like when you ate a two finger kit Kat because that’s better than eating a four finger kit Kat, until you ate the second two finger kit Kat later when you thought no on was looking.

            Shh - you are not going to spoil this for yourself, you made a promise and you’re going to keep it. For you, you’re going to do this for you.

            Breath. Relax – let the cares and stresses of the day just drift…drift.

            Oh who the hell am I kidding? This is not me, I don’t relax. I too much Chardonnay and a sneaky fag; I do worrying about stupid stuff and not breathing and over thinking until my head hurts. What the hell - Yoga only does you good, it doesn't help anyone else does it?  

            Oooh - Is what they mean by achieving self-awareness?

            Really need a pee now.