Ginger Buzz

A few weeks ago I decided to give up alcohol.

I’ve often set myself the challenge but have never gone through with it.

A month without a drink has always seemed too cruel on my social life.

But this time I opted for just two measly weeks.

We drink a lot in Britain. Every occasion is an excuse for a beverage.

A long day at work is reason enough.

A short day at work is too. Well you may as well celebrate getting out early.

I wanted to see how I would feel without it.

I anticipated more energy and a clearer head.

The cravings began almost immediately.

On day 3 I had a dinner party to go to and I couldn’t consolidate the idea of bringing a bottle of wine and not drinking any of it.

I felt grumpy on the tube.

It was embarrassing how my mind was obsessed with the idea.

Why are you giving up anyway? The voice whined. Just forget about it. One glass won’t hurt.

I survived the dinner party without a drop.

In fact I didn’t survive it, I had a good time.

But the hard bit wasn’t over. The weekend was yet to come and the more I craved a drink, the more I realised I had to complete the challenge.

I didn’t drink on the weekend. I slurped (non alcoholic) ginger beer and considered taking up smoking instead.

Did I feel more energetic? Nope.

Was I getting up any earlier? Nope.

It wasn’t until the second week that I began to feel the benefits.

After a day of intensive writing I would finish with my mind still buzzing.

Instead of reaching for a glass of wine to numb the mad feeling that comes with being immersed in fiction all day, I felt driven to look for new writing opportunities.

There suddenly seemed to be so many exciting options out there; short story competitions, job openings and callings for magazine submissions.

On Valentine’s Day, the Fiancé took me to an Ethiopian restaurant.

I scanned the wine list hopefully then asked for a Guava juice.

The first sip of that exotic juice transported me straight back to a moment in Cuba three years ago.

It made me feel so happy.

I wouldn't have experienced that if I’d automatically ordered wine.

That’s what this challenge has been about: making drinking more enjoyable and less automatic.

Unfortunately, on the 14th day, sick of ginger beer and the rain, I succumbed to a beer.

In one sense I failed the challenge.

On the other hand I feel suddenly protective about my mental energy.

I can do so much more than I thought and until the first draft of my novel is written, I’m determined to be in control.

Cry-Baby on the Radio

I was on Woman’s Hour.

BBC Radio 4.

Stardom, it wasn’t.

The show was with Joe Brand and it was about crying.

I’d responded to the Woman’s Hour tweet: Does everything have you in floods of tears or do you find it hard to cry?

I replied honestly that most things moved me to tears, including episodes of MasterChef.

They asked me to call them directly and feeling there was nothing to lose, I did.

Two days later I was waiting on the phone and listening to the show in the background.

I was a caller without a surname.

I was a nobody who was inexplicably nervous.

“Mention your book,” said the Fiancé. “Say you cry when other people do well but you didn’t cry at your book launch of Shop Girl Diaries.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes you can.”

This was a potentially miraculous moment to commit some widespread publicity.

“Good morning Emily,” the presenter said, and I tripped up on my tongue.

It took me five seconds to confess I was a cry-baby and then I was tossed off the phone line.

Damn.

Goodbye BBC.

The Fiancé sniggered on the sofa where he’d been listening with huge headphones on.

He’d recorded the moment because he’s high tech.

This meant I was able to listen to myself mumbling that though I didn’t follow Reality TV shows I only needed to be watching them for 30 seconds before my tears were flowing.

If I hadn’t been an amateur with 5 seconds to ruin, I would have explained myself a lot better.

I would’ve articulately described how I identify with all the contestants.

Whether they are cooking a bowl of lentil soup or dancing a tango, I get caught up in their story.

In an instant I think of all the hard work they must’ve done to get where they are.

I feel their passion and their hunger to be able to do what they love for a living and their drive that has pushed them to work at it while juggling a full-time job or school or while looking after five children and a severely disabled mother.

I feel their bitter struggle as if it were my own struggle to succeed as a writer.

When they succeed, I can’t control the tears welling up.

If they can do it then so can I!

Yet today I received a rejection e-mail from the literary agent I’d written to.

It was a standard letter of rejection which surprised me because we had met in person and I’d expected a more personalised rejection.

I’d been on a roll with my novel but after that e-mail I felt out of sorts.

For a couple of hours I fiddled about on the internet because I couldn’t face a new chapter. When I got round to it, it was at a sluggish pace.

Got to Dance was on the telly and I watched the semi-final as I worked through a sorry bowl of pasta.

It didn’t take long before I was moved.

Their passion was so inspiring, their excitement so genuine and their performances were brilliant.

One dancer who impressed the judges hadn’t even had the full support of her mother while she was training. At least my parents encouraged me to keep going.

They LOVED it and that’s what it’s all about.

Loving it and living it.

No I won’t stop trying.

One day I’ll be on BBC Woman’s Hour talking about a novel I’ve written.

I’ll have a surname and at least 30 seconds.

And I won’t cry.

Lazy Bride?

My wedding planning has been going very smoothly.
Mostly because I haven’t done any.
I don’t think I really like it.
Now I bet you’re wondering if I’ve got cold feet.
I haven’t.
My feet are under a cosy duvet because I’m in bed early.
Early because I’d rather snooze than examine the wedding menu that’s just been sent to me.
I catch myself worrying that I’m not obsessing enough about my big day.
I think I should be doodling designs for place names, gluing crystals to table decorations, flicking through catalogues of colossal cakes.
But I just picture all my friends and family eating outside in the sun and I feel satisfied.
The problem is they won’t be eating if I don’t sort out the food.
At least I have a venue and a church.
I even have a dress.
I walked into the shop, tried on four, and bought one.
Done and dusted far too efficiently. Even though it’s the perfect dress, surely I should’ve been traipsing around London for months looking for it.
This evening I told myself that wedding planning is like packing for a holiday.
I’m obviously excited about the holiday but I’m much less enthusiastic about the hard bit, the
choosing what to wear for more than one day in a row or in this case, deciding what menu, flowers, ribbons, readings perfectly reflect our true characters.
Then there’s the music.
I’ve just received a reply from a band which I contacted about playing at the wedding.
I press play and it’s like I switch on again.
I feel the enthusiasm tickling my toes.
The sun is setting over the coast and my family, who have finished eating the food that did arrive, are getting up to dance.
Panic over.
I’ve still got time to obsess.

A Novel and 12 Guinea Pigs

So now that I’m not a Shop Girl I’m working at being a novelist.

Last week I sent off my first five chapters to an agent.

I’d met up with her last May after I’d won a Blog Award.

“I was actually thinking you might be good at teenage novels,” she said, after reading my synopsis.

I thought of snogging and slang and my mind went blank.

I said I’d try it out but instead I continued with my original plan.

The chapters I’ve sent are not for a teenage novel. This might prove problematic.

I’m hoping she miraculously finds some hidden genius in it worth pursuing.

I assume, being a pessimist, that she will give it a half-hearted tick and write, ‘better luck next time,’ at the bottom in pencil.

I rang her up before I sent them.

Sending off submissions without phoning first is for cowards. It’s what I’ve always done.

“Is today a good day?” I said, sitting on the dusty stairs of my shop, feeling butterflies in my stomach.

“I might take a while to get back to you,” she said.

“Take as long as you like,” I heard myself say and cringed.

She only takes one new client on a year which sounds far too discerning if you ask me.

The thing is not to believe that Agents are Gods with the power to make or break you.

They need writers as much as we need them, right?

Right?

I’ve got to play my part and get it written regardless.

So here goes.

I bought a half-price calendar covered in guinea pigs on the weekend to mark out my aims. (It was guinea pigs or nothing).

The difference between a writer and a successful writer is the first spends a lot of time buying stationary and talking about writing and the latter actually writes.

I will endeavour for this next crucial month not to get distracted by the usual temptations or the twelve guinea pigs.

So the blurb: Once upon a time in a land far away (depending on where you), there was a boy (well, he starts as a boy then becomes a man) who in a moment of incredible coincidence discovers that in a land far, far away (again, depending on your current geographical position) there is a girl he needs to meet....

Haha, look, the guinea pig is hiding under a book!

Is it tea time yet?

The Grand Finale

I’m fired up.

I’ve never had such a strong desire to sell lights in my life.

That’s really saying something considering I’ve spent most of my life in a light shop.

The joke is this is our last week.

This Saturday we close our doors to the public.

And then we open them again on Sunday to pack up, and if a few members of the public fancy a quick purchase then we will let them in.

But then we really, truly close our doors.

It’s probably because these are our last 4 days that I’m so motivated to make the most of them.

Petra and I are assembling crystal non-stop from the moment we arrive in the morning till the moment we force ourselves to say ‘enough is enough’, which can be any time after 7pm.

Lunch break is a vegetable pasty up a ladder.

To keep us going Mum supplies us with the occasional melt-in-your-mouth Lindt chocolate that a customer gave us at Christmas.

“Good job I’ve hidden them or we’d eat them all,” she says, which doesn’t make much sense since she must know where they are to be giving them to us.

Already this week chandeliers have been bought for houses in China, Jamaica, Ghana, Nigeria and Wales.

We’re selling real beauties for half their usual price.

People that cried when they saw the prices in Selfridges are now crying for joy because they can afford a real crystal, gold or chrome-plated chandelier after all.

Mum has been working into the early hours to get orders wired up and customised for low and high ceilings. Next comes the packing of these purchases, which can take half a day if they are for shipping.

Some customers appreciate what we do and others don’t and that’s how it has always been.

I’ve moaned in the past but now we’ve reached the end of the journey I don’t feel like moaning at all.

I wake up and I want to be at the shop making things happen.

I want to be rushing around finding boxes, making sellotape handles, lighting up lights that have never been lit.

I wake up and I realise that I’m looking forward to going to work.

I wake up and I want to be with my fellow Shop Girls, because they are simply the brightest and the best.

Christmas Spirit and Olives

Christmas coupled with a Closing Down Sale makes life very busy.

My finger tips are sore after manic crystal pinning and I can barely zip up my vital fourth fleece which protects me from the arctic temperatures of our shop.

Fond memories of a nail salon in Bogotá come to mind and I push them away.

My hands currently resemble those of Santa’s great grandmother.

I’m not complaining. I love it when it’s busy like this.

When all the shop crew are together I feel happy.

There’s great banter and team work when Alfie is building lamps, Papa is throwing massive boxes down the stairs and Petra is laying out rows of crystal to pin. When Mum is going the extra mile by cleaning a half-price chandelier and I’m relishing the thought of a new space on the ceiling.

We’ve been working late to get our jobs done and on Thursday we reward ourselves with a bottle of wine and upgrade from a jar of Crespo olives to a superior pot of marinated ones.

It’s the little things in life, after all.

The little oily, herby things.

People believe we are closing now. Old customers bring us in chocolates and promise a drink that probably won't happen (but how nice anyway).

To make things a little more hectic, the Fiancé and I move north.

North of the river, that is.

I finally get the chance to be excited about having my own chandeliers.

Each time I come into the living room, I look up at the sparkly crystals and feel uplifted.

We get our first Christmas tree as soon as we move in and name it ‘Pepe the Great’.

We bring it home and find that its trunk is teeming with bugs.

The Fiancé grabs deodorant and a lighter, and the flames roar as he torches all the little beasties.

The smell is amazing. Pepe is less impressed.

Back at the shop, Christmas takes the form of a little bark crib in the window, complete with a mini fire that lights up.

Everyone wants to buy it.

“Sorry, I’m inheriting it,” I tell them.

What am I going to do after the shop?

The best I can!

As ever, at this time of year, I’m thinking it’s time for a revolution in my life.

Sometimes you get lost in the flow and you make excuses for not achieving your goals.

Lately I’ve been unable to get up early or squeeze writing time in at night.

I’ve been feeding my inner Spartan mince pies and half price sparkling wine and it’s all been very cosy.

The thing is, all the films on telly are insisting I spread the festive cheer and believe in Santa so his sleigh can take off.

I wouldn’t want to be a Bah! Humbug!

So...Ho ho ho, I think I’ll let the Christmas spirit bubble for the time being.

When January comes, a new story will begin.

Back to School

I contacted my old school to see if I could speak at an assembly about my journey from blogger to author.

I’d just booked a stall to sell copies of Shop Girl Diaries at their Christmas market but I knew I wouldn’t sell many if no one knew anything about it.

The date was set for the 29^th November.

The time: 8 am.

When the day arrived, there was a massive tube strike.

I got up at 6am to find all my tights had vanished.

The only tights I could find had fake suspenders outlined on them.

I pulled them up anyway, believing my skirt would hide the sexy pattern.

My local station was closed so I ended up having to take two buses and a tube to get there.

I was running late and phoned the head mistress to warn her.

“We’ll sing a hymn or something,” she said.

As I strode towards the school building I noticed with horror that my inappropriate tights were very visible.

I jumped the toilet queue as soon as I got there and yanked up my tights so hard I ripped them.

I couldn’t believe it. How on earth could I walk into a room of two hundred girls aged 10 to 18 wearing ripped suspender tights?

I took off my boots, pulled off my tights and hurried into assembly with bare legs.

On a raised stage I looked out across a room filled with girls dressed in blue.

Once I’d been one of them in that same uniform. Would I have been eager to listen to an author?

I like to think so.

We sang a lively hymn and one of the girls read out a prayer. There was such a positive vibe that despite my nerves and cold legs I felt happy to be there.

There was a lectern for my notes which gave me great comfort.

The lights dimmed and I showed my first picture.

It was a photo of me in my St James’ school uniform when I was 4 years old, writing on a slanted board that we used to use.

I relaxed pretty quickly and enjoyed telling my story.

“Fantastic,” my head mistress whispered when I’d finished and I felt really chuffed.

She continued her support after the assembly by lending me some tights.

It was impressive how many back-up tights she had; clearly the mark of a successful woman.

The Christmas Market took place on the following Sunday.

Petra and I spread out sparking crystals, little brass ornaments and of course, my books, on our stall.

Our prices suited a child’s pocket money and we had lots of little people pleased to be able to buy little brass baskets and sparkly beads.

The Fiancé stood close by cheekily bullying parents into buying my book.

I squirmed as he did it but I couldn’t complain as he got great results.

By the end of the day I wheeled my suitcase home 18 books lighter!

Brilliant.

*Thank you St James School and all those who wished me real good luck by buying my book!