Dreams

So since I last graced the pages of this here blog, there’s been  exciting developments. Agents I’ve approached are reading FULLS of my novel already! Hell’s bells!

It was a shocker as I got requests only hours after I queried (I was anticipating weeks of waiting, biting my nails down till there was nothing left) but nope, got a beautiful email through, saying they ‘liked’ the first chapter and can I send the rest? Woo-hoo!

I went mental, jumping around, people asking what the hell was wrong. I was asking myself that too later as I looked in the mirror, telling myself to calm the hell down, they’d only seen the first few pages, will probably hate the rest.

Of course, I couldn’t resist giving it a final read-through before sending it. There were some scenes that were playing on my mind. Fluffy scenes with no momentum so the editor in me chopped, chopped, chopped and then before I knew it, the word count was down from what I’d said in my query. But hey, I know it works better without them.

It’s a win-win situation, you see. Even if I get knocked back, then I still gain something and that’s called ‘confidence’, my children. Confidence in my writing which I so desperately crave. Confidence in my beautiful characters, Tori and Cam (picture of Cam as I imagine him above), who have followed me around the house, been my constant companions since September last year, whispering in my ear. I really love them. Is that weird? They’re so real to me, I can almost see them; feel their breath on my cheek (DRAMAZ! Sorry, can’t help it!).

So readers, as I prepare to hit the ’send’ button with a mixture of excitement and dread, please say a prayer for me, kiss the Blarney stone, do a little jog of luck and hope, hope, hope they like it.

xx

GSCE metaphors (LOL!)

Someone sent me these today – real examples of metaphors and similes used in GCSE exams (I think some of mine could be included in this list )

 

The door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of Family Fortunes.

His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer.

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.

Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre 

Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.

The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP, Leader of the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the suspension of Keith Vaz MP.

The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a dustcart reversing.

She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef.

It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall