Woking Writers Circle

A welcoming writing community where we share words and grow together and where creativity, feedback and encouragement come together

Tag: writing

  • It’s a Woking Thing! Novelist’s new blog page will showcase local writers

    It’s a Woking Thing! Novelist’s new blog page will showcase local writers

    A new opportunity for writers with pieces of work about Woking! Local writer Mal Foster has launched a blog called Writers at the Gate to help promote the books of independently published authors who are local to Woking and the surrounding area. Mal said: “It now includes a page (It’s a Woking Thing!) to showcase smaller pieces of work such as prose and poetry. This may evolve into a regular online newsletter/magazine. It is Intended as a platform to help local writers engage with each other both online and in-person including future social and signing events, and to complement any other local writers’ resources that may also exist locally, i.e. Woking Writers Circle for example.”

    The first item to be featured on the new page is a poem by WWC member Greg Freeman, titled ‘Made in Surrey’. Prose and poetry submissions for It’s a Woking Thing! should be sent to admin@malfoster.co.uk

    Mal Foster, centre, with other local writers, including WWC’s Greg Freeman
  • Alan Dale is runner-up in international short story competition

    Alan Dale is runner-up in international short story competition

    Congratulations to Woking Writers Circle member Alan Dale, who has won second prize in an annual short story competition organised by the British Czech and Slovak Association (BCSA). The BCSA was launched by Alexander Dubcek in 1990 and aims to be “a major British, Czech and Slovak platform where awareness is raised and ongoing dialogue promoted about Britain, the Czech and Slovak Republics and their cultures. This includes the history, arts, literature, economies, science, and contemporary socio-political matters that affect British, Czech and Slovak relations.”

    Alan’s story is titled ‘To the Vacillator: A Scythe’. He said: “It’s about a nuclear design engineer who’s too afraid to blow the whistle, having discovered a potentially lethal design flaw in the Hradec nuclear reactor [in the Czech Republic] … Meanwhile, his wife is dying a slow, agonising death, from an as yet undiagnosed illness.”

    Alan has also recently written a blogpost for The Writers Bureau, in which he outlines his own writing methods and offers some tips for getting ideas. “I often start by simply looking around the lounge. My gaze once fell on a lampshade that bore a reproduction of an ancient map of the oceans. It gave me the plot idea for a piece of flash fiction about the quest for a new navigational passage. On another occasion, my glance rested on a miniature Persian rug brought back from our earlier travels. Suddenly, the patterns seemed subtly to alter. Could those patterns actually conceal the printed circuit for a timing device? A story called ‘The Devil’s New Rug’ resulted.

    “My second method is commonplace and no less effective for that. Step away from the desk or keyboard, go for a walk and don’t even consciously try to plot or resolve anything. Just absorb impressions, dialogue, cloudscapes (probably best from the safety of indoors, that one), smells, music, atmosphere (chemical or psychological). Keep pen and paper to hand at night. Many ideas have come to me via dreams.”

    You can read Alan’s full blogpost here. His recently published debut novel, Theta Double Dot,  is available here.

  • ‘All The Lonely People’ by Greg Freeman

    ‘All The Lonely People’ by Greg Freeman

    woking statues 10

     

    ALL THE LONELY PEOPLE

    Sean Henry’s sculptures in Woking town centre

    by Greg Freeman

     

    1 Woman (Being Looked At)

    All eight foot something and then

    some, glowering over shoppers

    at the entrance to the mall.

    Sideways look, window gazing,

    or trying to evade the stares.

    Is that a half-smile? Midriff-revealing

    top, the shortest of shorts.

    Cast work aside, dashed out

    in her break. He hasn’t shown.

    When will she learn?

    She feels a fool, so exposed.

    Last time she does something like this.

    Five minutes longer, no more.

    Tries to pretend she’s not waiting.

    Bit of a Plain Jane, her father once called her,

    when he thought she wasn’t listening.

     

    Sean Henry Greg

     

    2  Standing Man

    Perhaps a coffee in the church café

    before it closes. Cheap if not cheerful.

    Never wanted the job in the first place.

    Maybe should have worn a tie?

    You always muck it up.

    Language, remember where you are.

    That woman hanging around

    in the precinct, might you

    chat her up? Not your type,

    too tall, too young. You’re no

    oil painting, you short-arse,

    your glory days long gone.

    But still … Forget it, best go home,

    get it over with, never grovel,

    but don’t blurt out the first thing in your head.

    Maybe you could write a novel.

     

    woking statues 2

    3  The Wanderer

    I’ll always get work. May not

    look much but I pack a punch.

    The places down this road,

    you should see them late.

    They spill out into the street.

    So, a job on the door.

    Hair cut? I like it this way.

    This town used to have a reputation.

    Less money around, the games they play

    on social media. Who knows?

    Don’t tell me my way of life

    is dying. There’ll always be fools

    out for trouble on a Saturday night.

    My hero? Ian Dury, since you ask.

    Looked great, and had a way with words.

    And Dion and the Belmonts, I suppose.

     

    woking statues 8

    4  Seated Man

    Nothing in or out of the station

    since God knows when. A jumper

    further up the line. Some

    commuters tut-tut loudly,

    mutter No consideration.

    What makes them do it?

    It’s the drivers you feel sorry for,

    need time off to recover.

    Time. What does it matter?

    If not today, then tomorrow.

    All by myself on platform one.

    People looking, schoolkids laughing.

    A working man with skills no longer wanted.

    Tried to keep up appearances, now

    I just don’t care. Everyone needs a destination.

    Makes you want to … no, don’t go there.

     

     

  • Thrilling moment for Alan Dale as he publishes his first novel

    Thrilling moment for Alan Dale as he publishes his first novel

    Many congratulations to Woking Writers Circle member Alan Dale, who has just published his first novel. The title of his thriller is Theta Double Dot, and publishers Austin Macauley describe it thus:

    “Saddled with the project everyone dreaded, Mark Hammond finds himself ensnared in a nightmare that threatens his marriage, career, sanity and, finally, his life. Who are the increasingly violent activists, wreaking havoc, with attacks on petrochemical plants across the UK? Ministerial frustration increases with mounting evidence of police bewilderment. Mark’s problems expand to include an Alaskan community facing annihilation as the Arctic Sea threatens to overwhelm their homeland. Desperate for time and managerial support, he finds himself enmeshed in the ultimate horror; a race against time, to a potentially suicidal showdown. Not even he envisages the terrible endgame.”

    We know Alan fairly well, of course, but it’s always useful to read the publisher’s biog: “Alan Dale is a graduate mechanical engineer, with project management experience in the petrochemical industry. He began writing a few years ago, in his fifties, by enrolling on the Writers Bureau Comprehensive Writing Course. Alan has since had short stories, articles and features published in magazines and online. He lives in Surrey and is a member of the Woking Writers’ Circle.”

    Alan explained further: “When I first received the Writers Bureau prospectus, I looked at all the modules on the Comprehensive Writing Course and noticed the one headed Novel Writing. I thought – dream on! Then I saw something about not having to tackle every subject. Right, I thought, that gets me out of ever having even to try to write a novel. A warm glow of relief suffused me at this point, as it always does when I think I’ve got out of a corner. Loads of assignments down the line, I actually chose …’or write the first chapter of a novel …’ I can’t remember what the alternative was … must have been something about which I knew even less, if that’s possible, like lads’ mags. Anyway, I completed the course, obtained my certificate, then started submitting articles etc. I finally got going on the plot and development a few years later, having plucked up the courage to revisit it. About seven-eight years, one tantalising expression of interest in the first three chapters from an agent and five drafts later, I received an email acceptance from Austin Macauley, offering me my contract. As I subsequently wrote to Peter [WWC chairman], ‘I did what anyone would do in the circumstances – I went out to buy some ant powder!’ (True – I had ants in the kitchen and my mad sense of humour couldn’t resist that one.)

    “The title came about when I was sitting in a dynamics lecture, years before any of this, at uni. The lecturer wrote a differential equation of motion on the board, including theta double dot. As he did so, I had the vision of those two dots above the Greek letter being bullet holes, with the bullets coming out towards me. This lay dormant for about 35 years …” Asked how he felt about being a published novelist, Alan added: “If anyone had told me, as I began the course, or before, that I would one day have a novel published, I’d have asked them what they were on!”

    You can get hold of a copy of Alan’s novel here

     

     

  • Cherry blossom time: how WWC members bloomed in response to a homework theme

    Cherry blossom time: how WWC members bloomed in response to a homework theme

    cherry blossom carla

    Each month members of Woking Writers Circle respond to a “homework” subject set the previous month by producing a piece of work with the subject as the theme. Some more than others, it has to be said. It’s not compulsory, of course! But in April Carla Scarano D’Antonio’s offerings on haiku and the Japanese haiku master Basho inspired the homework theme of “cherry blossom”, one of Japan’s national symbols. And that in turn resulted in a remarkable amount of work read out at our May meeting. So much so, that we thought we’d like to share the results on our website.

     

    The first poem is by Carla herself. Although she did not read it out at May’s meeting, it does mention cherry blossom. Carla says: “It is a sequence I was working on for a while and completed at a workshop with Jean Sprackland at the Poetry School a few weeks ago. She gave us a map (mine was from north Devon) and told us to choose some landmarks and write about it in a sort of journey.”

     

    MENTAL MAPPING, LANDMARKS

    by Carla Scarano D’Antonio

     

    Locked crocuses, blade petals

    Lower Slade stretching

    in the frost.

     

    Daffodil bulbs

    in Homebase plastic nets

    crave for the moon.

     

    Purple and white hyacinths

    in flower pots

    along the rage of the pool.

     

    Holiday Village hosts

    scarlet camellia bush,

    unreliable desire.

     

    Fanciful magnolia tree

    rooted at the Industrial Estate

    like a scarecrow.

     

    Wisteria grips

    at the Green Park Farm walls,

    starving love.

     

    Antique hawthorn

    snow flakes freezing in the sun

    frogs chanting in the Moor.

     

    Lee Hills melting in rain

    cherry blossoms

    fading in glory.

     

    The violated rose bush

    grew wider at Ilfracombe College,

    its perfume thicker.

     

    Higher Slade paved with

    chemical blue hydrangea

    rainbow colours.

     

    Tricia Mcnamee’s ‘Cherry Blossom/Broken Hearts’ comes in two versions. Both comprise four haiku plus a final couplet. The phrase ‘mono no aware’ – a sensitivity to ephemera – features in both.

     

    CHERRY BLOSSOMS/BROKEN HEARTS (1)

    by Tricia Mcnamee

     

    Song of young Japan

    Winter Sakura, flowering

    Painted on war planes

     

    Drunk, toxicity

    Blooms like life ephemeral

    Kamikaze flights

     

    Nepal to Iran

    Exquisite beauty rises

    As warriors fall

     

    Karmic cherry blossom clouds

    Abundant petals tinged pink

    Mono no aware

     

    As the seasons set apart

    Tree that stole a nation’s heart

     

    ‘Mono no aware’ is a Japanese term for a sensitivity to ephemera, and the awareness of impermanence

     

     

     

    CHERRY BLOSSOMS/BROKEN HEARTS (2)

    by Tricia Mcnamee

     

    Karmic cherry blossom clouds

    Abundant petals tinged pink

    Painted on war planes

     

    Drink, eat like green tea

    Blooms ephemeral as life

    Kamikaze flights

     

    Nepal to Iran

    Exquisite beauty rises

    As warriors fall

     

    Song of young Japan

    Winter Sakura, weeping

    Mono no aware

     

    As the seasons cycle starts

    Women folk with broken hearts

     

     

     

    Greg Freeman’s poem also mentions kamikaze pilots. There are also references to Cherry Blossom shoe polish in the shining boots of first world war soldiers and the rough leather of the GIs’ boots, to which the Americans attributed their lack of success at impressing Japanese girls.

     

    cherry blossom 3CHERRY BLOSSOM

    by Greg Freeman

     

    Unknown soldier abandoned in the mud

    and blood; his boots, miraculously,

    still gleaming. Leather guarded

    against weather. Demand

    blossomed on the western front.

     

    Boots on the ground. GIs found

    that Tokyo girls they took a shine

    to weren’t swept off their feet.

    Blamed their lack of polish,

    their rough, scuffed look.

     

    But it was much, much more than that,

    not just what it said on the tin, its

    fish-plate opener, the superficial sheen.

    Occupying Japanese soldiers

    often planted cherry trees.

     

    Temperate zone of the northern

    hemisphere. Drinking sake under

    the branches. Militaristic plotters

    assumed the name. Suicidal pilots

    painted them on the sides of planes.

     

    The blossoms symbolised clouds

    in a nation’s culture. O, what

    a cloud. And such brightness.

    Just shadows left on walls.

    The ephemerality of lives.

     

     

    Heather Cook has two poems relating to the cherry blossom theme. The first, ‘Cherry Blossom’, seeks to capture a fleeting memory of her mother sitting under cherry trees. The second poem, ‘The Virgin of El Panecillo’, tells of tourists visiting a huge aluminium statue above Quito and being disenchanted. The statue was upstaged by a man polishing shoes – you’ve guessed – with Cherry Blossom polish!

     

     

    CHERRY BLOSSOM

     by Heather Cook

     

    I leave her sitting on the bench,

    small and fragile in her floral dress.

    Above her head the blossom froths,

    releasing petals in confetti drifts.

    She’d wanted me to go,

    but as I climb the hill

    I sense her worrying,

    her thin hands fluttering.

    I wave. For moments all I see

    Is blossom, pale and shifting,

    but then a doll’s hand lifts;

    I cannot see her face,

    but know she’s smiling.

    A sense of endings overwhelms

    and I return, to gather memories

    while there’s time.

     

     

     

    THE VIRGIN OF EL PANECILLO –

    A WOMAN CLOTHED WITH THE SUN

    by Heather Cook

     

    cherry blossom 5Coaches click, tick and cool by dusty trees.

    We have been disgorged to seek the Virgin

    and be back by twelve.

    Up close, the woman clothed with the sun

    cannot be seen, cannot be understood.

    Our guide is fraught: we must not stray;

    we must stay in our groups.

    She flares at rivals, waves them off:

    ‘Only blue stickers! You are stickered red!’

    We are blue stickered. There is comfort in belonging.

    Unable to see more than the snake the Virgin treads on,

    attention wanders; splinter groups rebel

    and shuffle off in search of plastic Virgins.

    Below, in leafy shade, an old man polishes shoes,

    watched by a boy and a sandy dog.

    The man’s hand moves in slow circles,

    massaging the leather; he spits, buffs, smiles.

    He has no teeth.

    ‘Best Cherry Blossom!’ he calls, ‘best in the world!’

    Sun strikes the dancing Virgin

    and the sky flashes. It’s five to twelve.

     

     

    Liz Lennie used an intriguing approach at our WWC meeting, writing individual lines of a poem, ‘Sakura for Carla’, on separate strips of paper. These were handed out and put together in different configurations by those present. Each line contained a complete thought, so each poem ‘worked’. This is Liz’s own version:

     

    SAKURA

    by Liz Lennie

    for Carla

     

    Cherry blossom time!

    Bare twigs burst with bright bloom

    My heart lifts – and flies

     

    Petals fall, my thoughts rise

    And I write in gratitude

    For life and for love

     

    These words, me to you

    Ripple over a deep pool

    To reach every shore

     

    Alan Dale’s short story ‘Signed Off’ features cherry trees and a couple under threat from bailiffs. There is humour  but also sadness in this story.

     

    SIGNED OFF

    by Alan Dale

     

    “They look lovely at this time of year, don’t they?” Stifling a sob, Jill glanced at Matt.

    “I know, love.”

    They contemplated the rows of cherry trees, their trunks beckoning, like ballerinas’ legs, under a wind-teased billowing of pink.

    Matt sighed, placing a hirsute, brawny arm around her shoulders. “We did our best, love. We can’t sell cherries at Stoughton’s new price and they’re the only important customer now, ‘cos of the volume they take.”

    “Matt, I feel those trees are calling to us. It’s as if they know what’s going to happen to them, once we’ve gone.”

    “Folk’ve got to live somewhere. I’d do anything to stop all this, but…”

    Gravel scrunched, tyres squealed, a car door clumped. Rapid footfalls pounded. The kitchen door exploded open.

    “Liam – we weren’t expecting you ‘till Thursday,” said Matt. Everything OK?” Liam opened his mouth to reply, saw his mother’s devastated expression and swallowed. Matt felt the silence smothering them all.

    “I’m OK,” said Liam quietly,  “and once you’ve heard this, both of you will be – trust me.”

    “Go, on,” said Matt.

    “I’ve found a company who’ll give you a loan, keep you afloat and sort the debts.”

    Matt and Jill gaped at each other.

    “Guy I work with, on the equities desk – turns out his uncle’s a director of Fructigro.”

    “Isn’t that one of the big agribusiness outfits?” said Matt. His wife grimaced.

    “No, Dad, you’re thinking of Futurecitrus. They’re massive, but Fructigro’s a relatively small company – they’re growers, like you. Anyway, we talked and I explained, without going into too much detail, if you get my drift, where you were, financially. Now, what they need is a reliable source of really class, established rootstock, for grafting. Bottom line – you let them have grafting stock, you get the loan. I mentioned the sum you’ve both been after – no problem.”

    “Thanks, son. I really appreciate that.” Matt gulped. “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, since you chose the city rather than following me, here.”

    “Forget it.” Liam shrugged.

    “When can I meet their boss, to discuss details, so we could sign up to this?”

    “He’s in Hawaii for three weeks. I could fix something after that.”

    “Yeah, the only thing is, I really ought to…”

    “Matt, the bailiffs’ll be here at eight o’clock tomorrow.” Jill’s face was becoming crimson. “For God’s sake, think. Someone must be able to deal with this, if he’s away.”

    “Give me five with Rupert, Dad.” Liam was already jabbing at his phone. “Rupes – Liam – how goes it? Did she – told you, didn’t I? They always go for that. About this Fructigro thing – it’s now balls out, mega urgent, yeah?”

    Gill winced. Matt gave a spluttering snigger.

    “Right, email me the contract and declaration, he’ll sign and give bank details. I’ll scan and patch it straight back. No they haven’t. Don’t go there, mate, OK? And could you then get Tobes to transfer the cash, so’s they can stall these bastards off? Top man. Go.” He hung up, grinning at his parents.

    “All sorted – Dad, you sign and include your bank details, you’ll have the cash in the morning. You can tell the bailiffs its coming and stall them.”

    “Matt, do you think we should give these people our bank details like that – email’s not secure, is it?” Jill had calmed to a cherry red, but her brows were drawn right down, a sign Matt recognised from years of marriage.

    “You said think – I think we’ve no choice.” He turned to Liam. “Thank you, son. What was that declaration I heard you mention?”

    “Oh, all that says is ‘we only supply traceable British products, cultivated for Fructgro’.” Liam shrugged.

    “You know what these lawyers are like – still, it looks good and covers you, I guess.”

    “Oh, I see – that’s OK, isn’t it?” said Jill, looking up at Matt.

    “Yes, that’s fine. It’ll be true, so no harm done, far as I can see.”

    *

    A week passed, in which the bailiffs were dealt with, while creditors were mollified. The following Monday, a van and lorry arrived, as arranged. Several men got out and unloaded hacksaws, gloves and various other tools. Matt greeted the florid, portly foreman, and led them all into the orchard, to take their first grafting cuttings. Matt noticed that they all wore jackets with a cherry tree logo, but no wording. He went back indoors, glad of a chance to sit down. Several hours later, their laden lorry had departed.

    *

    That weekend, he and Gill went away for a weekend break. “Let’s have a walk over that field – look, there’s a public footpath,” said Matt. Woods to their right led to a chain link fence.

    Matt stopped in his tracks. A path led off the main track, to a set of high, barbed wire-topped gates. A huge cherry tree logo, identical to those on the visiting Fructigro staff’s jackets crowned one of the extensive, white concrete buildings that stretched away into the distance.

    “What the hell?” muttered Matt.

    “Oh, my God,” whispered Jill.

    “What?”

    “That logo…”

    “Yes, I noticed that – the men wore it, the other day, didn’t they?”

    “Yes, but Matt, look, this place is huge – Liam said it was only a small company – small growers, he said, that’s right – you remember.”

    “Probably their offices and stores.”

    “I don’t think so. Look at all those glass cabinets and all that stainless steel piping in there.” Jill was breathing heavily now. “Hang on, what’s that, over there?”

    She walked over to the gate and picked up what looked to Matt like the remains of an estate agent’s ‘For Sale’ sign.

    “What’ve you got there?” he called.

    Silently, Jill turned the tattered, splintered sign board to face him.

    Fructigro Out – NO GM Cherries! he read.

     

    PICTURES OF CHERRY BLOSSOM TREES BY CARLA SCARANO D’ANTONIO

     

    Copyright remains with the authors

     

     

  • ‘Ashford Hospital – Dickens Ward’: Heather Cook’s poem about her hospital stay

    ‘Ashford Hospital – Dickens Ward’: Heather Cook’s poem about her hospital stay

    A recent hip replacement at Ashford hospital inspired Heather Cook to write this poem, below. Although the tone is light, Heather was fascinated by several aspects of her brief sojourn, including the sharing of personal revelations on the women’s ward and the feeling of being cut off from the world. This year marks the 70th anniversary of the founding of the National Health Service

     

    ASHFORD HOSPITAL – DICKENS WARD

    Enid, Sandra, Tina, Sue and me –

    How close we grow these short November days,

    Believing we will follow diverse roads

    We bare our souls through jagged nights of pain.

    A wheeze of tight-lipped suffering escapes

    From Robert, John and Stan across the way;

    No revelations ease them through the night

    Or speed the clock hands during empty days.

    We gaze across the sterile hinterland

    At Tesco’s – more remote than Kathmandu –

    And fantasise about the distant dream

    Of nipping unaccompanied to the loo.

    Heather Cook 

  • How Can I Live With This?

    How Can I Live With This?

     

    Ramzan Hakamali’s contributions to Woking Writers Circle meetings are often thoughtful, and funny, too. This piece, titled How Can I live With This?, in response to a recent homework topic, is a typical example of Ramzan’s style:

     

    “Oi mate, the twin towers have collapsed.”  This was a statement from a skeleton lookalike, Trevor, our security guard.  You see he was trying to make himself useful, from a stressful life of sitting around on his backside all bloody day.

    The picture in my mind never got the image as to what he was on about until I got home that awful day and switched on the television.  I watched in total horror and straight away switched off the damn thing and staggered out of the house.  I had done the same by going for a walk when I had found out about the Dunblane massacre, to absorb the devastating news.  Getting back home after the walk hadn’t changed what I had witnessed.  I wanted my mind to work out that what had happened was a reality.

    Many years ago when some of you were not born I was listening to lovely Indian songs from the Voice of Kenya radio when the service was rudely interrupted by the announcer who said that John F Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas.  I was a child in Africa and it still had an impact on me for something that happened thousands of miles away.

    Another painful event was when a prominent Kenyan minister, Tom Mboya  was gunned down and the emotions were loudly vented out at the funeral services which were broadcast live on the radio. The same route of death was followed by Martin Luther King in Memphis in April 1968.  His funeral was attended by Bobby Kennedy who was himself gunned down in June the same year.

    When my old man died, I knew then that there was no escaping the impact death has had on me.  I had to find a solution to soften it. I reminded myself that I could not carry on living like this, as I often wonder why these incidents are of any concern to me.  I blame the media – or can I actually blame them for highlighting these awful unhappy events?

    So I decided to go into seclusion and to hell with what I heard or saw.  Don’t forget I am getting into old age and on the home run.  For now there is no escaping isolation as this comes with the package.  A hint from a colleague was that living a secluded existence only makes one more concerned about your own selfish wellbeing and this can lead to a slow process into oblivion.

    The only option left was now to change the trend and work my way back into a livelier existence and not give in to heartaching news.  I decided in my mature wisdom to join and adhere to a group or a society.  Thank God I belong to a community where one of the characteristics is to aim to get the best in a worldly sense and pursue a spiritual or inner satisfaction.  A good balance is vital in our lives, or so I have been told, as obsession in either of them can lead to unhappiness – and don’t we all know that so well.

    When Margaret Thatcher, our good lady PM, did the opening ceremony for the Ismaili centre in London, she quoted a famous Islamic poet Allama Iqbal: “For the individual to belong to a society is a blessing.  It is in the community that his work is perfected.”  I may for my part add that humour has played a major role in my life – and laughter, I have just read, is jogging from the inside.

     

  • In Conversation with Nicola May

    In Conversation with Nicola May

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    Last weekend saw the first ever Lightbox literary festival at the Lightbox gallery in Woking. The Lightbox is celebrating its 10th anniversary and while it doesn’t seem like 10 years ago that the award-winning building appeared on the canal side, it’s hard to imagine the town without it.

    I was asked to lead the questions to Nicola May, writer of romantic comedies and self-published to published success story. I was very happy to do so. Nicola started out with a novel, Working it Out, and a pile of rejection letters from publishers. Rather than giving up, Nicola self-published her novel, and wrote and published several more. Her success had led her to a publishing deal and her latest novel, Love me Tinder, is available from WH Smiths travel and was one of the Sun’s paperbacks of the week.

    As the author of one self-published romance novel, Mighty Like a Rose, I was keen to hear the secrets of her success, as were the aspiring authors who made up most of the audience in the Ambassadors room.

    As well as the tenacity shown throughout her career, Nicola spoke of the importance of knowing your market. This means knowing how many words your book should be, finding a title that catches the eye of your market and even collaring unsuspecting supermarket shoppers and asking what they think of your cover! Marketing and social media are a huge part of an author’s life and we chatted about using Twitter and Facebook to engage with fans.

    For the aspiring authors in the audience (and for me) the conversation was full of positive, practical steps that authors could apply to their own work, whether it be romance or anything else. Nicola has made mistakes and had setbacks on the way, and had a few strokes of luck. But ultimately she puts her achievements down to “persistence over resistance”. Nicola is currently working on her ninth book, eagerly awaited by her fans.

    For the writers in the room, the talk may inspire them to take the plunge and finish that novel, and it will also help them avoid some easy but frustrating mistakes.

    Nicola May writes romantic comedies, find out more at http://www.nicolamay.com/

    Catherine Rogan writes under the pen name of Kitty Campanile. Buy her books from Amazon.