Anna Maxted's Blog

The head of literacy at my sons' school has asked me to give a workshop to Year 3. Sixty eight-year olds. I'm slightly frightened, as I can barely cope with one. However, I intend to keep them busy - sorry, as I'm writing this, a black cat is staring at me from outside the window - quite disconcerting - as I was saying, I intend to keep them busy by posing the question: 'What makes a good story?'

I am hoping they'll give me some insights... These children, I should add, studied A Midsummer Night's Dream last term, and were so inspired, they wrote their own sonnets. My 8-year old son was fascinated - by the story and the language - so much so, that I bought him the movie version (starring Rupert Everett so we were all happy) on DVD. He watched it from start to end. This is a child who is picky about books, and reading - he favours Ottoline, some Dahl, The Secret Garden, and not much else. But Shakey made the grade!

I think we know a good story instinctively; often it's easier to identify what is not a good story, because you're left feeling flat and dissatisfied. The structure, the plot, the characters - all are essential components, and if one is lacking, the rest suffers. But after that, what makes a story good is personal - it has to resonate with you. My 8-year old, a keen footballer, is unmoved by the many books he's given to read about football, and yet, for some reason, he is mesmerised by the tale of sad, cold, orphan Mary, who is sent from India to live with her strange uncle in Yorkshire, and who becomes friends with a robin.

This is the power of the story, isn't it - that when you write, you never know who you will reach, or exactly why. (I remember reading in the Sunday Mirror, quite a few years ago, that a serial killer, interviewed from prison, had listed one of my novels - hand on heart, this is the truth - I think it was Being Committed - as one of his favourites.) I probably won't be mentioning that tomorrow.

I suspect I am going to start by pinching an idea from John Le Carre - interviewed in The Times recently, he compared the sentences, 'The cat sat on the mat' with 'The cat sat on the dog's mat.'  One was just an observation, he said, the other was the beginning of a story.... 

Oh I know. Not a word - on here at least - for ages. Well. It's been a hectic few years. Raising three children, I'm not quite sure what I expected... ! Also, when you write for a living, often about your own life, informing the world about the minutiae of your day can feel a little excessive. Tweeting has been a snappier way of avoiding becoming a recluse, although recently, I've neglected that too. Though I've noticed a disturbing correlation between the frequency of my tweets, and the number of followers I lose. I find a nice cat-related tweet prompts a good clear out.

Editing fiction, via the Book Clinic, has been a pleasure. I particularly had fun working with Kate LeDonne; it was so rewarding to see how my notes helped her to craft her novel into shape. Often, as an author, you're so close to the material that it's hard to see where you're going wrong. You have the ability, the story, the characters - you just need a little guidance in the fine-tuning. It's exciting to be able to help someone with that; like nurturing a butterfly out of its chrysalis....

I should also mention how pleased I was to be asked to contribute a tale to the first collection of stories to be published by Good Housekeeping on the theme of Great Lovers. My story, The Dressmaker, is set partly during World War II and its aftermath, and the late 1990s. If you've read it, I do hope you enjoyed it.

Now, as an apology for going AWOL, I thought I'd include some input from those responsible for my absence. So; some questions my boys have recently asked, and a recipe from my husband....

* (8-year old) 'Ladies don't do dirty work, do they, Mummy?

* (6-year old) 'Is this a nit on my finger?'

* (8-year old) 'Do cats mind if you see their bottom?'

* (10-year old) 'Can we have dessert?'

* (8-year old) 'When will Uncle Thomas marry?'

BEER-BATTERED COD

(I am deciphering this recipe from my husband's notebook)

Season fish with salt

batter: one part flour to one part beer. Salt. Ditch any batter older than ten minutes.

heat oil to medium hot

dry fish fillet (haddock or cod), flour and season

roll in batter and fry one at a time until golden

drizzle batter on top as it fries to create more crunch.

8 minutes per fish. (When it goes in, let it sit and cook. And if there's a breakage, flip it over and add a spoon of batter to seal.)

Serve. (Will sit and still be crunchy and hot for thirty minutes on a paper towel or wire rack.)

TARTARE SAUCE with sour cream and coriander

1/2 cup coriander, 2tsp capers, and cornichons, 1/2 cup mayonnaise, tablespoon sour cream 3-4 glugs of fish sauce, pepper. Then shoozch it up. Tip out, refrigerate.

He says, serve it with chips (OBVIOUSLY!)  please can I GO ON YOUR COMPITER< excuse me, I left my desk for a second and returned to message from eldest son.

Anyway, all the best, and I'll write again soon... at least... I hope I will....! 

Well it's one thing knowing that you look a bit rough in the morning – advanced age of thirty-one-eleven, intermittent sleep, thousands of children (okay, three, but it's still a load), a half-mauled sparrow at large in basement courtesy of killer cat, plus other family stresses, the type we all face sooner or later but that are nonetheless sapping of spirit – but whatever the reasons I don't look photo-fabulous, it's quite a shock to have six million people witness your non-beauteous visage – and for a bunch of them to comment on it in a mean, cold way.

I say this because today I have a piece in the Daily Mail, with my husband Phil Robinson, entitled 'Could you photoFit your other half?'

The photographer came round two hours before our deadline, objected to what I was wearing (they don't like black, or trousers, or anything approaching black, or trousers, so my deep blue harem pants were, politely, vetoed – 'don't get me wrong,' purred the snapper, 'I think they're incredibly stylish etc'), so having dug a hideous flowery dress out of the recesses of my cupboard and glared at him while worrying if I'd be able to finish the feature and collect my son from cricket and feed a gaggle of fussy eaters (food must be distinct and identifiable on the plate) an acceptable dinner – I didn't look like a Gisele or a Helena.

Oh yes and I am too lazy to wear make-up – it makes my eyes swell and turns me into the human version of a puff-adder, consequently, on page 21 today of one of our bestselling national newspapers, I look as plain as the nose on my face.

And yet, comments like 'she's got bags under her eyes' and 'these drawings take twenty years off her' just got to me. It's true that the internet has turned half the world into sociopaths – you can say all the cowardly mean-spirited piggish things to people that you presumably wouldn't dare say to their face – with no consequence at all to yourself (although, possibly, your arteries clog with the mucus-like goo naturally produced by an evil aura.)

Having ranted, I feel better – but I also wanted to say that writing this feature was enormous fun and actually, an honour – mainly because I got to (virtually) meet forensic artist Carrie Stuart Parks – www.stuartparks.com – and her husband FBI Visual Information Specialist Rick Parks. Not only were they obliging, fun, and delightful – isn't it funny how the most successful people can be the most generous and kind-hearted? – Carrie managed to translate my bumbling description of Phil into a near identical sketch of him.

Check it out on the Daily Mail website – it's amazing. All I did was describe him, in six lines, and send her a couple of images of people I think he looks like (with the reasons why.) Then from 6,000 miles away, having never set eyes on Phil, she produced a drawing of him that was so close – and after a few extra pointers from me – managed to pluck his image from my consciousness onto the page. She's been a forensic artist for over 25 years, creating likenesses of suspects, from witness statements – what a gift.

My six-year old is a pretty committed artist, so I'm going to order one of her books – Secrets to Drawing Realistic Faces. Rick - who runs forensic art courses with her attended by the FBI and The Secret Service, among other law enforcement agencies - sent me an example of what they do; after two days of instruction, one female officer drew a sketch of a man that wouldn't disgrace a professional – two days earlier, her artwork resembled that of my 4-year old! Just brilliant!

Having had the opportunity to work with them was such a pleasure - and I suppose one just has to remember that this world is full of smart, wonderful talented people – not just those who comment meanly underneath Daily Mail articles. 

My Book Clinic is open for business - it's very exciting - please do check out the page!

I'd like, if I may, to put this new venture in context. The other day, I  thanked a friend  who'd done me a favour. She replied, 'I like to help people.' It struck me as a confident thing to say of oneself - I admired her for saying it, because like many women, I feel if I say anything nice about myself it sounds like boasting. That's quite a silly, reductive way to live, I realise. Of course we must proclaim our virtues - now and then (constantly would be a bit much). So all I want to say, with regard to the Book Clinic is, I like helping people - there, I said it!  

Hello, all!  This is a terrible habit of mine – disappearing for the length of the school year. Can't think why that might be.

Incidentally, today one of the papers noted with surprise the number of parent bloggers; how do these mothers have the time? My day begins at 5.45, when the 4-year old wanders into our bedroom. I try to ignore him and continue sleeping, but he is always in possession of a token item that commands parental attention – a needle, for example.

The older boys get up at an entirely more civilised quarter to seven, but in the short window between 6.45 and 8.50, manage to turn the house into a war zone and me into a nervous wreck. The four-year old has recently discovered the power of 'the gesture.'

'He made a gesture at me!' shouts the six-year old, as I grip my coffee cup.

'No I didn't' bellows the four-year old – he speaks as if addressing a stadium, always - 'I did it this way – it means "peace"!'

I have blanked the child, berated him, threatened and bribed him. No effect. Finally, the older ones can bear it no longer and leap on him. I wouldn't say they're the innocent parties: they're both highly-trained experts in psychological torture. They coyly, slyly, slowly, maliciously drive the four-year old crazy with frustration – they goad that kid into making 'the gesture.' 

The fight, when it happens – imagine three cats, clawing and biting in a cloud of dust. No matter how good-natured a feline, if his survival is at stake, instinct takes over and he becomes feral. My boys (don't want to malign anyone else's) are similar; I can bark orders till I'm hoarse but they don't hear me.

By the time we're walking to school, they're all refreshed and bouncy from the adrenalin rush of battle; meanwhile my blood flows fast like a river about to burst its banks, and the tendons in my neck are rigid like steel.

Then it's work, washing, work, supermarket, work, tidying; work; and I'm the last at pick-up again.

Upon the boys' return, I am like a frog leaping from lily pad to lily pad – let's go to the park – and now see a friend – aha it's TV time – and a break for dinner – bath! We've made it to bath time! Stories! Goodnight, my delicious piglets, yes!

And the triumphant creep downstairs, to husband making dinner, and the possibility of a good murder (Spiral, I mean, or Wallander) because let's not claim to be doing anything too fabulous on a weeknight – then, just as I'm sitting down to eat, a plaintive squeak of ''Mummy, I heard a noise....' .

'Darling, it was just the cat, talking to his cat friends. Now go to sleep. I beg you!'  

'Can I sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag?'

'You can sleep upside down, hanging from the ceiling like a bat, if you wish, just – please – sleep!'

The holidays should be fun – but don't expect to hear from me any time soon....

I must apologise for the long silence. I have been indulging myself researching my next novel. If you think I have neglected this blog, you might want a word with my children.... I jest... That said, the three year old was discovered, asleep, naked on the bathroom floor at 4pm today. We had wondered why it was so delightfully quiet in the house...

This next book is partly set during World War II, and there is quite a bit to read on that era... I have also had the honour of interviewing a few of those who lived through it - I feel very fortunate and I have all but lost myself in that world. And of course once I visited the Imperial War Museum and started to imagine what it must have been like, it was a struggle to surface.... So far I have written about one third of the new book... 

Rather sweetly, some of the parents and teachers at my son's school bid (in a silent raffle to raise money) to be a character in the novel! I suggested the idea, because I couldn't think of much else that I could offer (no holiday homes in Italy, damnit!) - and it was a happy surprise that anyone bid at all... One of the mothers, Charlotte Parfitt-Reid, was the winner - and I'm so pleased, because apart from anything else, her lovely smart name exactly suits one of my characters. And rather touchingly, she confessed that she didn't mind if she was good... or bad... She'll regret that, heheheh....

Anyway, I shall keep this short, because I should probably try to get to bed before midnight (never do). Oh for goodness sake, have just noticed that the other cat, Disco, is sprawled on the cream sofa, instead of on the Sponge Bob blanket. He's so handsome I could forgive him anything except, maybe, Whiskas Chicken vomit on the one item in the house that is to the casual eye, unsullied...

My seven-year old son is learning about punctuation.  I saw that he'd written in his textbook: 'a bunch of banana's.'  In a high, squeaky, panic-ridden voice, I told him: 'There is no apostrophe in two bananas!'

He's a smart kid, and I know he'll get it right soon enough. He lives in a house where every time someone says 'should've', I bark: 'Should have, not should of. Should of doesn't make sense!' I mean to say this so many times to my kids that they are bored out of their skulls into getting it right. 

I know I'm hateful but I also bore them (and my husband) into respecting the difference between 'less' and 'fewer'. If you say 'less sweets', then you will receive fewer sweets than your brother.

Apart from being as mean as a snake as far as speaking and writing correctly are concerned (take that sharp knife 'from the baby' not off the baby- oh just TAKE IT!) I am a reasonable mother. But there is something about people who misuse the English language that makes me furious. The other week, I saw a piece of work pinned to a wall in my son's school. The teacher had written something to the effect of 'I should of known!'

Yes, you should have known, and perhaps you shouldn't have become a teacher, because you are, astonishingly, ignorant of the correct construction of the past tense and it depresses me to think that the likes of you are paid to teach my children basic English. Are people lazy or stupid or both?  How did that person get through – and worryingly, pass, her teacher training course?

I worry that this disregard for language is indicative of an underlying carelessness and arrogance in society.  There is a belief among some that you can succeed with minimum effort by cheating others: misleading people about the extent of your abilities. And maybe you can.

If you look to the right of this blog, you'll see an ad (unless they subsequently withdraw it and I hope they do, for it is lowering the tone of the site) entitled 'PR For Authors' – it boasts 'a 72 Point's book PR package.' Plainly, these advertisers don't understand a concept that my seven-year old is about to master: that there is NO APOSTROPHE in a plural.  It's unlikely therefore, that any author would want to trust them with a sentence, let alone a book.

Meanwhile, if there is cause for an apostrophe, it's invariably omitted. There was an item on the news recently, about the early sexualisation of girls. Some stores sell padded bras for 11-year olds, and one of the pieces of clothing featured was a t-shirt bearing the slogan 'Future Footballers Wife.'

While spluttering in horror at the idea that someone would try to sell a padded bra to an 11-year old, I was as horrified by the slogan on the t-shirt. 'They haven't put an apostrophe in 'Footballer's!' I blurted to my husband. Even if the 11 year old planned to be the future wife of more than one footballer, this would still merit an apostrophe after the 's' of footballers.

I was forty last year, and have been in a bad mood ever since, so you must excuse me. Also, having three boys (the eldest is seven) has eroded my parental principles. Because I am too tired to argue from 6.30am to 9.30pm, my children often eat their dinner in front of the TV, fight each other frequently and violently, and rarely tidy up. But by heaven, they will know the correct use of the apostrophe if it kills me! It probably will.

The craziest thing: BETRAYAL – aka RICH AGAIN - featured on this Monday's EastEnders! (11th January 2010). You could have knocked me down with a feather! Fevah, I should say, because that's how they'd say it in Walford.

EastEnders – for anyone who lives on Mars - is one of the most popular soaps in the UK and has been going for 25 years. It is broadcast four times a week on BBC1, and is repeated on Sundays and has something like 12 million viewers.  

Some of the characters had set up a book club – and BETRAYAL was their book of the week! They all walked in holding a copy – which made me giggle because, oh for goodness sake, I was, practically, on EastEnders! EastEnders! This is the Essex equivalent of sitting in the Queen's parlour at Buckingham Palace!

One of the girls summarised it as: 'Hollywood glamour, sex, betrayal and revenge!' and the camera panned in on the book cover. It was all of ten seconds, and I am humbly aware that they only chose it because the title fitted the plot (one character had betrayed another) not because the scriptwriters were awed by my brilliance.

Oh never mind that! It was an unexpected thrill – like the time I saw Clive Owen trotting towards me with a grin, as I tried to persuade my 4-year old to sit in his buggy (his buggy, not Clive Owen's...). I am silly and starstruck and really should be working on my edits.... sigh...but thank you for allowing me the moment....Here's the link, although I'm not sure if it will work after this Sunday (technology is not my talent.)

http://bbc.co.uk/i/pyl4n/



When my first novel Getting Over It was published in the US, I was invited to give a talk to the American Library Association. As if this wasn't terrifying enough, I was introduced with the words: 'Anna's heroine has more sex than anyone I know.'

'Yes,' I bleated, trapped on the podium with hundreds of people staring accusingly up at me. 'But it's mostly very bad sex.'

Afterwards, I checked – and there were three occasions on which my poor heroine, Helen, got lucky (or not). The woman who introduced me must have had very chaste friends, as the novel spanned a year.

Anyway, I was surprised because when you write your first novel, everyone assumes you have transcribed from your diary. So, for that very reason, and because I knew my mother would read it, I had kept the sex to a minimum. And yet, despite taking precautions, here was I being accused of nymphomania!

Then my husband attempted to read Getting Over It and failed, announcing 'it feels like you're being unfaithful.'

After that bombshell, the sex in my novels dwindled. I didn't deprive my heroines – but there was less bedroom detail. I think, at least when reading women's fiction, people prefer to use their imagination. When confronted with a vagina on the page, I start wincing away from it. I don't mean to be sexist – I'm not keen on anything upright and purple in my chick lit either.

But with RICH AGAIN (out as BETRAYAL by Sasha Blake in the UK) I more than made up for all those years of repression. This novel was a change of direction; a book in the tradition of Jackie Collins. And a book of that genre surely has a duty to include a bit of hanky panky – and I included more than a bit. My lead character, Innocence, uses sex to get what she wants and very much enjoys it. Now I think about it, so do most of the characters.

With this in mind, I don't want anyone choking on their marmalade and toast, so if you, say, approved of the scene in Emma where Jane Austen draws a veil over Mr Knightley's proposal, I suggest that you don't read RICH AGAIN until a robust friend has made what my friends at the Daily Telegraph call a 'breakfast table edit.'

I admit I wished for just a glimpse of a kiss between Emma and Mr Knightley to satisfy my own fluttering heart, having invested so much in their relationship. And yet (while this might not be apparent on reading RICH AGAIN) I err on the side of Austen as far as sex is concerned.

In publishing, after you submit your 'first draft' it bounces back with editorial comments at least three times before it's fit to print. Anyway, each time the RICH AGAIN edits came back I thought 'this is disgusting!' and used up several red pens deleting upright purple business. I can't imagine how much smut was in there to begin with, because it's not as if the book is grandma-friendly now. (I have successfully delayed sending my grandma a copy for the past six months.)

I didn't regret the self-censorship - a writer friend told me that his 9 year old daughter had, unpermitted, found one of his racier novels. She'd burst into tears and sobbed, 'Daddy, why did you write those disgusting things?!' Of course, we all laughed in horror – part of my horror was the realisation that at some point I am going to have to account to my three sons for the disgusting things I wrote.

My next novel is going to be about a nun.



I claimed to have finished THE WISH, the other week.  As I have now received my edits, I realise this was a lie. You have a good editor if her notes make you want to cry. I think it's the dread of confronting 12 pages of your mistakes. Or maybe it's just the dread of all that work. There's also the fact that in publishing, what you submit is breezily called a 'first draft'. First draft! I spent a year and a half crafting this thing! I didn't just bang it out in a couple of weekends!

That said, the editing process is turning out to be, in a warped way, enjoyable. Deleting great swathes of your own work is nastily cathartic – like cutting your own hair.  And after so long bouncing the story around the inside of your own head, it is a relief to get another opinion on your work (even if it is 'chapter 14 is very slow – I suggest you look at this again.') The editor gives you permission to do what you half know you should do but can't quite accomplish without a push.

I've been prompted into cutting quite a bit of my research – which is always a good thing, because you notice when it's all turgid and crammed in there - the poor characters barely have room to breathe for all the facts pinning them to the edges of the book. I always resist starting my research as I fear bothering people – be they friends or strangers – but they usually turn out to be so friendly and obliging that once I start questioning them I can't stop.

Part of THE WISH's storyline involves a crime, and I spoke to some exceptional members of Las Vegas Police Department – and LAPD – who helped me to understand what kind of a person one of my heroes might be (Harry Castillo, his name is; a homicide detective). One interviewee cut short our chat as she was about to 'knock on the door of a house full of felons'! Nerd as I am, I was speechless with admiration. I can barely face down my 7 year old in a row over homework.

So after that, I got carried away and watched about forty episodes of The First 48 – which follows the efforts of various homicide departments around the US in solving murders. Then I read Homicide – A Year on the Killing Streets by David Simon. Then it was hard not to show off about what I'd learned (for example, that in 2009 Las Vegas was up 64 per cent in homicides since Jan 1 - but down 24.9 per cent in 'assaults with guns' – and while that second figure sounds optimistic it is only because, as my female officer drily remarked, 'we've killed 'em!').

The chapter where we first meet Harry, he has been IOJ (injured on duty) and is depressed, which meant that I could have him gloomily thinking about ALL THE STUFF I'D LEARNED. Well, after reading my editor's notes, I chopped that particular chapter in half. Even that extremely interesting and witty observation about assaults with guns: gone!

'Kill your darlings' said my husband, making me want to strangle him. Every writer knows that gnarly old phrase and hates hearing it applied to their precious words. But, annoyingly, it turned out that my darlings were better off dead. The chapter is now light and skips along, free of its dragging burden. I feel regret that readers will never know the full extent of my dazzling expertise regarding police procedure but, well... I suspect they won't.