House Mad

Hi, my name is Nina and I’m a houseaholic.

Instead of writing, I procrastinate my time away surfing property sites dreaming of a life I can not afford. Not by a long shot. Oh, yes, I occasionally scroll around my price range but the choice is so pathetic I much prefer to double the maximum price and drool.

My children are used to my obsession. The first thing I do on any of our travels is pick up the local paper and pour over the property listings. My husband ignores me.

My poor children used to jump up and down with anticipation at the thought of living in a chateau in France. Or a cottage in Dorset. Or a winery in Australia. Or a ranch in Montana…

But years have gone by and I haven’t quite managed to make enough money to buy a porcelain toilet in said chateau, cottage, winery or ranch.

So they’ve started to ignore me as well.

But I love my property sites. So I thought I’d share with you an incredible house I saw on Findaproperty.com. I can’t decide whether it’s fabulous or awful. You tell me. It’s in Hampshire and is on the market for £2,250,000.

I know. Too hilarious.

I’m also an avid fan of housepricecrash.co.uk which as far as I can tell consists of a coffee klatch of male doomsayers waiting for the UK housing market to crash or for the world to end (whichever comes first). They are alternatingly vicious and supportive. I feel quite bonded with these men (with their funny monikers: cynicalsoothsayer, paranoia blue, crunchy, flashman, growler) even though I have never posted. What would I write besides ‘Oh, no, what shall we do?’ ‘What is to become of us????’

Is there an emoticon for wringing your hands?

The other day they all broke into French and I laughed so hard I abandoned all hope of getting any work done.

photo by Climate Patrol (flickr)

Books that have influenced me

Books that have influenced my writing:

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh
World According to Garp by John Irving
The Sound and The Fury by William Faulkner
A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway
Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe
Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

After I first wrote this list I noticed something glaring: how few were written by women.

Where’s Edith Wharton whose House of Mirth shaped my first novel?
What about Doris Lessing? I remember clutching The Golden Notebook as I ran through the rain-streaked streets of Paris. I doubt I understood half of what she was writing about at the time but I knew enough not to let the book out of my sight.
And Fay Weldon who showed me that writing can be punchy and clever and short.
As did the brilliant Marie Darrieussecq whose Pig Tales is electrifying.

Why didn’t I think of their books when I first drew up my list?

Is it because they are women and therefore part of me? That the experiences they wrote about are so internalized that it would be like putting my own books up there?

Or is it because when I was growing up and thinking about becoming a writer, I read what was considered the best literature at that time and that was said to be by men.

And I continued that tradition on my own blog!

So having cleared my head, here is my additional list of books that shaped me:

The Beans of Egypt, Maine by Carolyn Chute
Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank
The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields
Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons
The Shooting Party by Isabel Colegate
Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys
The Awakening by Kate Chopin
Short stories by Isak Dinesen
Every single one of Mary Renault’s books

Old habits die hard.

photo by Liz Henry (flickr)

Searching for my character

I have been searching for my character. And I think I finally found her.

Often I write first and then do my research afterwards. Similarly I had created this character in my mind first and had even written a scene where my protagonist discovers her in the last room of paintings at Kenwood House in Hampstead Heath.

So yesterday, my children and I went to Kenwood to find her. Kenwood House is treasure, filled with paintings by Rembrandt, Turner, Reynolds, Gainsborough and Vermeer. We eagerly walked from room to room, staring up at the paintings, searching for a girl about 11, 12 years old with a wild look in her eye.

But I couldn’t find her. We passed through three times. I was drooping with disappointment. I was facing having to completely delete one of my favorite scenes. We moved on to the gift shop and were idly looking through books and postcards when my eyes lit up.

There she was. In a postcard.

The problem had been that I was looking for someone slightly older. I realized that the painting was going to be the girl as she was before the whole story started.

I asked my daughter to run back through the house to find her. And there she was in the exactly same room I had written in my scene.

She smile down as if to say, You got me!

photo by sara b. (flickr)

I’m back, sort of….

Yes, I’ve been remiss. I came back from Australia over a month ago and haven’t been blogging.

And yes, life—work, children, parents–has gotten in the way. As it should.

But some of it has to with not knowing where to begin again.

Our trip to the north of Western Australia was wonderful. We went camping in Karijini National Park where the earth spectacularly red and forms a gorgeous contrast against the azure sky, the smooth white bark of the trees and the scrubby green bush.

Our campsite was peaceful and remote. At night the Southern Cross blazed in the black sky and a young dingo wandered through, nosing around for scraps. And the bottle of Shiraz each night was…bliss.

Next stop was Coral Bay where the reef stretches just off the beach. All you have to do is wade through the turquoise waters and sink down and swim as if in an aquarium. I held my seven year old son’s hand and watched the locals float by: snapper, clown fish, electric eels, sting rays, lion fish and turtles the size of our lawnmower.

Of course, I was still on London hyper mode and, being so used to everyone wanting to do the exact same thing as I want to do at the exact same time, I arrived at the beach in a sweat.

I rushed up to the man at the boat hiring shack in a tizzy. He was leaning against the counter, his hair dried salty white and stiff, his smile cracked and serene.

I pointed at the lone kayak by the hut. “I’d like to hire that kayak. But I don’t want to hire it now because it’s going to take 15 minutes for us to set up on the beach. Then about 5 minutes to walk back here. So I want it in 20 minutes. Alright?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“So you’re not going to rent it to anyone else, right? I’m reserving it, OK?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure? Do you want me to pay for it now? I can do that,” I said, pulling out the cash.

By this time the man was looking at my husband with that look that signals between them, Is she always like this?

“No worries,” he said. “Too easy, mate. Too easy.”

It took me a while to slow down.

Now, I’m finding it hard to crank back up.

photo by iansand (flickr)

Book Club Queen

The good thing about being a writer is that sometimes when you’re on holiday things happen. Like a review of Believe Me and an interview with the Book Club Queen.

I personally think that internet book reviewers should be given a medal. In a time when it is very difficult to get any sort of publicity they keep the fires burning. Book Club Queen’s site is impressive: interviews, reviews and general news. The amount of work she does must be exhausting. So please take this time to clap with me.

Here’s the review.

Here’s the interview.

It’s been a grand holiday in Western Australia. We went camping in Karijini National Park which is a vast rugged wilderness. We swam in the magnificent cold gorges, letting the warm waterfalls temper the chill. We turned red from the gorgeous iron ore dirt. At night, we camped in the bush and had a young dingo sniffing around at dinner time looking for scraps. And the stars, oh my stars: Orion, the Southern Cross, the Milky Way, all burning bright in an endless black sky.

Next stop was Coral Bay: a pristine, near secluded beach where all we had to do to snorkle was wade through the turquoise water to the deeper blue and look down to find ourselves nose to nose with turtles, sting rays (eek!) , lion fish, parrot fish, pink snapper and beautiful swirls of coral. 

Right now we’re having a lovely stay in Bunbury with my husband’s parents. My daughter is learning to knit and my son is becoming a demon Scrabble player.

At the end of the week, we’re off down south to Margaret River to the wine country. This will be fun….

Oh, and am I getting any writing done? Um….not really.

Gone Surfing

In Australia, on holiday……

A common language

I have been busy turning my novel, Mounting Desire, which is set in Los Angeles, into a play. I am setting it in London in hopes of attracting a British theatre producer. My agent has asked me to make another pass at it to remove the Americanisms. Because as George Bernard Shaw said: England and America are two countries separated by a common language.

Here are just a few examples of the changes I’ve had to make (warning, some of the phrases are slightly x-rated) :

Call it quits. Pack it in. Call it a day.

Picky. Particular.

How’s yours going? How’s yours coming along. (In fact, I had to slash my use of the word got. Brits tend not to say got. As in I’ve got a lucky cup. They would say I have a lucky cup.)

You want some coffee? Would you like a coffee?

Great, just great. Just ticketyboo. (I’m kidding.)

Wanna screw? Fancy a shag?

Get her rocks off. Bring her off. (Or as my agent suggested helpfully: Having a jolly good bunk up.)

Honey. Darling

You da man. (Had to delete the whole idea.)

I better go. I’m off.

Police lieutenant. Detective superintendant

Wow. The British do not say Wow. Ever. (Just been told by two British friends that they say wow all the time. I’ve never heard them, but I do stand corrected.)

Anyway, I hope to be done soon so I can get back to my book. Which I am planning to write completely in Britsh English.

Do wish me luck.

photo by jovike (flickr)

Yankee Doodle Dandy

We American Londoners celebrated the Fourth of July this Saturday. And were a little noisier than usual. For the previous eight years, we’ve been gathering quietly, almost apologetically, to celebrate our common nationality.

This year, we were…well, there is no other way to put this…loud Americans. Singing lustily, accompanied on a banjo.

‘Oh, God,’ I’m sure the Brits who shared the grassy knoll thought, ‘they’re back.’ It was easier on the ears when we slunk around, whispering, shamed by an embarrassing president.

It was a grand picnic. We had deviled eggs. I hadn’t had deviled eggs in….I can’t remember. And too much champagne. Though really can there ever be too much champagne?

We went swimming in the beautiful Hampstead Heath ponds.

Again, loudly.

We even sang Yankee Doodle Dandy.

We made more noise in one night than I think we’d made in the past decade.

So I apologize to those other nationalities at the boat pond on Saturday, trying to enjoy a peaceful summer evening.

It won’t happen again.

I think we got it out of our system.

I think….

photo by Mykl Roventine (flickr)

Blue Plaques

I have a friend who lives in Kentish Town across the street from a blue plaque for George Orwell. Every time she looks out her living room window she’s reminded of literary history.

London is full of these blue plaques which honor people who have lived in the decorated building. There are plaques for Frances Hodgson Burnett, Mahatma Gandhi, Robert Graves, Boris Karloff, T. E. Lawrence, A. A. Milne, Keith Moon, Vincent Van Gogh…the list goes on and on and each one more interesting than the last.

They also honor a large contingent of Americans who lived in London as well: Benjamin Franklin, Jimi hendrix, Herman Melville, John Stuart Mill, Sylvia Plath…

We have fewer blue plaques in our neck of the woods.  Though closer to Highgate there is one for Peter Sellers.

And yes, like any other self-indulgent, pretentious writer, I do dream of my own blue plaque decorating my house some day.

In order to be eligible for an English Heritage blue plaque, I read that a person must have been dead for twenty years or have passed the centenary of their birth. (I’m willing to wait.) They must also be considered eminent by a majority of members of their own profession (Who can I bribe?), have made an outstanding contribution to human welfare or happiness (do my children count, and can we skip this morning when I sounded like a bullhorn?), be recognizable to the well-informed passer-by or deserve national recognition (Oh, dear…).

And in the case of foreigners and overseas visitors, candidates should be of international reputation or significant standing in their own country.

I think I’ll just plant some rose bushes.

photo by flem007_uk

Leaving on a jet plane

Airplanes are amazing things. A long narrow room full of people from all parts of the world, strapped in with nothing to do but talk to you.

On my recent trip to the States. I was lucky enough to be sitting next to two wonderful people.

The first, Sarah, was another woman visiting her ailing mother. In fact it would have been interesting to have taken a poll: How many of you on this flight are traveling to be with an elderly parent?

The other, on the way back, was a fascinating man named Philip, who works in technology security. We ended up talking non-stop about internet hackers, encryption, our technological future, tele-transportation, bionic medicine, and space wars until we were interrupted by the pilot on the intercom saying sorry for the delay but we needed to get off the plane, they still couldn’t fix the broken antenna. We blinked in surprise. We never noticed we hadn’t left the tarmac.

We rush so much through our daily lives. And it’s only when we are seated, polite convention nudging you to say hello to the person next to you and, if you have an ounce of interest and not a particularly interesting book in your bag, to chat. And yes there are some blowhards that have you reaching for the duty free magazine with huge interest. But most times meeting random people and learning what their life is about is like a shot of good cheer in the arm.

It also can make that 7 hour flight fly by.

PS: An extra special hug to the taxi man (Broadway Mini Cabs 020-8348-4848)who waited for me until 1 am even though my plane was three hours late.

photo by Zoagli (Flickr)