tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-342334872024-03-13T06:17:46.001+00:00Ghostly Galleonby Scottish Children's Author, Nicola MorganNicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-35415744147068979432010-08-03T14:29:00.000+01:002010-08-03T14:29:41.240+01:00WHERE HAVE I GONE?I seem to have disappeared but this is only an illusion. I just haven't been in this spot for a while. I've been blogging elsewhere, hanging out on Twitter and a bit on Facebook. I may come back here properly later but, meanwhile, do find me on twitter at @nicolamorgan or on the <a href="http://www.talkaboutwasted.blogspot.com/">Wasted blog</a> or <a href="http://www.helpineedapublisher.blogspot.com/">Help! I Need a Publisher!</a><br />
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Occasionally, I even write books...Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-59343981300443028062009-08-07T08:35:00.013+01:002009-08-09T17:07:30.790+01:00THE END IS NIGHThis is not how my desk is supposed to be.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVKkTlyY1oWTv9xJMS7UI9fSfoUHw2HplKilPNN03CiU8v4XzaPN8i0V0e5NJIHyljV9F0_-K-sBapEVsD33RZQqr8TenDNFeBWYwYpa_Eoor_V2QiuxwxOmcTMQDJYsEKNM-V2Q/s1600-h/photo(9).jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVKkTlyY1oWTv9xJMS7UI9fSfoUHw2HplKilPNN03CiU8v4XzaPN8i0V0e5NJIHyljV9F0_-K-sBapEVsD33RZQqr8TenDNFeBWYwYpa_Eoor_V2QiuxwxOmcTMQDJYsEKNM-V2Q/s400/photo(9).jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367125228735270610" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />This is how my desk is supposed to be.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdDyNR2RIB7BQLOHV0JD7sEB5JF4qiIX5HJxUFdhJt9ixOTMoaQPIlxEBMe65W2hURiiREP82avp6buVRmKj4Cj7kyMRTKbYvYAEpzvqxIPCRBRIwuzjMLHD125PS0H9iK_KnMQ/s1600-h/photo(8).jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdDyNR2RIB7BQLOHV0JD7sEB5JF4qiIX5HJxUFdhJt9ixOTMoaQPIlxEBMe65W2hURiiREP82avp6buVRmKj4Cj7kyMRTKbYvYAEpzvqxIPCRBRIwuzjMLHD125PS0H9iK_KnMQ/s400/photo(8).jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367125102526188690" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And I hope that in a few weeks it will be. In my roundabout way, I am trying to explain (maybe even "show not tell") why this blog has become so much more occasional than it was meant to be. (<a href="http://www.need2bpublished.blogspot.com/">Unlike my other blog</a>, to which I devote more time than I should.)<br /><br />See, I'm supposed to be a writer, sitting there with a lovely notebook and pen, accompanied by a glass of vino, and indulging my senses with the scent of sweet peas. Instead of which, for the last three years I've been chairing the Society of Authors in Scotland, which I have foolishly allowed too often to take the place of writing. (I do have an email folder called "nice emails" to show for it, however, and I should point out that it is not too late to contribute to this ...)<br /><br />I'm in the final run - 11 days to go, not that I'm counting, of course. The AGM and Summer Party are on Aug 18th, during and in the Edinburgh International Book Festival.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcvf7UJs2mOS8Z3ncz2eb33_ajKR3ZLr6D68tBropr71h5ocvehMatkvJPHrYVyNg6GXgRn4eTI0qy9Uyn3Z2PNqi-8utPSasuxnGl6P8dbDAyMAmKw7HR1NggS3hXUP2J85UCvg/s1600-h/photo(12).jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcvf7UJs2mOS8Z3ncz2eb33_ajKR3ZLr6D68tBropr71h5ocvehMatkvJPHrYVyNg6GXgRn4eTI0qy9Uyn3Z2PNqi-8utPSasuxnGl6P8dbDAyMAmKw7HR1NggS3hXUP2J85UCvg/s400/photo(12).jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367138064314353410" border="0" /></a><br />In fact, the other day I saw them start to put the tents up for the EIBF and, good God, it WASN'T RAINING. And it's still not. This is a disaster. How will they put the pegs in the ground when it's not all glistening mud? How will they know what to do? I am very concerned. We have wet weather plans but no dry weather contingencies. This is something I must organise. Not to self: add to one of the lists.<br /><br />Now, those of us involved in the book festival tend to become somewhat all-consumed by it. There's all that Yurty atmosphere and we can sense the raw, heady smell of it at a thousand paces. For those of you who don't know, the Yurt is an extraordinary structure that cannot truly be called a tent - it is more like a cross between a canvas palace and a canvas cave, with a lot of canvas in between, along with many rugs to trip over, many sofas of incredible uncomfortableness, and much free wine, food, coffee and Highland Park. Also a strange combination of huge friendliness and the constant sound of egos being battered and massaged in equal measure. It's not a place to enter without several deep breaths and any other form of calming device that you have at hand.<br /><br />For me, the EIBF is the excuse for my current desk-state. I am, I have to say, overwhelmed by tasks and lists and events unprepared. (Which begs the question as to why I am writing this blog post today ...)<br /><br />I am doing six different events and chairing two. Chairing can be more stressful than doing your own event: when the speaker or audience dries up, it's down to the chairperson to carry the event through to the occasionally bitter end. I am sure the wonderful people I'm chairing will give me no trouble at all - but the audience might. Please don't. Please just ask an incredibly witty and positive question. There are many other things that audiences can do or not do, but I'll keep it simple and trust you to behave. And smile. And laugh in all the right places.<br /><br />My six events are all half prepared. But half is not enough. I looked at some of my notes yesterday and couldn't understand what I was on about.<br /><br />I am also organising the Soc of Authors in Scotland AGM and Summer Party. (I think I may have said that already.) This is a feat of extreme difficulty, most of which no one will ever know about unless I drink a bit too much HP in the Yurt. I have 100ish members coming, each of whom has to be herded, catlike. They are all published authors but many of them can't read. I have emailed them all asking for various bits of information and many of them have not replied; many others have sent the wrong information to the wrong place; and many others have given me far too much information. Bless them. I asked for volunteers to help at the party and so many of them were wonderfully forthcoming. HOWEVER, this now means that I am boggled by a spreadsheet telling me how many people can help early but not late and have bad backs, or can help late but not early and can't stand for long, and how many have no bad back at all but have to take their mother-in-law to the station so can only arrive at 10.55, and how many really want to help by handing round food but would accept being asked to fill goody bags but only early and not late, and how many ... Yes, you're getting my drift.<br /><br />I will bore you if I tell you the logistical difficulties posed by organising a party in a venue with no refridgeration or washing-up facilities; not helped by many people not having replied to the invitation. The fact that we have a fabulous line-up of about 80 guests along with our 100 members is at the same time wonderful, and yet daunting. I'm not going to name them, because that would be tacky and I'm not tacky, but I will say that if you had told me during my years of dismal failure to get published, that one day I would chair an AGM at which Margaret Drabble would be a guest, I would have said you were delusional. I am sure that the last thing she really wants to do on a sunny day in the book festival is listen to me witter on, but she is. And I'm very grateful to her.<br /><br />On the subject of other events - please, someone, come to any of mine. Any. Anyone. Please don't let me be there on the stage whistling into thin air. I'll be grateful for ever. I won't list them here but you'll find them on the <a href="http://www.edbookfest.co.uk/">book festival website</a>, and the two I'm chairing are Writing in a Recession and Monkeys + Type-writers. If for no other reason, come to see what shoes I'm wearing. This is always good for a laugh. In fact, one of my abiding festival memories is of chairing Marion Keyes, with TV cameras, and of her asking the audience to give a round of applause to <span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204); font-weight: bold;">my shoes</span>. Heaven without chocolate or sparkly wine - I never thought it possible.<br /><br /><br />Meanwhile, I will leave you with one final image - my sitting-room at the moment, thanks to the generosity of many companies who have donated gifts for our goody bags. Shown here are 200 gifts from Borders, Waverley Books, the Writer's Handbook and the Society of Authors. And this picture doesn't even show the Starbucks, Highland Park, Orkney Fudge and Times / Sunday Times and Strident Publishing contributions. Thank you all, lovely people.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL3mf23bC14u1p2YflklFMv7weuY8FOGcMibvsmleKhUzO4GbUVxff3c5sCl_AmPPWE5wjCQ50mKNudOlrzFYLL0F4bQBKMqVhgsReTpA0aTAi75ByhB-tZwUzhHfuenEyM0BMcA/s1600-h/photo(11).jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL3mf23bC14u1p2YflklFMv7weuY8FOGcMibvsmleKhUzO4GbUVxff3c5sCl_AmPPWE5wjCQ50mKNudOlrzFYLL0F4bQBKMqVhgsReTpA0aTAi75ByhB-tZwUzhHfuenEyM0BMcA/s400/photo(11).jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367131903131692066" border="0" /></a><br /><br />With all respect to my lovely colleagues in the Society of Authors in Scotland, I'm really looking forward to getting my life and my sitting-room back.Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-71766018249952596402009-07-17T21:43:00.008+01:002009-07-21T09:52:19.124+01:00RANT: WHY I WON'T SIGN YOUR FOOLISH FORMI once thought of writing a book called "Oh for goodness' sake!" It was going to be about all the ridiculous things that humans do. Like the guy who tried to sue his doctor because he'd gone to her about a lump and had caught a cold from her. He tried to sue her for £247.18. Gah!<br /><br />And now the UK Govt is doing something that would have gone in that book: making authors (along with anyone else who might have contact with people under 18) pay for a document that is supposed to prove that they're not going to abuse them. Like a document can say this?<br /><br />Now, I'd so love it if it was this simple to protect children. But the thing is, this protection is already in place. Two ways: a) authors on school visits are never left alone with a child. Why would we be? b) our public liability insurance says that we can't be, or it's invalidated.<br /><br />But now, in the UK Govt's "wisdom" (yeah, yeah) we all have to pay for a doc to show we won't do bad things to kids. So, that's all right then: everyone can breathe a sigh of relief. They're safe! Course they're not safe. They are neither more nor less safe than if we hadn't had this stupid, pointless, expensive, ignorant rule. In fact, perhaps they are less safe, because if we didn't have it we could have something more sensible and practical, something that actually would help. Don't ask me to say <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">what</span> that night be - I'm a children's author: I write them stories and inspire them. That's all. In groups. With eagle-eyed teachers looking on. The more teachers the merrier.<br /><br />Actually, on second thoughts, I DO have something that would help. Simply make it the <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">rule </span>that no visiting adult can ever be allowed to be alone with a child. We don't want to be. Last thing we want, actually. What we want is to be in front of LOADS of kids. Otherwise, what's the point of us being there?<br /><br />Listen, silly govt official / policy maker, please go and spend your time protecting children. Don't waste your time ticking boxes and making me pay for it. I am seriously concerned for the well-being of our young people if you really think this is how to protect them.<br /><br />Meanwhile, anyone who asks me for this document can have instead a document which I will write myself. It will say that I am a decent adult, fantastically committed to the well-being of young people and if that is not enough you can sing for your event. I simply will not kowtow to the government's ridiculous and pointless form-filling requirements. I have better things to do and so should they.<br /><br />People have talked about why authors should be exceptions. We shouldn't be. NO visitor to a school, invited by the school, should have to have this empty bureaucratic check. Every visitor should be escorted at all times, out of courtesy and common sense. Frankly, when I'm not escorted, I get lost, which is a serious worry to me. I don't care if you're an author or a visiting astronaut: you need protection from getting lost or from accidentally finding yourselves in the school canteen. Now there's a scary thought!<br /><br />It's so simple, people. Just stay with us, please, as you always do. Last thing we want is to be accused of anything. Hmm, come to think of it, I think I'm going to ask all schools from now on to sign a document saying that I won't be falsely accused of anything while I'm getting lost on the way to the toilet.Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-57696899905942729692009-06-16T18:00:00.005+01:002009-06-16T18:38:17.589+01:00THE DASH DONE<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSlW8p95RywePg-jhNSnrw3YfxHo1mJ-Lpb1XvLP5FHtoeje9Vg4yddY8VfymOWWM6p1DxOTV9Y3Wonaj3JHhwEF2criwpurl4SnSwbPaW-Hq9mgfIzL8QgpYq3JOConUfal3Qw/s1600-h/P6150021.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSlW8p95RywePg-jhNSnrw3YfxHo1mJ-Lpb1XvLP5FHtoeje9Vg4yddY8VfymOWWM6p1DxOTV9Y3Wonaj3JHhwEF2criwpurl4SnSwbPaW-Hq9mgfIzL8QgpYq3JOConUfal3Qw/s320/P6150021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347976984506694066" border="0" /></a>(Happy faces and dazed author at Fettes College, near the beginning of the Deathwatch Dash.)<br /><br />The Deathwatch Dash is done and dusted and I plan never to do such a silly thing again. It was very exciting but too much excitement can be bad for a person. I did wear the famous turquoise boots, which turned out to be a bad move when I found myself running through driving rain after we (in three cars) found ourselves locked into a school playground. I then ran slip-sliding through school corridors looking for a janitor who might release us, but never found him; tottered into the school office to find a disgruntled school secretary who was oddly unmoved by my desperation to get out of her school; and ran back through the heaving rain and floods to the car, where an already soaked bookseller was sitting gently steaming.<br /><br />I spoke to about 700 pupils in the six schools and was asked wonderfully perceptive questions, digging deeper into Deathwatch than I thought we could go. I discovered that they all wanted to get right into the spirit of who the stalker could be, and they came up with many reasons why it might or might not be the creepy (but sad) guy in the museum.<br /><br />Loads of them bought books, and loads more ordered them because they hadn't expected to want to buy one so hadn't bought money. And a lot emailed me with lovely comments afterwards.<br /><br />Thank you, as ever, to the Deathwatch team from The Mary Erskine School, Edinburgh. Diana Esland, their teacher, transported some of them around with us all day, and they were incredibly useful and nice. I hope they enjoyed the chocolate biscuits in my house, between events! (Not that there was mnuch between events, but there's always time for chocolate, I think.) Thanks to Diana for her general calmness and efficiency, not just today but throughout the whole project. I'm guessing that more than 1000 emails have passed between us, but my computer crashed when I tried to ask that question.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">Highlights:</span> the cheering at Fettes and Merchiston; the excited book-buying at St George's - and their desperation to find money from <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">somewhere </span>...; the fact that the Head of the Fettes prep-school made the effort to join us; the cakes and analytical questions at Merchiston Castle; the clever questions at George Watson's (and the fact that one of the girls had already put an amazing review on their website); some great pupils at Boroughmuir and Royal High too; and the way that pupils from every school - even the huge and over-heated audience at Boroughmuir, where we all roasted in a greenhouse - listened brilliantly when I read extracts, allowing me to whisper the scariest bits.<br /><br />I did think I was starting to lose it when I called it Deathmarket, though. Now there's a title for a book ...Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-6624194834659192272009-05-24T20:57:00.002+01:002009-05-24T21:01:02.267+01:00PROBABLY THE MOST BIZARRE INTERVIEW I'VE EVER DONE<object width="425" height="344">Today, I had a long list of things to do. Instead of doing any of them, I had a load of fun being interviewed by "one of the most important interviewers in the world". And guess who won the contest? (Sorry, I mean "interview").<br /><br />Enjoy! <param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/c4vNUl4wZX4&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/c4vNUl4wZX4&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-35239657043695991212009-05-22T18:55:00.004+01:002009-05-22T19:17:41.609+01:00Madness in Morningside<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFCIezjeMibXGgN0VkKzVWEFhRJwzM2kG-_IDzUZcziPXwjVNKhzZdugNh6NiNBubO4gDx9fP91_7ledkY7RpYIeGtIW2x7gRrjNT4OZ8j3L14ML4lAZkUd0bq_uWjp0ScaQ1yFQ/s1600-h/Deathwatch.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 147px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFCIezjeMibXGgN0VkKzVWEFhRJwzM2kG-_IDzUZcziPXwjVNKhzZdugNh6NiNBubO4gDx9fP91_7ledkY7RpYIeGtIW2x7gRrjNT4OZ8j3L14ML4lAZkUd0bq_uWjp0ScaQ1yFQ/s320/Deathwatch.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338713998880897794" border="0" /></a><br />Morningside, in case you wondered, is where I live. It's also, by incredible coincidence, where my forthcoming book, <a href="http://www.nicolamorgan.co.u/deathwatch.php">DEATHWATCH</a>, is set.<br /><br />I am entirely mad. I have evidence: a folder on my laptop, entitled "Deathwatch Promotion" and 54 documents in it. And that's after I had a bit of a clean-out.<br /><br />I don't need to do this. (No, I mean I do need to do the clean-out but I don't need to do all the mad promotion.) After all, I've got lovely publishers with a great marketing team who even have that rare thing, a BUDGET, and here I am exhausting myself with plans and wheezes and tasks which take a four page doc even to list.<br /><br />Probably the maddest idea occurred to me one perfectly normal grey day back in March. Why don’t I see if I can set a world record for the greatest number of school visits by one author in one day, I thought. Why not, indeed? Now, as the time draws near (June 15th is Deathwatch Dash Day, or D3), I can think of reasons why not. But my problem is not that I have ideas, it’s that I tell people them, and then I have to ACT on them. So, after I’d tripped along to <a href="http://www.fidrabooks.co.uk/">Vanessa’s Children’s Bookshop</a> around the corner from my house in Edinburgh (my only house, I hasten to add - I’m not claiming expenses on a second home) and asked her to do the book-selling, she leapt on the idea - not literally - and that was it. Trapped by my own stupidity.<br /><br />Apart from that, I am surrounded by lists that say things like:<br /><ol><li>organise competition for D3</li><li>organise different competition for all Scottish schools</li><li>buy lots and lots of chocolate</li><li>decide who I can face asking to look after the dog on 18 separate days</li><li>make a list of lists<br /></li><li>sign 600 postcards which I've had designed for every D3 pupil</li><li>sign 1000 other little cards for other events<br /></li><li>plan 9 entirely different talks</li><li>make sure I've got enough posters for everyone</li><li>make sure I know where I should be on any given day - this may not work<br /></li><li>put reviews on website<br /></li><li>make food for meal after launch party</li><li>tell more people about the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W7ilJpf4Y0I">You-Tube video</a>, <a href="http://www.walker.co.uk/deathwatch.aspx">stunning screensaver and other free downloady stuff</a><br /></li><li>get really really really scared</li><li>check Amazon and Google. Again.<br /></li><li>the list goes on</li><li>and frankly I haven't put half the important stuff on it - it looks too scary<br /></li></ol>Why do I do all this when I've got a great marketing team at Walker Books? Fear, is why. Sheer terror that my new baby will drown, that no one will see it, or people will hate it, or ...<br /><br />Aghhh - radical thought alert. There's only one way to make sure no one hates it: DON'T TELL ANYONE ABOUT IT.<br /><br />Why didn't I think of that?Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-37236927998347060672009-05-22T18:19:00.007+01:002009-06-06T17:20:52.781+01:00DEATHWATCH PROJECTS<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">A lot of people think I'm mad. I don't blame them. After all, I've got lovely publishers with a great marketing team who even have that rare thing, a BUDGET, and here I am leaping in with totally crazy ideas, setting world records (literally), madly running round the country, making podcasts and You-tube videos and fielding hundreds of emails from schools and readers and my dog. I really did get an email from my dog. Or I thought I had, since my dog’s called Amber, and a person called Amber just emailed me to ask when she could read Deathwatch because she’d heard about it from a friend who’d heard about it from a friend who’d even been sent the lovely beetle viral for her phone.<br /><br />What’s this about a world record, I hear you ask? That was probably the maddest of my mad ideas. Hey, I thought, one perfectly normal grey day back in March, why don’t I see if I can set a world record for the greatest number of school visits by one author in one day? Why not, indeed? Now, as the time draws near (June 15th is Deathwatch Dash Day, or D3), I can think of reasons why not. But my problem is not that I have ideas, it’s that I tell people them, and then I have to ACT on them. So, after I’d tripped along to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.fidrabooks.co.uk">Vanessa’s Children’s Bookshop</a> around the corner from my house in Edinburgh (my only house, I hasten to add - I’m not claiming expenses on a second home) and asked her to do the book-selling, she leapt on the idea - not literally - and that was it.<br /><br />Trapped by my own stupidity. I am writing this blog post now, ten scary days before publication, because if I wait until after D3 and the huge launch party at The Mary Erskine School and the big school events and my trips to Aberdeen and London and umpteen other places in between, I may not be in a fit state to write anything at all.<br /><br />Before I go, I have to tell you the thing that could have been madness but wasn’t. Supposing I said: I’m going to get some teenagers to commit to a two year project involving a book, which they will have to do mostly in their own spare time. You’d think I was mad. Well, two years ago I asked 14 girls from The Mary Erskine School in Edinburgh to help write Deathwatch and be my consultants throughout all the drafts, and then handed over the youth promotion to them. Yep, I handed over responsibility for my new baby to some teenage girls with a lot of other things on their agendas, because I trusted them. And they didn’t let me down. Amazing is one word. Walker Books even thought this was a good idea too, which shows how much they respect young people - and well they might, since they publish books for them.<br /><br />So, thank you to Walker, thank you to the Deathwatch Girls, and thank you to whichever chocolate manufacturer I decide to choose to fuel and support me during my mad month.</span>Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-36839328894159658972009-05-01T18:27:00.005+01:002009-05-01T18:37:03.724+01:00The day I climbed a mountainI am feeling pretty pleased with myself. I went for a little walk, with husband and crippled labrador. And here's what we walked to the top of. Yes, that. No, really. That big thing in the middle of the pic. Stac Pollaidh (Stac Polly) it's called and very lovely it is too. Especially when you're looking at it from the bottom.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Dn0SvkFWFi69wGiV_QTXYlziwtjjObzjFDkyYosLU0xUsTAmIMeajSR0tk6jWFNXzymBAyHhmw606NWWQwOP-Ac_6r0FLrR9qogP6oUqG9x4vK4jr3Od6xZuLtfS6hEJUnYLdQ/s1600-h/009.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Dn0SvkFWFi69wGiV_QTXYlziwtjjObzjFDkyYosLU0xUsTAmIMeajSR0tk6jWFNXzymBAyHhmw606NWWQwOP-Ac_6r0FLrR9qogP6oUqG9x4vK4jr3Od6xZuLtfS6hEJUnYLdQ/s320/009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330908997651016578" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The dog couldn't manage the last bit (they don't make pitons and crampons and things for dogs) so we took it in turns, and when I scaled the summit, this happened:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9vyBLPFDW7XGaYjHnDewto9_DqdojY5DA8IUdPwzUHLrSKCEW_CeHQGO4ZEy_MfyUR4bfpcP3P2ASguFAdyy7eTXIZspugf9YM2pt22hT3Ytbh39xvb2j3zhzEJh3uDKUKOrOdw/s1600-h/030.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9vyBLPFDW7XGaYjHnDewto9_DqdojY5DA8IUdPwzUHLrSKCEW_CeHQGO4ZEy_MfyUR4bfpcP3P2ASguFAdyy7eTXIZspugf9YM2pt22hT3Ytbh39xvb2j3zhzEJh3uDKUKOrOdw/s320/030.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330909646192629938" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I began to write the headlines: "Stupid city wallies cause expensive air rescue after accidentally walking up a mountain with only chocolate as emergency rations."<br /><br />Or, as I prefer, "Writer has head in the clouds."Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-80707564908014323022009-05-01T17:06:00.004+01:002009-05-01T17:35:56.253+01:00Deathwatch - the movie ....Deathwatch the Movie? Not yet, but only time will tell. Almost certainly a rather long time; so, since you don't have a long time to wait, you could try this little taster. Two short extracts read by yours truly and with the stunning screensaver as the backdrop.<br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxbwoYVIluyoPSJqX573mNpkDVAeu2I3OJsOY0922PHTMvHwbQlT9Nfjsd0sb7g0IKbiXovPGu09rA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-77870561333436429412009-04-03T11:41:00.002+01:002009-04-03T11:46:31.052+01:00MOST ODD CONVERSATIONAs a self-employed person, I get really tetchy about being phoned by people trying to sell me things in the middle of the day. Don't they know I'm trying to write a novel? So, I do tend to have rather short conversations when they phone. Sometimes very short. And I've just had one, but it was really quite odd, and left me staring at the phone for several seconds afterwards.<br /><br />Me: Hello, nine three two nine.<br />Woman: Can I speak to Mr Harry Morgan?<br />Me: No.<br />Woman: Pardon?<br />Me: No.<br />Woman: Why?<br />Me: Because he's not here.<br />Woman: Oh, thank you. Bye.<br /><br />I hereby award her the prize for Least Persistent Salesperson of the Day.<br /><br />Meanwhile, why am I blogging? Don't I know I'm trying to write a novel?Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-79263146613184800382009-03-24T21:44:00.005+00:002009-03-24T21:58:44.389+00:00MY BRAIN CAUSES AIRPORT SECURITY ALERTThere are many hazards involved in doing school talks. Personally I think we should get danger money. Most of the stories in this blog have been brought about by untoward incidents while travelling to or from or delivering such events. But none has caused a major security alert at an international airport until today.<br /><br />I was coming back from Belfast, where I'd had a lovely day being royally looked after and speaking to excellent audiences at County Antrim Grammar School. Ironically, this very day, when I'd shown my life-size, almost life-colour, life-weight model brain to one audience, I'd said, "One day, this will get me into trouble at an airport." And they'd all politely laughed. Later that day ...<br /><br />So, coming through security in a very long queue, and I'm waiting for my bag to come through the weird bit where everything seems to disappear for longer than it should. It's some kind of vortex in there, don't you think? And I'm standing in my pink socks (because I'd forgotten that I'd have to take my boots off and reveal that I was wearing more than black tights. Obviously, I was wearing more than black tights but you know what I mean.) And I'm wondering why four security people are leaning over the computer screen and pointing and turning their heads onto their sides and Looking Concerned and calling more people over. Then a man comes up to me, pleasantly enough, and says:<br /><br />"Is this your bag, madam?"<br />Me: Yes.<br />Man: Do you have anything unusually dense in your bag? <span style="font-style: italic;">(I am not joking. His exact words.)</span><br />Me: <span style="font-style: italic;">(immediately guessing the source of the problem and not realising that this is not the time for jokes)</span> Ah yes, that'll be my brain.<br />Man: Sorry?<br />Me: <span style="font-style: italic;">(realising belatedly that this is not the time for jokes)</span>: a model brain. I carry a model brain because I'm an author.<br />Man: Does that explain it?<br />Me: Well, I write about the brain sometimes and I've been doing school talks in County Antrim Grammar School <span style="font-style: italic;">(hoping that the detail will make me sound authentic, which I am, and trying to look really relaxed and possibly even flirtatious, which is not something I really do unless pushed, which I was being)</span> and well, this is one of my props.<br />Man: <span style="font-style: italic;">(perfectly pleasantly and nicely)</span> I'm afraid we'll have to search your bag.<br /><br />When security people say they're going to search your bag, they have a different meaning of the word "search" from the one my husband uses when he says he's going to search for the correct place to put the kitchen sieve. Very different. Their version of <span style="font-style: italic;">search </span>involves them taking <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">everything </span>out of my bag, and then everything out of everything that's in my bag. Now I, being a bit of a control freak and an ex-girl guide (see <a href="http://ghostlygalleon.blogspot.com/2007/11/of-boots-escalators-and-photographers.html">Of boots</a><a href="http://ghostlygalleon.blogspot.com/2007/11/of-boots-escalators-and-photographers.html">, escalators and photographers</a>) tend to have some weird things in my bag when I'm away doing school talks. Even weirder than plastic brains. To be honest I'd prefer not to say some of the things that I had in my bag but if you were one of my fellow passengers, you would know. And you would be laughing. As they were.<br /><br />Anyway, each item had to be swabbed. They even took my brain to pieces and swabbed every part. I now have the cleanest limbic system and brain stem in Scotland, possibly the world. I mean, who else can say they've just had their brain swabbed by security, or indeed by anyone else?<br /><br />One item they found needed further explanation (and widespread derision). It was a foil-wrapped package, small, about the size of two flapjacks. The fact that it was actually two flapjacks was not enough for the security people: they had to ask me what it was. I said it was special brain food, my own recipe, a new variation on my world-famous Brain Cake (TM), called Brain Bars (TM). This is the literal truth but was not enough. They had to smell it. "Flapjacks," was the verdict. "With other stuff in. Bits, sort of."<br /><br />"What do you do with that, then?" they asked.<br /><br />"Er, well eat it. I plan to eat it on the plane."<br /><br />"No, but how is it good for your brain?"<br /><br />Well, they did ask for the lecture ...<br /><br />Now, all this was done in the spirit of enormous hilarity. However, I would have been less hilarious-minded if I had realised that Easyjet (praise be to them for cheap flights and horrible uniforms and blamelessly egalitarian boarding systems, unless you are the last one to board) had in their wisdom decided to move the flight to an earlier time and not tell me. So, having endured fifty minutes of such hilarity and thinking I might have time for a quick coffee, I sauntered through to the departure lounge with my clean brain, only to discover that my flight had just issued a final call. And the gate was not exactly near.<br /><br />Now, some of you may know that I do need to wear good boots for school talks and by good boots I mean good boots for looking glamorous in, not good boots for running through airports in.<br /><br />Previously in airports, I have been the one who has rolled her eyeballs and frowned superciliously when some idiot is called by name to board the plane at the last minute. "Would passengers Stupid and Inebriated please proceed immediately to Gate 1078 for immediate boarding. Failure to arrive in the next five seconds will cause your luggage to be removed and you to be forcibly ejected from the airport to enduring public ridicule and ignominy."<br /><br />I will never roll my eyeballs at such people again. All they were doing was carrying perfectly innocent, though possibly weird, items through security. They are the innocent victims in our sad mistrusting world. They are the ... Yes, well, anyway. They probably are sometimes stupid or inebriated but I honestly wasn't. But I was last onto the plane and people had to get out of their seats to let me in and it was very demeaning and I am just glad I'm not famous.<br /><br />But what I'd like to know (granted that the security people were only doing their job and doing it brilliantly and actually were very pleasant and I have every respect and sympathy for them) is this: having established that the offending item was only ("only") an artificial brain, why did they still think that every damned item in my bag needed swabbing and sniffing? Is it the case that someone carrying an artificial brain and some flapjacks is in any way more likely to be an international terrorist? And why did they also take my perfume away and subject it to chemical analysis? Because I was carrying a plastic brain? Is it written somewhere that someone carrying a plastic brain is statistically more likely also to be disguising Issy Miyake as something dangerous? It's the rule book what's wrong, not the excellent staff. It's not well designed for catching people who really might cause damage, not flapjack-carrying unfortunates like moi.<br /><br />And another thing I'd like to know: the security people said that next time, if I take the brain out of the box and send it through the x-ray uncovered (yeah right, I can really see me doing that - so, certain ridicule versus possible ridicule??) there'd be no problem. Apparently the problem is trying to <span style="font-style: italic;">hide </span>a brain and to make it look like a thing that's trying not to look like a brain.<br /><br />I do not pretend to understand such things. Maybe if I had a better brain ... Or maybe next time I'll just leave my brain at home.<br /><br />But there is a happy outcome to this story. Prepare to be very, very jealous. You see, they called the head of Security Training - oh yes, the Head of Security Training - over and they have decied that my brain (not yours, MINE) is going to be used as part of their training manual. I said that I'd have to charge for this. They actually for several moments looked as though they thought I was being serious, but I decided not to push my luck and I quit while I was not really ahead. But anyway, yes, I am proud to tell you that it is now the case that my brain is part of the training for airport security.<br /><br />Not many people can say that.<br /><br />PS - when I told my husband about this and added that "I knew this would happen one day," his response was, "I told you so." How does that work as a useful response? Anyway, at least I know where the kitchen sieve lives. I have the right sort of brain.Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-46079484930056302402009-01-30T15:44:00.002+00:002009-01-30T15:52:53.900+00:00Brain-Training tosh- "It's official"Any time you hear that your kids' school is going to introduce Nintendo Brain-training for the pupils (and leaving aside the outrageous waste of money for the tax-payer), point them towards <a href="http://technology.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/tech_and_web/gadgets_and_gaming/article5587314.ece">this </a>very revealing piece of research. And trust me, some schools / education authorities ARE thinking of this.<br /><br />As I said a while ago in a previous post, and as I have said very publicly (incl on radio), these things are very clever and fun toys, briliantly marketed, but they have no good controlled research to back up half the claims. I'm not saying don't get one - I'm just saying don't get one because you think its' the best thing (or even up there anywhere near the best things) for your brain or your kids' brains or your grandad's brain.<br /><br />And that's all I'm going to say on the matter. Though I do say a bit more in my book, Know Your Brain ... Which was written 2-3 years ago before this new research came out. Not that I'd like to say "I told you so" ....Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-12757666111973186852009-01-28T16:57:00.004+00:002009-01-29T10:27:03.180+00:00Turn away now, please. Really.I am reeling. And nothing to do with it being the 250th anniversary of Robert Burns' birth. I'm also cringing because I know I'm about to do a bit of blatant self-publicity and I am incredibly cautious about that but in this case how can I not do it? I have just been pointed in the direction of an amazing podcast. Amazing for me because if I was to <span style="font-style: italic;">pay </span>someone to say nice things about me (where do I send the cheque?) they wouldn't say anything as nice as this. So, if you don't want to listen, just don't. Please. I mean that. I recommend that you only listen if you actually vaguely like me and wish me slightly well.<br /><br /><a href="http://podcast.litopia.com/2009/01/27/litopia-daily-133-tin-guts-notebooks/">http://podcast.litopia.com/2009/01/27/litopia-daily-133-tin-guts-notebooks/</a><br /><br />But if you do, make sure you choose the right one: No 133<br /><br />Only two weeks ago, when I started the blog they refer to, I had no idea it would be picked up so quickly. But I have just loved writing it. There's something about blogs that's so immediate - unlike writing a book, which is SO difficult and takes SO long and then you have to wait SO long for publication day and by the time you get any feedback you have forgotten entirely what it was about.<br /><br />Anyway. That's it. Off to lie down with some bits of cucumber over my eyes. I think this also calls for substantial chocolate.Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-46327371386823914342009-01-25T14:25:00.004+00:002009-01-25T14:37:43.033+00:00Full-time Work Avoidance Strategies<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:small;" >"Are you a full-time writer?” It’s a question writers are often asked. I always hesitate before answering. Yes, in the sense that I don’t have another job and I am attempting to earn my living by writing. But if I’m a “full-time” writer, how come I spend <span style="font-style: italic;">so little time writing</span>?<br /><br />Something came through the post the other day. Something dreamt up as a “project” by some arts admin person – DON’T get me started but they LOVE projects – in a salaried ivory tower. It was designed to help me discover my goals and aims and outcomes and targets and objectives. All these are different, by the way, but you need to be a full-time salaried arts admin person to understand how. I hadn’t asked for this thing to be sent but I had a little look at it. (Work Avoidance Strategy, No. 1).<br /><br />Part of it asked me to draw a circle and divide it into sections like a pie-chart, according to how much time I spent on any activity in one day. Because it was a caring-sharing kind of a document, it also said that I could, if I preferred, do percentages instead of pie-charts. Actually, I didn’t prefer either, so I decided not to waste my time, and just get on with some writing instead.<br /><br />Trouble is, by then I was distracted by the question: how much time DO I spend on writing? So (Work Avoidance Strategy No. 2) I made a list of all the things I do that are work-related but don’t actually involve writing. Lists are things I do well. Pie-charts and percentages are not.<br /><br />Here’s my list: doing talks for schools, conferences, festivals etc; planning those talks; answering the copious emails that fly around during the months leading up to those talks; booking travel / accommodation for those talks; calculating costs and sending invoices related to those talks; office admin such as dealing with computer problems, stationery, things breaking, tax stuff; doing committee work for the various things I’m involved in, especially the Society of Authors, which I chair in Scotland and which occupies HOURS and HOURS; answering emails and letters from fans (both of them); answering homework requests from readers who have to finish their essay by Monday and need my help or their teacher will kill them; research; copy-editing or proof-reading a typescript that has just arrived back on my desk needing checking; writing the cover blurb / dedication / author notes / stuff for Amazon; writing articles for websites / magazines / newspapers; doing interviews; thinking up and then acting on publicity ideas; organising events or launches; travelling a LOT. Oh, look, for goodness' sake – this is boring (but a very good Work Avoidance Strategy).<br /><br />And I’m not even counting the other very important things, like having coffee with friends. And buying new shoes.<br /><br />The reason I’m vexed about this right now is that I’m in the middle of a ridiculous period of not being able to write because my diary is full of these tasks. And why have I allowed this to happen? Simple: because all those things are SO much easier than actually writing, which is much harder than you might think. In fact, there’s a great quote (Work Avoidance Strategy No. 3 was to find out who said it - Thomas Mann) – “A writer is someone for whom writing is harder than it is for other people.”<br /><br />The good thing about all this is that I am now absolutely desperate to write. And with any luck really wanting to write will mean I write better. So, not writing makes me write better? Hmm, I like that. I should do more not writing. Bring on Work Avoidance Strategy No 4: coffee and chocolate.<br /><br />STOP PRESS PS<br />Actually, I wrote the above stuff a few weeks ago as a real work avoidance strategy and then work got in the way and I forgot to post it. I guess that means that work itself became a work avoidance strategy avoidance strategy. This could get seriously complicated and I am not sure my brain can cope.<br /><br />More importantly - I think - I have started another blog, which has been taking me away from this blog (blogs are stupendously brilliant work avoidance strategies and having TWO of them is bliss). It's called Help! I Need a Publisher! and is aimed at unpublished authors. <a href="www.need2bpublished.blogspot.com">www.need2bpublished.blogspot.com</a><br /><br />And now, I must go and do some work. After I've checked the other blog. And had chocolate.<br /></span>Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-10365689462153930122008-11-07T17:25:00.005+00:002008-11-09T18:31:41.154+00:00Battle of Ideas Festival and Brain-TrainingTo be away for three days in order to speak on a panel is probably not the best demonstration of time-management skills, but the Battle of Ideas is a bit of a draw. It's very confrontational and free speech is encouraged. Luckily, I'd been before, so I know this and was up for it. My panel was about brain-training - whether it's all it's cracked up to be. The audience was brilliant and we debated all sorts of stuff like dualism - Colin Blakemore and I had thought that "no one was seriously a duallist any more" but we discovered that this wasn't true. The discussion took me right back to being a student. Good stuff!<br /><br />But I just want to talk about a fundamental disagreement that I had, and will continue to have, with the idea that we should be conned into believing that doing mental maths (for example with the Nintendo DS Lite) makes you cleverer. I'm not going to write an essay about it as this is a blog and I've already spoken on radio about it and will continue to speak against the marketing trick whenever possible. But ...<br /><br />Let me make a few points.<br /><br /><ol><li>The inventor of the Brain Age programme, Dr Ryuta Kawashima, does not use it himself, because he says that his own work and doing a variety of activities, especially reading, is the best thing for brains. He bans his children from using it or any video games during the week and restricts them to one hour at weekends. Why, if it's so good for their brains?????</li><li>Doing mental maths may well improve your mental maths skills. Doing sudoku certainly improves your sudoku. There is NO evidence that it makes you cleverer, or delays the mental effects of aging, or makes you better in any other way at all. In fact, no research has yet been done into whether it makes you cleverer. (And don't believe anyone who tells you otherwise.)<br /></li><li>Besides, how would you measure cleverer? Oh no, we're not back to the old IQ tests, are we? They're so 20th century. Personally, I don't much value measurable cleverness - I think real cleverness is much deeper and wider and more interesting than that.<br /></li><li>No, brain-training does not improve thinking skills, creativity and communication. There IS NO EVIDENCE THAT IT DOES. And why would it? There is no research on this so simply don't believe any woolly-thinking evangelist who tries to tell you there is. On what proper scientific basis is that theory even suggested? The idea is based on the absurd fallacy (based on sublime ignorance) that because Brain Age (etc) activates your prefrontal cortex (pfc), and because the pfc is used during thinking/creativity etc, therefore the activities improve thinking/creativity etc. This is illogical, unscientific and misleading. Put it this way: planning a murder would activate your pfc, but does that mean that planning a murder would be a good way to improve thinking skills / creativity etc?</li><li>There is wishy-washy piece of research going on in Scotland right now, purporting to prove that giving kids a Nintendo DS-lite and getting them to use it for 20 minutes at the beginning of each school day does all sorts of amazing positive things. There are so many reasons why this is a pointless (and possibly even dangerous, if too many people buy into it) piece of research that I hardly know where to start. It appears to ignore psychological tenets such as the Hawthorne effect; not to mention the allied placebo effect, especially when the gadget keeps telling them they are getting better (Dr K's smiling face keeps bouncing around telling you you are getting "smarter"), an obvious psychological boost to learning (no harm in boosts to learning, of course: just that they get in the way of good research); then there's the fact that relevant research would not start with the researcher setting out to prove his existing vehemently-held belief but genuinely and objectively testing the theory from an open starting point; the activities need to be measured against <span style="font-style: italic;">something</span>, not nothing or the status quo; this is not (and could not be) a double-blind study, therefore you have the participants knowing what the intention is, leading to inevitable Hawthorne AND placebo effects. The study purports to show that punctuality improved because the pupils had this as the first activity of the day - I bet if you'd given them a piece of chocolate first thing you'd have had the same effect! I could go on. Trust me though: you will see this reported soon, with a headline such as "brain-training makes kids cleverer" or "maths improves kids school results". And loads of people will fall for it. To understand fully my objections to projects like this, I recommend you read Ben Goldacre's book, Bad Science, and see the chapter about the Durham fish oil trials - in my opinion, the same mistakes are largely being made here. You can judge for yourself whether it's bad science: my view is that it's a very bad use of time. YES, games are fantastic ways of teaching; YES children learn better when they are happy. Well, duh! But I can find you a load of better, cheaper and more practical ideas to boost children's learning (and I do - I go into very many schools, showing pupils of all ages how to use their own brains well; and they have fun doing it - maybe not as much fun as playing a video game, but they carry the messages with them for the rest of their life; it's something to build on, not an transient activity. In doing so, I am also showing the teachers how brains work, so they can use their own knowledge for many more classes.)</li><li>I wouldn't measure learning by how much fun was had. Yes, it's great when we can have fun learning, but it's not the measurement of success.<br /></li><li>The reason Nintendo developed Brain Age was to turn non-gamers into gamers, not to make the world cleverer. They have made it look as though neuroscientists endorse it but I can't find a genuine neuroscientist to say, "Yes, I recommend you do the Brain Age programme every day because it will make you cleverer and ward off aging." In fact, the ones I've asked have all said that I am right to be sceptical. Sorry, but I believe them and not the marketing guys.<br /></li><li>It's simplistic, unnecessary and not as good for you as leading a varied and active life, with social interaction and genuine thinking and talking.</li><li>If you want to know some genuinely good (and free) ideas to train your brain, see the brain pages of my website.</li></ol>For goodness' sake, have we entirely lost our ability to be critical thinkers? Are we going to be taken in by this line from the marketing people? These things are clever toys, no more, no less. But if you think they're going to <span style="font-style: italic;">make </span>you cleverer, think about it very carefully and try not to believe everything you read in the adverts. Ideally, find out something about how brains really work, so that you can see through the guff.<br /><br />Finally, on this subject, I am really looking forward to receiving my pre-ordered copy of Gary Small's book "iBrain" - it's apparently got some very interesting and possibly worrying ideas about what all this electronic stuff is doing to our brains.<br /><br />Better get off my computer and out into the real world then, hadn't I? Time for some creative cooking and maybe the opening of a bottle of wine. Yes, ok, alcohol bad for brains, but it's a Friday evening, and I will be honing my thinking skills, creativity and communication by sharing it over a deep and meaningful conversation with an intelligent person. That or the Nintendo - not really a close call, is it?Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-59753968515725443212008-10-25T19:26:00.004+01:002008-10-25T20:02:49.032+01:00Chance Encounter of a Pigeon KindAs my friends will know, I'm easily distracted when I am supposed to be writing. Usually by emails or people challenging me to Scramble on Facebook or suddenly feeling compelled to vacuum behind the fridge. Anything, really, to provide an excuse for not doing that very difficult thing: writing. But yesterday I was actually writing quite well. I'd not checked my emails or the back of the fridge for at least five minutes. Well, maybe three.<br /><br />So, there I was, sitting on the sofa near the window, laptop on lap, typing away, when there was a huge explosion and the window blew in, as a vast and fierce pigeon smashed through it, showering me with glass and blood. I screamed. A LOT. And rushed from the room, dumping the laptop and slamming the door behind me. I spent some time screaming on the landing and trying to calm down. I was worried that my daughter might have been concerned so I weakly but bravely called upstairs, "Don't worry, I'm fine, honestly." No reply. I tried a bit more strongly. My daughter came out of her room. "What are you talking about?"<br /><br />Anyway, we couldn't leave the bird in my study, could we? I had visions of it wrecking the place and, more to the point, my NOVEL was in there. Also, since my other daughter only last week had to claim insurance for the cost of repairing her laptop after spilling milk on it, I couldn't really claim for another laptop and expect them to believe that a pigeon had bled to death on it. The insurance compnay know I'm a writer and they'd be bound to think I'd made it up.<br /><br />So, Hannah stood behind me, holding a big towel as high as she could, with the intention (in case you were wondering) of preventing the bird from flying further into the house if it leapt through the door when I opened it. I carefully opened the door a little, which caused more flapping and squawking (actually, I think the squawking was me) so I slammed it shut again. Deep breaths. Can you call a man to deal with a pigeon in the room? Does this constitute an 999 emergency? What would it be under in Yellow Pages? Bloody Bird-catchers?<br /><br />But we didn't need a man, oh no. No, we could deal with this ourselves. First, I needed a shield. A large cardboard box would do and this I duly found. So, armed with the box, I opened the door again, with Hannah in towel position. No sign of the bird. Well, it must be dead. Or stunned. Or demoniacally hiding, waiting for me. Or it could come flapping back to consciousness if I wasn't careful. So I was careful. I gingerly poked a stick into every possible hiding-place, averting my eyes from the blood on the wall.<br /><br />It had gone. Back through the gaping hole in the window. The rest of my day was spent clearing up shattered glass and blood and dealing with the neanderthal glaziers who mumped and grumped their way to £90. And I lost half a day of what would obviously have been quite brilliant novel-writing. The best I've ever done. Really.<br /><br />Since the novel in progress is about chance/luck/causal determinism/randomness/chaos and how apparently chance events have major effects on our lives, I wonder how this pigeon attack will affect the novel. The point, if you are interested, is that we cannot know how things would have turned out differently - we can't do <span style="font-style: italic;">what ifs</span>. So, we can <span style="font-style: italic;">ask </span>"What if the bird had never flown through your window? How would it have affected what happened next in your novel?" But we can never know the answer. All you can ever know is what actually does happen from that point. (Actually, in the novel, the reader can play round with chance because you get to toss a coin to select the ending, and I get to toss a coin to select between alternative chapters. But I digress.)<br /><br />You may like to know that by chance (or is anything ever chance? Isn't it all mechanically caused?) the scene I was writing at the time of the pigeon explosion involved a fairground fortune-teller. Fantastic Farantella the Famous Filipino Fortune-Teller. And I needed something to happen that cuts her fortune-telling dramatically short. I think I now have the answer. A pigeon explodes through her window. Will the readers believe it? They'd better.<br /><br />Chance? Fate? Or causal determinism? Makes you think. If a suicidal pigeon hadn't shot through my window, would I have thought of this as the mechanism in the story? Or would it have been something else entirely? And would that affect everything else? We'll never know.Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-42313832313865208522008-09-27T14:00:00.002+01:002008-09-27T14:34:41.914+01:00Highs and Lows in the HighlandsOh, if only I could tell you everything that happened on the latest round of book touring! The thing is that some of the most annoying or ridiculous things that happen tend to be perpetrated by either lovely people who buy my books or lovely librarians who organise the events, and would I be rude about either of them? Of course not. They are lovely in every way.<br /><br />And this is before I've been to Wigtown, which is next weekend, and which is designated the "Book Festival Most Difficult To Get To". So, be prepared from some tall tales from Tipperary next week.<br /><br />Meanwhile, on the subject of my recent events, I will pose some questions. Please keep your answers to yourself.<br /><ol><li>If you were asked to collect someone from Inverness arriving on the "11.47 from Aberdeen", would you go to the airport or the train station?</li><li>If you were a teacher and your school arrived 15 minutes after an event had started, despite the fact that you were walking distance away, would you apologise to the speaker?</li><li>If you were a teacher taking your pupils to a book event (at no cost to school or pupils), would you allow them to buy books or whisk them away as soon as possible before they could chat to the author, buy a book or get a card signed?</li><li>How many different colours of wallpaper is it possible for one B&B to fit into one room?<br /></li><li>If you were supplying two tea-bags for your B&B guest, how many sachets of sugar would you also provide? a) 2-4 or b) 16</li></ol>But I will say that, apart from the rubbish that tact and fear of litigation prevent me from mentioning, there were some spectacularly excellent things too.<br /><ol><li>Boat of Garten Book Festival - the best small festival there is.</li><li>Having a very relaxing lasagne supper with Jim Naughtie and his wife Ellie, between mine and Ellie's events and Jim's event with Chris Bonington (at Boat of G). I know Ellie well already because we both write for a similar age group and it's always fun to meet up.<br /></li><li>The scenery and weather of Aberdeenshire, Banffshire and Invernesshire.</li><li>Seeing a herd of bison. And that was not after a glass of wine.</li><li>A great Society of Authors event in Crathes Castle, where 13 authors met and talked to (and in some cases almost came to blows with) an excellent feisty audience of readers collected together by the superb Yeadon's Bookshop in Banchory.<br /></li><li>Everything to do with Yeadon's Bookshop and the first-rate and exceptional manager, Vicky Dawson, who ferried me all around NE Scotland in her car, so much so that when she needed to take me to the station the following morning, the car was dead. I don't blame it. But the ensuing taxi was somewhat pricey. And I left my coat in her car, thinking I'd be in it the next day. Yes, I was that person shivering on Inverness station a few hours later, while my lift went to the airport instead ...</li><li>Sitting in a hotel bar in Perthshire having hysterics while we wondered why a menu described as a "Taste of Tartan" featured tinned grapefruit salad in syrup.</li></ol>And now I had really better stop before I forget about that very useful fear of litigation thing.Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-7849034454597606162008-09-21T15:44:00.003+01:002008-09-21T16:02:50.393+01:00Back from foreign partsJust back from an exhausting but really interesting trip to Zurich. I was speaking to teenagers in the Zurich International school - 12 hours of brain workshops over two days and then a parent talk to a packed hall on the next day. The school had put a huge amount of effort and resources into the whole trip and I am very grateful to them for making me so welcome. I was really impressed by the youth, energy and commitment of all the teachers too, but special thanks to Marge Schreier, the middle school librarian, and to Laurie Watt who organised the parent talk. And to all the parents who made Brain Cake in advance of my visit! The school also bought every pupil a copy of Know Your Brain and it was fantastic to see all the pupils eagerly reading it during the breaks.<br /><br />I discovered something extremely unsurprising - teenagers are the same the world over... Something that was given extra truth when I stupidly switched on my phone during my first break and found a voice message from my own teenager (19 tomorrow) saying that she'd had her phone stolen the night before and what should she do? PHONE TO GET IT BLOCKED, you silly girl. So, I had that stress, including worrying whether the thief (who'd already been abusive to her when she tried to phone the phone) would rack up hundred of pounds worth of foreign calls or downloads (something which happened once before, luckily AFTER we'd reported it and so the phone company had to pay £300 for its mistake). Anyway, it was fine, but I didn't know that till I got home 4 days later. ERGHHHHH. I know I wrote a book about them but honestly!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldAA3PRtAVhEcJjJcERVV_3zZ7QuR88BuFfFVJChvKkl7KzmdVqashqh0qh3lbipHetfhy77_3OVLeeI5ifdc8xdprtg2KSqe7cGASJwe2Wh5qpT0f04j1sfxFXUklvQxaxq7OA/s1600-h/003.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldAA3PRtAVhEcJjJcERVV_3zZ7QuR88BuFfFVJChvKkl7KzmdVqashqh0qh3lbipHetfhy77_3OVLeeI5ifdc8xdprtg2KSqe7cGASJwe2Wh5qpT0f04j1sfxFXUklvQxaxq7OA/s200/003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248489291207683586" border="0" /></a><br />I will calm myself down with this gorgeous view from<br />hotel window, looking over Lake Zurich.<br />Marge had especially asked for a lake view room.<br /><br /><br />Meanwhile, I've just been invited to an international<br />school in Paris next May. Hold me back!<br /><br /><br /><br />On the other hand, I am SUPPOSED to be saying no to everything at the moment, to try to make space for writing. But I've just had a rush of lovely invitations for places far and wide and I'm not very good at no. Which could possibly be why I don't have a book coming out till next June. And a whole load of writing deadlines looming ...Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-44559437590003675562008-09-06T17:29:00.002+01:002008-09-06T17:33:35.622+01:00Facebook groupHelped by my younger daughter, I have now entered the Facebook age, rather later than most people. If you know any teenagers (anyone from 11 upwards, really) who like my books, do steer them towards the group. It's called, with incredibly creative imagination, Nicola Morgan's Readers.<br /><br />I am at that embarrassing stage where it sys I have "no friends". Help, please!Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-6269239974708454052008-09-06T16:59:00.002+01:002008-09-06T17:29:04.834+01:00Tartan LoonyWell, that's the Edinburgh Book Festival over for another year. Anyone with a snorkel had a distinct advantage.<br /><br />Now, there are many things I could say about my experiences this year. And some of them are simply not for public airing. (Oh, and can I say first that the festival is fabulous and any negative experiences do not at all imply any lack of wondrousness of the whole thing?) But gosh, the egos that parade around that authors' Yurt (aka large and splendiferous tent) can make you dizzy. Some authors are painfully full of their own importance. Others, of course, are just delightful.<br /><br />But I would like to share my tartan loony moment. (The tartan loony wears tartan from his tam o'shanter to his shoes). He hadn't heard of the internet, so there's no danger of him reading this, just in case you were wondering. This is the guy who hi-jacked (for the third year in a row) one of my workshops, and spent it asking bizarre and pointless questions and being quite angry with me for actually having had some books published despite being an idiot.<br /><br />To explain: I run some workshops for unpublished authors. This is a deeply frustrating business, as no one really listens to me. I tell them it's simple: write the right book at the right time and send it to the right publisher at the right time and in the right way. They only listen to the last bits but actually the first bits are way more important. Anyway, the tartan loony has been to these workshops before (so, I'm obviously doing a great job). But this time he chose to come to the one for published authors. Since he is nowhere near being published (having not yet written a book), I asked him why he hadn't come to the one for unpublished authors - "Because it was fully booked." Actually, he wasn't the only one - 24 out of 30 of the participants were also in the wrong one, which was thoroughly discombobulating.<br /><br />By the way, in each workshop, there were several people who were actually doing all the right things and showed every chance of one day being successful writers. I hope they will tell me when they get their first contract.<br /><br />Back to the TL. The TL asks many questions. He writes all the answers down, using a tartan shopping trolley as a table. When I say "many" I do mean many. But I will just give you one example:<br /><br />TL: How long should a book be? (<span style="font-style: italic;">bear in mind, please, that this is the workshop for published authors</span>).<br />Me: (<span style="font-style: italic;">thinking that the correct answer - "as long as it needs to be" - is not going to satisfy him</span>) What sort of book?<br />TL: (<span style="font-style: italic;">thinking for a moment)</span> Probably a novel.<br />Me: (<span style="font-style: italic;">deciding that a simple answer is definitely what he wants</span>) 120,000 words<br />TL: Thank you. (<span style="font-style: italic;">and writes it down on his tartan clipboard</span>)<br /><br />Anyway, to the point. After the first workshop, I had told a fellow author (let's call him John) about the experience. So, when I turned up in the Yurt before the next one, I breezily said to John, "So, that's me ready for the tartan loony!" He looked at me, horror writ large on his face. The horror stayed there for several seconds. Then realisation and relief dawned. "Oh, you mean your workshop guy? I thought you meant ..."<br /><br />Yes, I should have realised too. Sean Connery was about to do his event. And there he was, not a million miles away ... That's me off his party list, then. Shame.Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-21693227176461076762008-06-21T22:19:00.003+01:002008-06-21T22:34:51.055+01:00Video killed the author? Let's hope notWell, my lovely daughter Rebecca has made a video of me "in action", which will go on my website soon. She did a great job and spent hours over a period of many months, off and on. Unfortunately, the high-definition of her film was mostly lost in the transfer to Youtube so it doesn't look as good as she made it. Also, some of the scenes were shot ages ago, before she'd acquired her current technical skills - you'll probably notice which ones they are!<br /><br />It's here: //www.youtube.com/v/XnhRAZHH2nM&hl=en&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&border=1"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/XnhRAZHH2nM&hl=en&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="349" width="425"></embed>Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-57023524237332653502008-06-10T18:00:00.009+01:002008-09-28T22:34:42.117+01:00Yes, I am still aliveNot that anyone probably cares, but I have written nothing on this blog since Feb 11th. But I have not been idle. Oh no. In no particular order, I have:<br /><br />1. Created a new website, called Talk About Brains. This is not live yet, so not very interesting to you. Or even me. But when it is live it will have a video on it, a film of me being authory (ie not writing very much but talking a lot).<br /><br />2. Been filmed for that film, by my daughter. It's all very well having your personal film producer in the house but the downside is that she keeps telling me to do things. I thought it would be a good idea to film me making Brain Cake<span style="font-size:78%;">TM</span>, a la Delia. God, it's hard. (Being filmed cooking, not the actual cake). Well, actually the actual cake was hard, too. Partly because I forgot to put the baking powder in and partly because I had to put the eggs in twice - "Cut! I need to do another take of you putting the eggs in."<br />"But I can't - I'd have to take the eggs out first."<br />"Mum, this is art - no one's going to taste it."<br />Yes, but you can actually tell by the look of a cake whether it's got no baking powder and too many eggs in ... Anyway, new respect for Delia. Instead we came up with a video of me doing lots of things like events and going for walks and even occasionally writing (I really had to draw on my acting powers for that one)<br />PS - note the TM sign after Brain Cake. We (publishers and yours truly) decided that it was such a good idea that I should protect it, hence the Trade Mark sign. You are welcome to make the cake as often as you like, but if you write about it, don't forget the TM!<br /><br />3. Been away on a book tour. First to Stamford School (very good), then to Leighton Park in Reading (very good) and then to the Cheltenham Science Festival (very difficult). The last one was in a tent so big I couldn't see the end of it. I <span style="font-style: italic;">think </span>there were a few hundreds in the audience but I couldn't see them. I had no idea the venue would be so big, so I had to rethink the talk. Then a boy asked "What does the optical lobe do?" but I misheard him (for quite a long time) so I faffed around trying to work out what he might have meant (with the audience unhelpfully shouting their suggestions), and thinking he probably meant the occipital lobe, which was a shame because a) it was totally irrelevant to what I was talking about and b) to say that I am not an expert on the occipital lobe would be an understatement. Then another boy asked "If you are not a trained scientist, how credible is your work ?" Move over Jeremy Paxman ...<br /><br />4. I have been writing a novel. Yes, indeedy. And actually enjoying it, which is most unlike me. And this and many other changes in my outlook on life are all down to a remarkable woman called Sam, who in another life was probably a white witch and burned at the stake for her magic powers, but in this life is a simply extremely clever. She got me to understand why I write and to get the joy of writing back at the centre of my working life, instead of something that was fitted round lists and lists and lists of tasks. I am now entirely free of all the angst that used to hold me back and get me down (until the next time someone does something incredibly damned irritating).<br /><br />5. My daughter came back from Mexico. My other daughter is about to graduate. These things are time-consuming and important. Life's too short to write novels when you have this stuff going on.<br /><br />6. My dog has smelly ears, which have to be cleaned.<br /><br />7. Been to Tunisia - lovely place.<br /><br />8. I've been doing a lot of cooking in my spare time (That's another Sam achievement - "hobbies are not indulgences but necessary to creative thinking ... hobbies are not indulgences but necessary to creative thinking ... hobbies are not indulgences but necessary to creative thinking."<br /><br />9. I've started Pilates (Thanks a bunch, Sam ...)<br /><br />That's about it. I'm sure there was some other stuff. Oh yes, gorgeous cover of next book (Deathwatch) - but not final so I can't show you.<br /><br />Oh yes, there was the rather strange case of life imitating art when one of my new teenage neighbours (at LAST, I have teenage neighbours - you need to see the people who live in my street before you appreciate the novelty of this - and they read my books) fell in the canal, uncannily mirroring what happens to someone in Deathwatch. Trouble is, she did this too LATE - I needed to know how deep the water is WEEKS go, Polly ....<br /><br />Still, she and her lovely sisters will get copies of the book and an invitation to the launch.Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-25298176383211826602008-02-11T21:35:00.002+00:002008-06-10T18:55:32.301+01:00Of conferences and Mexican wavesOk, so some people think I've been organising a conference. And I have. 94 punters in a great venue in the shadow of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh, spectacular speakers from all over the UK, and stuff. And other people (like my editor and agent) think I've been writing a novel. My husband thinks I've been cooking his meals and ironing the occasional sock. But actually, folks, I've been dealing with a daughter lost in rural Mexico, a totally non-English-speaking bit, unable to speak any Spanish except what she valiantly taught herself from an ancient CD I found in a drawer, at the mercy of a guy called Ariel (which was hitherto a washing-powder or nippy Shakespearean fairy, as far as I was concerned, which wasn't far) and utterly frustrated at having spent 6 months full-time in Starbucks earning the money for her gap year trip of a life-time (I hope). She's supposed to be somewhere else entirely but somehow got put on a bus for a trip which was supposed, according to "Kevin", to take two hours but which she said was in fact eight hours. (Kevin had a very wonderful explanation for this discrepancy: "Oh, hey, yeah - sorry for the dodgy info - I think I was asleep when I made that journey so time seemed to pass really quickly."<br /><br />So, anyway, she's more than a tad pissed off. Cos things don't turn out how they're described on t'internet, do they? And she thinks she and another girl are probably literally the only non-Mexicans in a city which seems to hate anyone who's non-Mexican.<br /><br />Yes, and of course she's going to have a great experience, eventually, once she gets Ariel to understand about today meaning today. And she's going to set herself up nicely creating a website telling the truth about gap year promises, (in a positive caring sharing way) but meanwhile yours truly gets to be a mother with the mother of all stresses - kid on other side of the world and I'm supposed to organise a conference / write a novel /iron socks as though nothing else mattered.<br /><br />Which of course is fine because the daughter is fab and can deal with this stuff. And she sends me more kisses on her emails than she ever gave me when she was only upstairs. And actually at a few thousand miles what can I do?<br /><br />Organise another conference? I'm tempted.<br /><br />But not much.Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-53920284829988027352007-12-01T21:14:00.000+00:002007-12-03T09:05:03.526+00:00Jesus in my taxiMy husband is cross with me. On this occasion, unusually, he could actually be right. It really was a stupid conversation to get into. I mean, if you were being driven across London, hot-bed of religious retribution, in a black Mercedes mini-cab, by a total stanger (as mini-cab drivers usually are) would you get into a conversation about religion?<br /><br />But my husband doesn't understand. It's things like this make life worth living.<br /><br />Anyway. I was in one (black Mercedes mini-cab in London) and, as usual, doing authory things. Whendoievernot? And the conversation went like this:<br /><br />Me, (<em>making polite conversation despite having been kept waiting for 40 minutes for a pre-ordered taxi</em>): Is it usually this busy on a Friday evening? (<em>Stupid question if ever there was one. For crying out loud, it's London, it's Friday evening, it's slashing with rain, it's about to be December: of course it's flipping busy</em>.)<br /><br />TD (<em>taxi driver</em>): Busier than usual actually, madam. It's nearly Shabbat and people are getting ready.<br /><br />Me: (<em>senses now alert - am I in a Religious Situation? Are the doors unlocked</em>?) Oh, of course.<br /><br />TD: Are you Jewish, madam?<br /><br />Me: (<em>now bricking it. I mean, I'm blonde, in a highlighted kind of a way, and I really don't know if either "yes" or "no" is going to be acceptable. Seriously, are the doors unlocked</em>?) Er, no. (<em>Is this the right answer</em>?)<br /><br />TD: Ah.<br /><br />Then - and I cannot explain this, and my husband is now really really furious with me. I mean, he did not plan to marry a martyr of any faith - we embark on a Religious Conversation in which I bizarrely though truthfully admit to being an atheist. For goodness' sake, I am in a black Mercedes with white leather seats and a total stranger, to whom I owe money, who has asked me if I am Jewish. Has he also injected me with a truth drug when I wasn't looking? Anyway, we have a strangely calm and reasoned argument, in which I profess to a calm and reasoned atheism as well as utter, total and really very fervent respect for all beliefs contrary to my own. I have no idea at this point what religion he is from but he seems like a very pleasant and reasonable guy so I have no reason (other than common sense) to pretend anything.<br /><br />TD: That's good. That you respect others.<br /><br />There is a pregnant pause. Then surrealism conquers my life again. He tells me that he is Iranian (interesting, but this could mean nothing. It could, on the other hand, mean a lot. I am certainly not equipped for this. My experience of the sensitivities involved is limited. After all, I live in Morningside, near a place called Holy Corner, the entire holiness of which is imparted by the ominous existence of four Christian churches) and that he was brought up as a fervent Muslim (I'm slightly losing it now. I'm a really nice and mutually-respectful person but is that going to help?). He spent many years hating Christians. The word he actually used to describe himself was "anti-Christ". Now, I am fingering the door-handle and my phone and wondering why the hell I didn't listen to my husband more often when he told me that I should stay in Edinburgh and quite preferably in the kitchen. On the other hand, since I'm not a Christian, I am not entirely sure what the problem is, but I am fairly sure there is one. Surely I am innnocent?<br /><br />Then, my taxi-driver tells me that something happened. Jesus came into his life. Specifically, Jesus came into his taxi. Oh yes. And actually he (sorry He) was sitting just where I'm sitting. I feel slightly uncomfortable about this and shift a little way along the white leather seat. It doesn't seem right, really. To sit there. But really, it's true. Jesus sat there, he says, as real as I am (possibly even more so at this point, as I have completely lost any sense that I exist at all, or at least on any plane of reality that includes sensible and real things like Starbucks and tomato ketchup).<br /><br />Jesus, bless him, had absolutely without warning got into the taxi to tell my taxi-driver to come off drugs, because he was an addict and his life was a mess, and the taxi-driver did. Just like that. It was amazing. And now he drives a black Mercedes, which proves it, because before that he was driving a Ford Fiesta. (You see, as I had to work out for myself later when attempting to rationalise this story, it wasn't actually THIS taxi, because at that point the taxi-driver didn't have this one.) I have a feeling that Jesus did a pretty good job, as my taxi-driver seems like a very calm and nice individual.<br /><br />Unfortunately, he (taxi-driver, not Jesus - I think) dropped me in the pouring rain absolutely nowhere near the place I'd asked him to, so that I had to ruin my turquoise boots stomping around in the rain trying to find the place, but hey, that's life.<br /><br />Ruining the turquoise boots is probably a sign. In the words of my favourite film, "it's a sign by any standards". It's certainly a sign that I should do what my husband tells me.<br /><br />I am left with one niggling doubt after this encounter. And I don't think it's a question I'll ever know the answer to. What do you think - did Jesus pay his fare or was he free-loading?Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233487.post-69173404805350042322007-11-29T22:38:00.000+00:002007-12-03T18:26:01.262+00:00Of boots, escalators and photographersI have always adhered to the motto "Be prepared". And now I know I was right.<br /><br />I had to go to London, for various reasons including a Times interview and extraordinary photoshoot. This was to take place in a fake dungeonesque place in a museum, after dark, in Docklands, and a load of people had gone to extreme lengths to set it up. So there was no possibility of chickening out.<br /><br />Anyway, 7am train from Edinburgh, into King's Cross, across to Liverpool St, left my suitcase in L'pool St, got the train out to Essex, did a school talk, back on train into L'pool St. Decided, in my infinite wisdom, not to collect my luggage but to leave it there while I rushed to Docklands for the photoshoot, because Paul, the nice-sounding photographer, had already been waiting a long time and probably wanted to go home, because Paul, unlike me, has common sense.<br /><br />So, I hurry onto the Underground in the middle of rush hour. I can do this - I am strong and fit and I used to live in London. A long time ago. Before Docklands existed. I get to Bank and I hurry through more crowds to the Docklands Light Railway. I am slightly concerned, as I have not been on it before and it could very easily be dangerous. There are, however, no warnings about the type of danger I am about to encounter.<br /><br />As I step onto the escalator, my foot kind of slides gently and undramatically from under me and I almost fall. But, being strong and fit, and desperate not to be uncool, I don't fall. I try to put my foot down again, but it doesn't seem completely to be there. This is a disconcerting feeling, as, last time I looked, it was. However, I look behind me and see an object sitting at the top of the escalator as I rapidly leave it behind. I put two and two together and realise that the heel has come off my boot.<br /><br />Those of you to whom this has never happened need to understand: this is not a funny situation. It is not possible to walk properly like this. And my luggage, where spare footwear should be, is in Liverpool St Station.<br /><br />But I was in the Girl Guides and we know how to deal with situations like this. In fact, I remember my Docklands Light Railway badge and one of the tasks was, quite definitely: carry a spare pair of boots in your handbag. This, naturally, I have done. Yes, really, I have a pair of red suede boots in my handbag. I am not joking.<br /><br />So, end of story, you would think. But no, because I am in very heavy crowds on a very busy escalator, about to enter throbbingly full tunnels full of fearsome marauding Londoners, who are quite happy to laugh at me now, but will not be if I stop in the middle of them to change into red suede boots for reasons known only to me. I could be arrested. So I hobble. At first, people feel sorry for me because they think I am injured. Then they laugh. Then they get annoyed, as I am not walking fast enough for them.<br /><br />This is not helped by the fact that on the DLR, there are no friendly maps telling me where to go. I am like a tourist. I have to ask for help. But I can't, because I have only one heel and this renders me pathetic. Being in the Girl Guides did not prepare me for this. Luckily, a business man, perhaps finding a woman with one heel unpleasantly interesting, asks if he can help. I want to ask if he is a cobbler but even if he is he is fairly unlikely to carry a spare heel and hammer with him. Unless he was in the Boy Scouts. I am disinclined to ask this. This is London. You don't ask questions like that. It's the sort of thing that starts incidents.<br /><br />I pretend that I have not noticed anything amiss with my footwear, and I ask him which train goes to West India Quay. "This train," he says, smiling in the way that only businessmen who have other motives than cobbling do. He gets on the train with me, which is worrying. But I still have not managed to change my boots, which is more worrying.<br /><br />I cannot change into red suede boots with this man watching me. I also cannot change into them because I have no idea whether West India Quay is one stop or ten and I might be caught mid boot. So, between each stop, I do not change my boots. I tuck my feet beneath me and pretend that I am demented, hoping that everyone will ignore me. This works disturbingly easily. This is, after all, London. I must remember that. That as long as you don't get in anyone's way, or ask for help, you can wear broken boots if you want to.<br /><br />I hobble off with increasing and impressive agility at West India Quay, which was five stops away, which is annoying because I easily could have changed my boots. But the day hasn't been going my way so far, so why would it change now?<br /><br />West India Quay is deserted. It is an unmanned and unwomanned station. It also has no signs or maps and I have absolutely no idea where I'm going. I need to fnd a really sleazy, dark street corner to change into my red suede boots. Luckily, there is a wide choice. I manage to change without being arrested or propositioned, largely because there is no one around at all.<br /><br />Docklands is like a sci-fi film set. There are looming sky-scrapers, distant lights, boats with no people, restaurants with no people, a creaking saloon door and tumbleweed tumbling along the dusty highway. I have absolutely no idea where to go.<br /><br />My phone rings. It is Paul. "Where are you?" he asks. "I don't entirely know," I say, "but I think I'm here." We then do a passable impression of the Anneka Rice show from years back, and I find the Museum of London and, in it, Paul and Simon. I half expect to find Paul Simon, but that would not happen on a day like this. I would not be prepared anyway.<br /><br />Paul is dressed a bit like a cat burglar so he is quite hard to see. Apart from this, he is very, very nice. He has no idea about my stressful incident. And I don't tell him. I prefer him to think that I am calm and cool, that I always wear red suede boots on sci-fi film sets and that I am not the sort of idiot who would lose a heel on an escalator. He photographs me in all sorts of poses in all sorts of varieties of dungeon, amongst the artificial smells of ancient life and strangely authentic soundtracks of 18th century people drinking mead.<br /><br />Simon keeps holding a thing to my chin, flashing a light and reading out a number. This feels important but I haven't a clue what's going on. Paul doesn't ask me to smile, not once - because, as I say, he's very nice and nice photographers don't ask me to smile. He asks me to think about the characters in my book. I say, "But you said you weren't going to ask me to <em>do</em> anything, like act or anything." "I'm not," he says, smiling, "I'm asking you to think. I take the pictures, you think." This suits me fine and I think about the characters in my book.<br /><br />It is an extraordinary experience, surreal, soporific. Oddly pleasant. At one point I nearly fall asleep, and at another point I start laughing. I try to explain to Paul that I have had a weird day. A few hours ago I was failing to understand the accents of some Essex convent girls and one hour ago I was legless on an escalator, and now Paul is taking photographs of me in a fake dungeon. I don't explain this well. I decide to shut up in case I am smiling in a photograph.<br /><br />I don't know which picture he'll use. But if you read the Times on December 15th, you will see. And you'll maybe see the red boots - I hope so, as they certainly served their purpose that day.<br /><br />You may be wondering why I had red boots in my handbag. It's simple. I love boots. And I thought it might be a good idea to wear these red ones for the photoshoot but I knew it would really not be a good idea to walk around London in them. Those boots were not made for walking.<br /><br />After all, what if I lost the heel on an escalator?Nicola Morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12189894289540344094noreply@blogger.com