coffee with Katja 
Oh no, not Scrabble!


I write, therefore I love Scrabble. Wrong. 
I hate Scrabble.  I love words for their content, not their structure.

A scrabbler sees gambol as: 4 consonants, 
2 vowels, total value 15. But gambol is so much more! There's bounce in the word, there's air, exclamation marks, kitten-play, spring, wheat fields!

Scrabble is word warfare. Writing is friendship. A two-way thing. Words come when I need them, and when a word really, really wants to have its say, I wouldn't dream of saying no. 

How can you compare the thrill of finding a gem of a word to express a feeling, a mood, a scene, to the thrill of finding a word worth 56 points?

I feel guilty when I play scrabble, like I should apologise to my tiny friend for demeaning it. Sorry pert, you cheeky little thing, I know it's embarrassing being next to matt, tent and pun, but it's worth a lot to me. Pffff. That's not friendship, that's exploitation.

But my words forgive me. I may lapse into the big bad world of scrabble, but my words know my heart. They rock.

And between you and me...? I think they quite like their occasional tryst on the scrabble board.
o
14 August 2012: two weeks to go


I miss my book. My fingers are itching for the next one. 

But first: two more weeks of "agenting". I understand why writers curl up and die at this point. The temptation to send a mass campaign to every agent in the Writers' & Artists'  Handbook is huge, but that would fly in the face of my years in marketing, wouldn't it? Target, target, target.

Then wait, wait, wait. But I can wait. It's been long enough, so what's a few more weeks? I'll tell you: pure hell. But that's the real world. And it's in the real world that readers live.
o
1 August 2012: staying in the cave


The safest place in the whole world is my writing cave. And it's closed for the summer. 
 
Kindle published. Check.
Website. Check.
Facebook. Check.
Agent. Agent?
Do I need one? Really? OPEN my cave, dammit.

For two blissful years I was in my cave. Just me, Raisin and Geoffrey, a lunatic cult, a little boy, his damaged counterpart, and a wise old man who loves wolves. Sound crowded? It wasn't. It's like living in your own village... there people you love, some you cross the street to avoid, and one or two who creep you out.... but it's home.

My village is gone and I'm back in the real world and on the agent hunt. It shouldn't be that scary but it is. This is the coal face. Will someone love my work enough to take it on? Will it be a woman, a man? Experienced, or a hungry new buck? 

If I wasn't so disciplined, I'd be right back in my writer's cave working on the next book edit. Anything but this.
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