As some of you
know I dabble with writing now and again. Well, I like to make out I
do, especially as it makes me sound learned and scholarly…
Ivory-tower, is that what they say? Or is it Ivy-league? Or perhaps
I’m just getting confused with the AFL? Sigh.
Anyway, I also got into scriptwriting last year. I did a project for an indie director and discovered I LOVE scriptwriting. Making the top 15% in the recent BBC Writers Room programme for Drama. So that was an awesome surprise and to top it off, I actually got the chance to spend a morning there. Yes, tea at the BBC! I still can’t quite believe it!
I rocked up at
the old entrance, which is right next to the new glass building
(people who know me well will appreciate why I was drawn to the old
building, let’s just leave it that I have some very fond memories
there, but that’s another story). Once inside the old building I
was politely informed, when I asked where I had to go, that “Dah-ling
there are 6 reception desks and over 8000 people…” Not the most
helpful of receptionist, but he then kindly took my name and details
of whom I was meeting, a quick photo taken and voilà, my “Visitors”
pass was handed to me and that I was expected in the “New
building.”
So out I went
where I was greeted by one of BBC staff and politely informed him I
had been magnetised to the old building out of nostalgia. Not that
this would make an iota of sense to, well anyone really, and perhaps
I would have been better off just remaining quiet. But I have to say,
twenty years on, the old reception area is exactly as I remember it.
The new building was like getting through some cryptic maze,
involving two sets of revolving doors and a security scan of my
handbag. The second set of revolving doors just suddenly stopped as
soon as I’d stepped in causing me to headbutt the glass plane and
stub my toe. Resulting in unconstrained amusement to those around,
much to my mortification. Especially as then security had to come to
my rescue to get me through the doors… So not quite the glamorous,
dazzling first impression I was hoping to give. But I did make an
impression, so perhaps it doesn’t matter…?
I was led up
this glass lift to one of the top floors. Did I tell you I’m
acrophobic? I was lucky I didn’t conk out from seeing my feet so
high off the ground, then I really would have made a lasting
impression – and for all the wrong reasons!
Nerves aside, I
was able to pay attention to all the advice given regarding
scriptwriting. Something about hitting the ground running in your
first scene. Which is perfect for me, because I’m an expert in
running, as you know!
On a serious
note, I received some invaluable advice and feedback. A truly magical
day to remember…
*The haphazard Spanish Driver… (Five tips to survive driving in Spain, unless you’re of Italian or French descent, in which case you’ll be as a duck takes to water…) * Excerpt from “An Expat’s Guide To Falling In Love” (Not to be taken seriously!)
Road safety in Spain takes on a whole new meaning and can be just as complex as learning the actual language, despite the supposed universal driving codes. Among the many motoring ‘peculiarities’ you will encounter as you try to comprehend and attempt to stay safe on the Spanish roads are a total lack of lane decorum making you doubt which side of the road you’re meant to be driving on in the first place (for the record, it’s on the right). Traffic signs are treated as optional in most cases, accelerating through amber lights the norm, and driving the wrong way up one-way streets or simply backing up in reverse for a kilometre quite the thing. Anything goes when it comes to parking, illegal or not. The same can be noted for the reckless spontaneity adopted when overtaking fellow drivers, achieved, more often than not, without the use of mirrors or indicators.
Does this sound familiar? Then read on. Take notes if and when
necessary.
To stay on the safe side, and prepare yourself for any hell-bent driving you may (will) come across, deem all drivers as totally erratic and drive warily (your future grandchildren will thank you for it).
Driving in main cities can be absolute bedlam: Not recommended for inexperienced drivers. Make sure your insurance is up-to-date, the accident rate for foreigners is quite high.
3. When driving at night, especially in rural areas, watch out for bicycles, donkeys, and horses and carts without lights. Motorists should also keep a keen eye out for pedestrians, especially elderly people, who tend to walk across the road without looking. Or just walk in the middle of the road.
4. When cruising along country roads, don’t be deceived by the quiet lanes. It can get pretty scary, especially when a vehicle shoots past you at the speed of lightning, overtaking you and the five tractors in front of you all at the same time.
5. Watch out for the dreaded ear-splitting motorcycles and mopeds which are a hazard to everyone’s health and safety and break most noise pollution limits.
That said, not all Spanish drivers are inept or loco and driving in Spain can be a pleasant experience… sometimes, particularly when you’re using rural roads, which are relatively traffic-free (except for those five tractors and the donkey).
1.Take your socks off. It’s OK, you can walk around in sandals without socks. Your feet (and pride) will survive and probably thank you.
2. For once, have dinner after 10 pm. The night magic unfolds after 10 pm. Music, dancing, the food is better (because the kitchens are properly functioning, while before you’d probably just be getting a microwave pre-heated meal).
3. Be brave and venture away from the tourist areas (usually two or three streets back from the main promenade). Find a non-English-speaking bar. You’ll also discover you save a quid or two on all beverages.
4. Check out the local food markets (usually held in a “Plaza de Abastos”). You’ll find a bargain or two, and that’s even without knowing how to barter, and looking like your Bob Tourist with lobster-red skin.
5. Know your limit (alcohol, not speed—we’ll get into speed below). One shot in Spain is the equivalent of a triple back home, so if you can knock back six tequilas before you feel a bit queasy, that makes TWO tequilas in Spain. Pay heed to this advice or you’ll end up in hospital.
6. Know your mph from your km. When you see a road sign with 120 as a speed limit, that’s kilometres, not miles. Don’t push the car to 120 mph. After your visit to the hospital for not paying attention to point 5, you’ll probably find yourself behind bars for the night. And drive on the right hand side, will you? That applies to roundabouts as well.
7. If you’re set on going skinny-dipping, for the love of God, try not to go in totally pissed (on two tequilas) and causing a huge scandal. Points 1-6 will have been in vain.
*Excerpt from my current WIP “An Expat’s Guide to Falling in Love.”
So what do you say when you’re a huge Triathlon fan and an old mate, who just happens to be four-time World Champion Chris McCormack (aka Macca), phones you up out of the blue to ask if you want to work as the Spanish interpreter at Super League Triathlon Mallorca?
Er…hello! There is no other coherent response than, “Yes, please!”
And the whirlwind adventure began.
Flights were booked, bags packed, though I had no idea what exactly was needed of me. But I was too excited to worry. I was going to be hanging out with the best triathletes in the world—Vincent Luis, the Brownlee brothers, Katie Zaferes, Taylor Spivey to name but few.
But on arrival I certainly didn’t expect to be presented as the official Spanish race commentator. What? You know commentating requires a skill, right? A certain personality, a special flare to keep the crowds entertained. A high degree of self-confidence to talk non-stop (often about a whole load of rubbish) but make it sound coherent, intellectual and interesting.
Certainly not a skill I possess. I can quite comfortably write a 90-thousand-word novel, but get all tongue-tied when speaking in public. And now I was going to have to speak to a massive crowd about a race which gets broadcasted to over 850 million viewers.
My heart beat shot up, beads of sweat started to form, my legs went weak, and I hadn’t yet been handed the microphone…
I really wasn’t sure it was something I could do or accomplish without making a complete fool of myself and ultimately let the team down, a team who believed in me much more than I did myself.
Funnily enough, race day came along and I wasn’t nervous. I put it down to being in a dream-like state. Surely there was nothing to worry about, because the whole thing was a figment of my wild imagination, and at any point I would wake up. Wouldn’t I?
But I didn’t wake up, and before I knew it, I was called over the loudspeakers—so everyone knew my name and there was no escaping—to do a live interview with no other than Javier Gomez Noya, five-time World Triathlon Champion. This was not the time to get star-struck. I had millions of eyes on me. I was desperate to ask him for his autograph, but it wouldn’t have been the most professional approach.
And I have to say, Javier Gomez Noya, despite being a huge triathlon super-star, is an incredibly down-to-earth, nice guy. I found myself chatting to him as if I’d known him for years.
Interview done. Everything felt surreal. And I was having more fun than I’d had in years!
But there was no time to relax. The starter’s gun went off and the real action began. I’d watched live coverage of the Super League Triathlon series before and knew how impressive it is. These fast, technical and tactical courses keep the spectators on edge. But to watch from inside the perimeter of the race-course was just mind-blowing. The hiss of the bike wheels as they sped past, kicking up the rain drops that had settled early morning; the shouts of the crowds, cheering on their favourite athlete; the emotion, determination and stamina of the leaders visible on their faces; the courage, tenacity and willpower of the athletes towards the back of the field in their own personal battle to remain within the 90-second cut-off margin—all these made the perfect cocktail of ongoing entertainment and excitement throughout.
Of course, by the end of the first race day I was completely hoarse, having taken this commentating lark in full swing. I was thankful that, as I was commentating in Spanish, statistically, of the 850 million home viewers, half wouldn’t understand a word of what I was saying; the other half just didn’t speak or understand Spanish anyway.
Day two was even more emotional, if that’s possible. A close race between the leaders of both the men’s and women’s event. The short-chute rule played a decisive tactical strategy and provided ultimate emotion for the spectators.
Personally, I was shattered, and I hadn’t done any racing (actually, that’s not correct; I did the corporate mixed relay race before the professionals took the stage, I know! Crazy, certainly not my idea! It just highlighted how fit and fast the professionals are, or perhaps how slow and clumsy we are). At the end of the day, it was with personal satisfaction that I completed the relay race without bringing up breakfast, and I didn’t say anything offensive over the loudspeaker whilst commentating.
However, just as I thought I’d overcome my reticence to talk, Rafael Nadal walked past me and I was thrown into a state of bashfulness, awkwardness and gawkiness. It was a real teen-fan moment, making me feel youthful and infantile—for all the wrong reasons. Thankfully I was able to stutter out a request for his autograph for my kids. (An excuse, of course; the autograph is for me!)
Super League Triathlon Mallorca was an amazing experience. I met some incredible athletes, a very professional back-stage team, hung out with some old friends and met some lovely new ones.
Don’t believe you can’t do something until you try it… you may surprise yourself and have a whole load of fun in the process.
This time last year I embarked on my journey to fulfil my “little big dream” of competing at the World Masters Athletics Championships.
It was a personal challenge, one I was confident of achieving. But I was wrong… or was I?
The winter months passed, and I was consistent in my training, my motivation high. Depending on my work schedule some of my runs were first thing in the morning, others late at night. I ran through rainy nights, blustery wind and hail storms. But I kept focused and not once did I deviate from my fitness programme. I would compete with the best in the world in my age-group; I had to give the best of me.
My body started adapting and responding to the training. Body fat fell away and muscles became more defined. With each passing day I felt stronger.
The start of my race season reflected this. I was on course to a great performance at the worlds. At least it’s what I believed. I always knew I was light-years from winning a medal, but there was a chance I would pass the qualifying rounds and get to the finals. That was my goal.
Over self-confidence is destructive. I kept pushing my body, on and off the track. I was offered several work projects which I accepted. I was capable of anything, or so I believed. My training would take up 1-2 hours a day, 6 days a week. Work another 10 – 11 hours Monday to Sunday, add in family life, keeping a house in ship-shape….plus eat and sleep… It was a cocktail for disaster. My body started giving out little signals…which I, of course, ignored.
Exactly a month before the World Champs I came down with a throat infection and high fever. And still I trained through it. At least I tried, but by the third day I could hardly get out of bed.
My right knee started giving trouble and tendinitis in my left foot just complicated matters more.
But I was still optimistic, until I started training again, every run was slower than the previous. I had reached my limit. Was it too late to rectify? I cut down on my training to let my body recover. There was still a chance I might make it to the finals.
Then three days before I was due to compete I go a phone call. Someone very close to me had had an accident and was in hospital… The next few days passed in a blur and I found myself on the start line of the 800m at the Malaga World Masters Athletics Championships and all I could think of was:
I don’t want to be here….
And I had the worst race I’ve had in a long time…
Sometimes dreams don’t come true…Or perhaps they do, just not in the ways you imagine. The final result wasn’t what I had expected. But isn’t it the journey that counts? I had a great year; it was immensely satisfying to see I could still get my body to run, twenty years on and as a mother of two, almost as fast as when I had been in my late teens. And that’s what I’ll take, it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey and the people you meet on the way…
And now to continue dreaming… I have several I hope to make a reality soon…
If the answer is Yes! Congratulations! You’ve come to the right place. Well, except for the “tall” bit. Unless you’re lucky enough to be dating Pau Gasol (A Spanish International Basket Ball player who measures in at 6 ft 10in) there’s a good chance you’ll tower over most Spanish men. But this is good news! It means you can get away with wearing flip-flops all day long and still feel tall. Your feet and calf muscles will be grateful to you too for saving them the torture of wearing three-inch stilettos. And the best thing is, even if you do tower over your Spanish date, (flip-flops or not) they are not men intimidated by height. So really, it’s good news all around!
And of course you’re still left with “the dark stranger,” with sultry, smouldering dark eyes. One look into his deep, penetrating gaze and you’re a gonna. Eyes black rimmed around the iris, with a reddish orange hue surrounding the pupils, flecked with gold and lighter brown rays, will reach deep into your soul. Are you ready?
Before you get carried away with images of Juan Garcia Postigo wining and dining you (if you don’t know who this absolutely lush Spanish actor and model is, go Google him NOW!! and while you’re at it, you may as well check out Marc Clotet, Miguel Ángel Silvestre Rambla and Miguel Iglesias to name but three more Spanish heart-throbs, to give you an idea of what you may stumble across in these hot! arid, terrains) let’s go over some basic clobber you should know about the typical Spanish man.
1. He has no concept of the word “Vegetarian.”
He’ll be like, “But you eat Jamon don’t you?” Jamon iscured Spanish ham, a source of great pride among Spaniards, ingrained in the customs and traditions of all Spanish regions. Since antiquity Spanish have produced dry-cured hams. The first written references date back to the Roman Empire. How can you not eat Jamon?! Don’t even try to convince him you don’t like it. He won’t buy it. You’re better off just saying you’re allergic to the stuff. You’ll get an odd look, but then the topic will be dropped, at least until the next time you go out for tapas when he’ll try to convince you to try it again.
2. You’ll think he’s an alcoholic after the first date.
He’ll drink, any time, day or night! But let me clear this concept. He’s not a drunk really (and certainly not a larger lout), it’s just that alcohol (particularly wine) is part of their culture. Also, Spain is famous for having some of the best wine in the world which perhaps explains why there are so many bars everywhere. In fact studies (Coca-cola 2013) have shown that there is one bar for every 132 inhabitants. In other words, there are about 350,000 bars to choose from. So if all goes tits-up after your first date with a Spaniard, not to worry, you’ll have plenty of places to drown your sorrows in and most probably get chatted up by another hot Latino anyway. So it’s a win-win situation, really.
3. He’s very affectionate, even with new acquaintances.
Let me prep you for what to expect when you get introduced to someone in Spain. He’ll lean forward to kiss you, (I know! He’s a complete stranger! And it’s not even a date yet! Try not to panic and stiffen up) so despite your reflexes making you quickly step back, you won’t be quick enough. His arm will go around your back and hold you; one quick kiss will be planted on your right cheek and then another on your left, this will be combined with a long hug, a pat on your back and to finish with a quick, complete, body scan (just like if you were going through customs again). This ritual will be repeated again! when you say goodbye at the end of the evening. And it will be the same for everyone. Guys to girls. Guys to guys. Girls to girls. Young, old, everyone joins in. So if you’re a bit particular regarding your personal space, let me tell you now, by day two of group hugs and kisses, any peculiarities will have gone with the wind! and tomorrow is another day…
4. He cooks very well.
At least that’s what he’ll boast. Though don’t expect him to rustle up roast lamb with Yorkshire pudding and apple crumble. It’s just too hot to eat those type of foods, anyway. But he will impress you with a paella for thirty or a 10 kg Spanish potato omelette. This second dish may sound a simple receipt, but just try flipping a 10 kg omelette in your saucepan and see what could happen to your wrist! And be warned. build up an appetite before you sit down for the meal he has painstakingly prepared. He will be totally offended if you don’t eat absolutely everything! A trait passed from grandmother to grandchild and is integrated into his blueprint.
There are actually 171 Michelin starred restaurants in Spain, of which 8 have the highest rating possible, proving that grandma’s cooking has been taught well.
The meal will end with a strong coffee, it doesn’t matter what time it is. So of course your Spanish date will not be ready to hit the sack until the early hours of the morning… Time to get your dancing shoes on…
5. He’s got the dance moves…
And if he hasn’t, he’ll give it his best shot! Just don’t expect any Justin Timberlake or Michael Jackson moves. The closest you’ll get will be someone trying to imitate Joaquin Cortés (A famous Spanish flamenco dancer, native from Cordoba, Spain). Your date will have no sense of shame and will be up on hearing the first “Sevillana” and dragging you with him to the middle of the dance floor. Where you will feel incredible embarrassed for the both of you. Not to worry, Sevillanas are a type of folk music and dance. They are danced by couples of all ages and sexes during celebrations (fiestas or ferias), often by whole families and towns. Which means that there is a good chance everyone around you is too pissed to notice your awkward moves. Just stick your arms up above your head in a sort of karate kid pose and twirl around. You’ll get the hang of it after a glass or two of vino.
Just be warned, if your date really does love Flamenco (guitar, song or dance) and I mean reallylovesit you may find after a month of listening to Flamenco around the clock you’ll be at your wits end and you will insist that it’s either Flamenco or you. Of course if it gets to that, I may as well be honest and tell you now, you haven’t a hope in hell that he’ll choose you over his musical passion! You’ve been forewarned!
6. He seems to think you’re deaf…
He doesn’t think you’re hard of hearing really, but it will be the impression you’ll get. He will try to make up for his lack of the English language by speaking slowly and turning his timbre up a notch or two. Something he will do in every social event or place. You’ll find yourself sitting in public transport and you’ll be hushing at him to speak quieter, but there is no need. Just pause for a moment and listen, everyone around you is chattering away in loud tones, the odd one out is in fact you.
7. He’ll almost always be late…
Which is great! You get to doll-up without rushing. But not only will his punctuality be lacking for your date, it seems his body-clock, as like most Spaniards, is run on a different time-zone. Lunch will be late, dinner will be even later and when most Europeans have been asleep for two hours, most Spaniards will be still be glued to the TV more often than not watching football. If you can’t stand football, I advise you now, that the first thing you need to clarify when you meet him, even before you ask him his name, is whether he likes football. If his answer is “Yes” don’t even sit down. Just slowly turn around, pretend that you are in fact deaf, and go back the way you came.
8. He’s very family orientated…
If he presents you to his family (which, more often than not, comprises of about two hundred distant cousins, fifty first cousins, countless aunts and uncles, grandparents, a handful of brothers and sisters and of course his parents) it means that this is on! He is serious and everyone will expect you to be wedded and pregnant before the year is up! Congratulations! You have just joined the European Union again!
I live in Andalusia, home to one of the hottest and most arid climates in Spain, this year however, we’ve had one of the mildest Springs in the last decade. But right the very day before the Southern Spain Masters Athletic Track Championships, the weather soared up to over 40º C and not only that, but the Regional Athletics Federation sent out an urgent communication that in the very same perimeter of the athletics track a music concert had also been programmed, and not just any concert, but for one of the most popular Spanish pop stars on the scene right now. (It’s like organising a Robbie Williams concert at Crystal Palace with a regional Track Championships at the same venue, at the same time) the mind boggles just trying to figure out the logistics and that no-one realised the clash of events until the day before is just staggering.
Basically, I was told that instead of running in the early evening with a cool eventide breeze, my race had been brought forward to 4.30 pm in no other place than Seville (aka “El Sarten”…which translates to “The Frying Pan”) May I just add here that we get bombarded by health and safety messages about avoiding physical activities in the middle of the day and there we were preparing to run, bang on the hottest time of the day in probably the hottest part of Spain. To get the right visual, simply turn your oven to 250º F and then open it and breathe in deeply (have your phone handy just in case you need to do a hasty 999 call). That dry heat hit me on stepping out onto the track. I could hear the crowds cueing for the concert humming outside the stadium, crazy folk, though I wasn’t sure who was crazier, those outside whom had been waiting for hours and still had several more to go, or me planning to run in this Sahara-like-desert heat, even if it would only be for a few minutes.
It was the first time ever I didn’t bother warming up. I was sweating buckets just strolling across the track to the warm-up area. All the other competitors asked me what time I was hoping to run the 1500m. “Time?” I queried back puzzled, “I just want to finish without collapsing.” And I actually thought we would all run a slow race, but the gun went off and two of the competitors were off like the clappers, in the first two hundred metres they got over twenty metres on me and all I could think was “What on earth are they doing? Surely they won’t be able to keep that pace up in this heat?!” But to my surprise they did. But with one lap to go, I knew I had a chance of chasing them down and that if I did then collapse because of the heat, I would have at least made it to the finish line…
At then end of the day, despite the heat, I had fun, and that’s what counts (not having to visit the on-site doctor was also a plus).
If you’re really bored and have five minutes to spare, you can watch the race here… (It’s a 6 hour recording of the championships, but my race is at minute 4hrs 11 minutes. I’m third most of the way around). Andalusian Masters Track Championships
In the aftermath of GDPR and the importance of privacy, for those lucky enough not to have their e-mail dashboard swamped with GDPR messages and have no idea what it is—what godly planet are you tuning in from? – it stands for General Data Protection Regulation. As I understand it, data protection controls how personal information can be used and your rights to ask for information about yourself. Sounds pretty good on paper, so why is is when I get this fab, Lorna Jane, T-shirt, sent to me by a very special person who lives in Australia, my Facebook feeds and Instagram feeds are immediately swapped with advertisements for Lorna Jane products. Hello? Where’s my control over data stored in computers? Had it been a public announcement about how much I loved my “Never Never Never Give Up” Lorna Jane T-shirt (like now) I would understand the blatant advertisement, but the information about the gift and my thanks for the gift was all sent via private WhatsApp messages between two individuals. Not only that, my partner in crime suddenly started receiving Amazon Ads for Lorna Jane T-shirts too and not any model, the exact model I had been sent! So really, why bother with GDPR? I mean the 25th May was pretty hellish with all the e-mails I found sitting in my in-box and I seem to have the same lack of privacy as before. Anyway, by making this post public, what I’m really hoping for, is for my news feed to get swapped with discounted flights to Australia, so that I can go and personally thank the person who sent me the T-shirt in the first place. ; )
So perhaps if I stress the keywords “Australia,” “flights,” “discounted airfare” I’ll be saved the hassle of checking out all the airlines myself and I’ll be in-boxed great deals as of now!
Anyway, going back to my fab T-shirt, the reason I love it so much is because of the message. “Never, never, never give up.” It’s something I always tell my kids or anyone who asks me for writing or running advice. There is no magical formula in getting fit, or writing a book. The only formula is: constant, hard work.
Of course there are days I want to give up. After all, who said hard work was fun? In fact, if I’m honest, there are moments of every single day that a part of me says “I’m too tired for this.” or “It’s not worth it.” But then I’ll get a message from a reader telling me how much they’ve loved my work, and it gives me the motivation to continue.
It works the other way around too. A kind word to someone else, a word of encouragement can often be what motivates that person, prevents them from giving up. And funnily enough, just as a smile is contagious (or yawning if you prefer the visual image of an open mouth) seeing someone else motivated, can be infectious also and can give you the boost you need.
So, just find your own personal goal, someone to smile at, and Never Never Never Give Up!
(Why is it, and this has nothing to do with GPDR, if I use a filter to remove my freckles, my muscles are removed instead? lol!)
And as a quick reminder to Google search engines: “Australia,” “flights,” “discounted airfare” Pretty Please…. ; )
Hi Katy, thanks for coming along today. I’m excited to know that your new novel “The Secret” will be released shortly.
Please tell us a bit more about it.
Hello Cristina – thanks so much for inviting me onto your lovely blog today to talk about the setting for my new novel.
The Secret is set in Tuscany, in the same village as The Silence which was published last year. The village is called Santa Zita and is entirely fictional but is inspired by lots of villages in the Lucca area of Tuscany – enclosed within its walls, the houses clinging to the rock.
It’s an area of craggy mountains, deep gorges and hilltop villages which from below look like little kingdoms. They each have their own character, traditions and folklore. And if they chose I imagine they could guard a secret for many years.
I think you’d like Lucca, the main town, Cristina, because it’s encircled by 4km of city walls which are perfect for running – although you might have to dodge the odd bicycle and rickshaw.
There are several towers to climb with wonderful views, and lots of squares with cafes where you can sit and watch the world go by.
The area’s ideal for riding, mountain biking, kayaking and canyoning. You can go dolphin spotting from Viareggio, visit an adventure park or the Grotta del Vento (the Wind Cave). Or take a cable car up to the mountains to ski in winter or cool off in summer.
And of course the food is fantastic!
You can also visit the remains of the Gothic Line fortifications which the Nazis built to hold back the Allied soldiers as they advanced up through Italy. It’s hard to imagine the devastation the war caused for the civilians caught up in it but I’ve tried to capture this in my story.
I’d advise anyone thinking of going to this part of Tuscany to go in spring when the snowy mountains provide a lovely backdrop and everything’s in blossom.
Publication day for The Secret is 1st June for the ebook (£1.99) but it’s available for preorder now at http://mybook.to/thesecretjohnson
The paperback is available now at £6.99.
Blurb
Two girls growing up in Mussolini’s Italy share a secret that has devastating consequences. Against a backdrop of poverty, fear and confusion during the Second World War, friendship is tested and loyalties divided until a chance encounter changes everything.
The girls’ lives diverge when beautiful, daring Martina marries and moves into Villa Leonida, the most prestigious house in the village while plain, studious Irena trains to be a teacher. But neither marriage nor life at Villa Leonida are as Martina imagined. And as other people’s lives take on a new purpose, Irena feels left behind.
Decades later a tragedy at the villa coincides with the discovery of an abandoned baby, whose identity threatens to re-open old wounds.
Thanks so much for sharing this with us today Katy. I read and really enjoyed “The Silence” and I’ve already pre-ordered “The Secret” and I’m looking forward to finding out more about Martina and Irena.
You can find out more about Katy and her work here:
Katharine Johnson is a journalist with a passion for all things Italian (except tiramisu). She grew up in Bristol and has lived in Italy. She currently lives in Berkshire with her husband, three children and madcap spaniel. When not writing she plays netball badly and is a National Trust room guide.
As with filming, when you write a novel, there can be takes, re-takes and, of course, those rather embarrassing bloopers!
Here are four faux pas I had during the creative stage of “Valentina.” (Book II of the Chantelle Rose Series).
1. Firstly, the original name was: “The flowering of Chantelle Rose.” The whole MS was written under this name. But then I started working on the cover art, the original title just didn’t fit the image, literally…something I’m actually grateful for as I much prefer Valentina.
2. I seem to have a thing for names which start with “R” “S” and “G” so I named all my main characters and secondary characters with names that start with those letters. Which is a huge error as it makes it very confusing for the reader to keep track of who is who. So when my lovely editor suggested I re-name the characters, I agreed. But now I confuse myself. I mean “Who the hell is Flavia and Milena?” (Originally Sophia and Salma and I already have a Sally, Santiago and a Sav).
3. I made a HUGE plot error in this novel. It was so huge I realised I would have to scrap the entire story and start again. (When I became aware of this boo-boo I had written over 50 thousand words!) Basically I had set the story in the wrong country…I know, how is that even possible!? After leaving the manuscript for about a week, too stressed to write and too devastated to scrap it and start again, I realised that I could actually use the error to my advantage by adding in an additional twist. Thank goodness for plot twists and creativity!
4. Whilst creating Valentina, I could only dedicate about an hour a day to actual writing, the day job and my kids taking up the rest of my time. Which meant I would mentally think about plot development for a greater part of the remaining waking (and sleeping) hours. Thankfully I learnt early on that if I didn’t somehow record or jot down the ideas that came to me straight away, there wasn’t a hope in hell I’d remember them the following morning. In effect, Valentina took me a year and over two thousand post stick notes to write. I would keep the post sticks safely in my purse. More than once I received odd looks when trying to pay my groceries with a yellow note, my messy writing scrawled all over the paper didn’t help either.
Valentina will be published on the one year anniversary of “A little of Chantelle Rose.” May the 4th be with you…
And this is how the story begins:
PROLOGUE
The sun was setting leaving a golden hue all around, like fairy dust colouring a magical twilight. It would be autumn soon, and the leaves would fall russet and gold onto the ground below. Crisp autumn leaves that would twirl in the wind as they gently fall, to lie motionless on the floor until the wind blew and took them again. Mother Nature would whisper and do with them as she pleased.
He stood there, looking for one last time at the swirling water in front of him, then closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He could hear the water softly splashing as it followed its own path, the wind rustling the leaves and the evening song of a wood-lark nearby. Everything has a calling, everything has a moment, but he was lost. Lost to the enchantment, to the magic of nightfall, lost to her.
He turned to go, and with a heavy heart made his way back home. He walked this time, blind to the setting sun and the cool breeze that now caressed his whole being, gently blowing back his hair, like a lover tenderly caressing his handsome face as he moved along.
It was over. Downhearted he continued his way home.
Home? Could he call it a home when there was nothing to keep him there? Could there be a home without a heart? He stepped through the front door. His mother was waiting for him, and stood quickly on seeing him enter. She wrung her hands together nervously then wiped them down the front of her dress in a habitual gesture of anxiety, stalling for time as she looked at him. He knew he had changed these last few months; the alteration wasn’t physical, it wasn’t even clearly emotional, it went deeper than that. Without a word his mother disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a dust-covered box, a little larger than a shoebox, and handed it over.
There was no need for words; he guessed what was inside. He nodded and tried to smile. It was time, he realised. Time to find his way, his identity.
First thing the following morning, before anyone stirred, he departed…
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Sometimes dreams don’t come true…Or perhaps they do, just not in the ways you imagine. The final result wasn’t what I had expected. But isn’t it the journey that counts? I had a great year; it was immensely satisfying to see I could still get my body to run, twenty years on and as a mother of two, almost as fast as when I had been in my late teens. And that’s what I’ll take, it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey and the people you meet on the way…
He’ll
