So here we are. Our savings are now worth nothing and our teenagers are helping themselves to TVs and mobile phones. Well, I suppose it makes a change from them nagging us for the money to get them. Somehow the events of the last few nights seem to sum up the summer holidays for me. I hate them – I find myself casting about for ideas to keep teenage boys engaged, but there is no way on earth I can compete with a virtual killing spree which takes place in the corner of his bedroom. And how does a trip to a National Trust property compare with being rooted in front of the TV watching some house DIY programme and Facebooking your every thought to the world? They even turned their noses up at my hearty suggestion of a few days by the sea which had to involve certain criteria before they would agree.
What makes me most ashamed about all this though is that the blame for the scenes in Tottenham, Birmingham, etc lies squarely with us – the thirty and forty something generation whose kids these are. Why are we so afraid of discipline? Are we rebelling against our own upbringings? Great – that means we can lob the blame onto our own parents. Brilliant – absolution. Again.
Rather alarming – The Mail on Sunday seem interested in me and her and our ability to write together as part of their drive to feature young and attractive women in the paper. They’ve asked us to send a picture of ourselves first before they progress any further with ideas for a piece about us and our glorious career, and some promo for Instuctions for Bringing Up Scarlett. Well, no disrespect to her or myself for that matter, but young we ain’t (though I still strong believe I am only actually 17), and attractive? All things are relative I know, but if they were planning a cover for Vogue, it is unlikely we’d get passed the first heat. The picture you see here was (cough) taken a few years ago now, and, as every woman knows, is much the more flattering for being in black and white but hey? If they can touch up piccies for magazines all the time, aren’t we allowed a bit of artistic licence?
So whilst we wait to see if the readers of the Mail are going to be subjected to our mugs, I am feeling a bit peckish. All lined up for dinner last night was one of those pre-cooked chickens from the store that is gud with fud – until the newest member of the household discovered it and ate the lot. Mack, rescued in February from a small plastic box on the side of the road with the lid firmly down, aged just 11 weeks, is rapidly becoming an adolescent. If he were human, he would be a hoodie. The result of his indulgence? Well, put it this way, it was back this morning – all over the kitchen floor.
It is a universal truth that authors now have to be responsible for their own publicity. And why not, I hear you mutter resentfully. We write the books, so it’s up to us to get out there and tell people about them. The trouble is, some people are very good at this and are happy to go just about anywhere to make people aware of them and their latest oeuvre. Others (ourselves included) find the whole thing terrifying. Happy are we to hide behind the fiction, and we are simply brilliant at radio, but standing in front of the cynical public talking about plot and characterisation and our brilliant career comes as easy as performing brain surgery. (Yes yes, of course not, but you know what we mean). So we are being very brave and hitting the road – our first stop being the great and wonderful WI network. On the advice of a good friend (who is in the consumate self-publicist category) WI is the place to be seen, so if you are a jam officianado then look out for us. We’ll be the ones standing at the front of your next meeting wincing apologetically and trying, as my mother would say, not to get above ourselves.
Instructions for Bringing Up Scarlett is now out and you can buy it on Amazon here.
Hola and welcome to Annie Sanders in the blogasphere. We’re on (in?) Facebook and tweet when we remember, but it’s a pain when your raison d’etre is to write lots of words and you have to restrict yourself to a handful. What kind of a place is it when there’s no room for adjectives? So, here goes. We’re just launched on the world our 8th novel Instructions for Bringing Up Scarlett – a bitter/sweet tale of a friendship which is stretched to the limit. It raises some pretty hairy questions that we for one (er, two) wouldn’t really want to face – i.e. if you went under the front wheels of the No.46 to Finsbury Park (ok so the No.46 doesn’t go to Finsbury park but hey ho) and your partner/husband/father of your children went under the back wheels, then who would you trust to bring up your children? Scary thought isn’t it?
Saturday afternoon saw us doing what all self-respecting authors now have to do which is selling our wares – so, realising bribery was the best policy, we offered a glass of fizz and help our pens aloft waiting for the onslaught of ardent fans. Let us tell you, it is possibly the horriblest moment of an author’s life and being two doesn’t make it any easier. Thankfully lots of lovely friends turned up and we even collared the odd member of the public.
To find out about us you can click here and to go to our page on Amazon click here