Linky + Sicky

I’ve been reading this blog a lot recently. I hate twee mummy and baby type writing, but this one is not like that at all.

There are so many stereotypes about young single mothers that when you are one, it is very difficult to be anything other than a walking, sleep deprived cliche. And when, as well as a pram-face, you’re also a writer, the cliche bit is a horrible thing to drag around with you. But this blog isn’t like that, and everyone should read it immediately.

A shy friend of mine has just joined blog-land with an amazing post stolen from a Facebook meme than turned into a bit of a rant.

I am not a fan of memes and internet quizzes and tagging and all that other strange stuff. But if I could work the ’25 things about me’ meme that’s going around Facebook right now as well as my friend the Capt’n has done in his new blog, I’d be more inclined to join in with them. I demand that you read and comment so he will carry on blogging.

I read this, and nodded a lot
.

This should be a good-enough answer to the question I’ve been asked more and more often recently: how autobiographical is your writing? Of course it is. Yes, all of it. If I hadn’t have spent a lot of time thinking about it and experiencing it in my head, I wouldn’t have been able to write it. And for me, things experienced in the head are much more solid and real and memory-making than the other kind of experiencing, which mainly involves sitting in chairs or putting books on shelves.

Now – my Small Fry has spent twelve hours vomiting over everything in the house. Now is the time for me to turn off the computer and don my rubber gloves.

The next post will be about meeting web designers and photographers, planning launch parties, and getting my author copies. There will be real ‘author glamour’ in the next post. But not now. My whole house smells like sick.

UPDATE: Sorry about all the typos, especially if your reader got it before I corrected it. Put it down to the 3 hours of sleep I got, and the 10+ hours of nursing I’ve just done. And now she’s running about crazy demanding Santa, chocolate and ‘a type.’ 

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