Buddy Can You Spare A Euro?

Posted on September 12, 2011 by emmacalin

I don’t know about you but I felt pretty wretched yesterday. Those awful events are printed on us like unfading tattoos. Gravity seemed pompous and levity seemed flippant and cold. Just to rejoice in life seemed selfish. I hope all Americans realise how deeply Europeans feel their sorrow. Here in France and I know from friends in the UK, yesterday was a very special sombre day. People spoke of little else and they did not speak much.

This morning the good old BBC re-started the world with the news that UK police had raided an illegal “travellers” caravan site and had discovered “slaves”. What this means is that all manner of the ugly, the girls too unattractive for sex, the mentally handicapped, the addicted and the mentally ill etc. had been held captive by greedy gangmasters and used as slave labour without pay. Now, to polite middle class British Society this matter appears to be astonishing. These days I can posture as a polite lady offering French cuisine tips, chatting about fruit jam, the entertainment at restaurants and chortling at my good fortune in life. You see – I’ve got a bit of money (AND DON’T KID YOURSELVES – THAT IS WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT). It was not always thus. Once upon a time as a result of my own failings and lusts I ended up poor and somewhat dispossessed. I had to bear all manner of trouble. Compared to the suffering of many people’s lives it was nothing. I wrote a story titled “Sub Prime”. From the dozens of short stories I have churned out this is the only one I try to promote. The rest are trash market dictated product to be quite frank. All I can say about this story is that it is true and that these things go on. It’s free on Smashwords because I don’t want any money from it. It would be free on Amazon but they do not seem to allow us Indie Authors to price at zero. If the word “Gangmaster” is only something you’ve heard pronounced in a journalistic voice on the media then spend the entire sum of nothing and get an insight. I was lucky – I was a migrating bird touching down to re-fuel. There are many flightless birds.

Oh No – money takes the world to ground. Awful wailings and gnashings of imperfectly formed teeth in the French banking world. OK – you buy securities that aren’t secure at higher than their value and ghastly gimlet eyed bean counters poke at your balloons. Look – we all know the direction this is heading. Let’s hope that it doesn’t end up with guys in uniform bellowing simplicities into hungry ears. Now, why would anyone think that could happen?

Emma thinx: Justice: One man one second to act. All men for ever to judge.

When you gotta go

Posted on September 5, 2011 by emmacalin

Whilst weeding the garden, I noted the normal panic and probably terror of insects and ants as their worlds and empires among the roots crumbled and rearranged themselves. So, we slightly higher life forms should not be surprised by sudden change and the fall of certainties. So it has been in the world of books – a subject which I mentioned yesterday. However, the landscape of magazines and newspapers has always shifted. When I started out trying to get anything published I had read a book called “How to be a writer” which I had found in the local library. According to the author, you simply produced “Formula first person” stories to the correct length and sent them off to editors. The editors just sent them back, lost them or put them on a pile. The formula story was written in the first person (a female) who had arrived at a crossroads. Her mind then “flashed back” to how she had arrived at this point. Occasionally I managed to sell a story. Sadly, those story/love/romance magazines no longer have sufficient readership and most have closed. These days it is the celebrity mag that sells. The fact is that the antics and amours of celebs routinely trump any fiction that my imagination could create. What we now have is the formula love on/love off tale starring people who you actually know and have seen on TV. The reason I had been writing romance is because some of the publishers at the supermarket end of the business still accept manuscripts. I’ll leave it to the posh “sincere and artistic” writers to follow their calling with integrity.

So, that brings me on to Celebrity. In France we do have them but most of them are somewhere inside Gérard Depardieu.(American readers will know him from “Green Card”) Now, I love this guy. He’s a kinda Jolly Green Giant crossed with the honey monster. He’s also a brilliant actor and seems to be in every French film. Recently he came to international fame by urinating in an aeroplane.(I do not believe that he was filming a re-make of “Snakes On A Plane”). Seemingly he had asked to use the toilet and had been refused because the plane was about to take off. So, he did what any Frenchman would do. He stood, got out his manhood and anointed the floor. Some reports suggest that he was very considerately aiming for a bottle. This is an honoured French tradition that you are likely to witness at any moment in France. Polite males turn their backs on the closest spectators and enjoy their relief. Any aircraft taking money from French passengers should install at least a small area of soil or a corrugated iron partition to allow for cultural expression. We have to be ultra sensitive to all manner of special interest groups. A Frenchman with a full bladder is as special as you can get. I’m gonna create a church of the Open Fly in the Sky and sign up paying members. Once you’re a church they can’t touch you. Gérard – I’ll be your priestess.

A French lady has sued her husband for “lack of sex”. A judge has ruled that under section 215 of the legal code, partners have to provide this service. The guy had to pay out £8,500 Euros. Don’t think my man will be in court for a while!!!!

The trial of ex-president and Mayor of Paris Jacques Chirac has opened. Seemingly he has memory problems and cannot attend. All looks a bit political and spiteful to me. He was ultra French and I liked him just for that. Emma says – leave the old guy alone. If his opponents win they’ll look like muggers robbing an old gent regardless of the rights and wrongs.

Emma thinx: Never let the facts hide the truth.

Writes of Passage

Posted on September 4, 2011 by emmacalin

A calm Sunday with tea and hot baguette served in bed while church bells marked out a time beyond my own boundaries. How lucky I am. How wretched the lives of so many others. I have so much because so many have so little. Well, today I have been writing. Fellow writers will know that there are always 50 reasons not to write. The trouble with computers is that once you switch them on the world reaches a hand out of the screen and grabs your throat. Since I have been Kindlicated I have been on Twitter – or rather I should say that Gilles has been putting me on there because I keep pushing all the wrong keys. Today I saw that a guy called Bert Carson was following me. I clicked his link and got to his books. Now, this guy served in Vietnam, has been a priest and a car salesman. Now, the the last 2 jobs are probably fairly similar – but this guy writes like he was born with a pen in his hand and jumped out of helicopters into leech infested mud. Now, just think about that. My only contact with rice is when I cook a curry. So, e-publishing has finally swept away the gatekeepers of the “who is allowed to be a writer club”. He’s too old for any tree book publisher but finally we are allowed to read his stuff.

This kinda thing gives me real hope. However, be sure that the old elites still have wealth and control of other media. I listened to a book show on the BBC yesterday and a couple of old tree book writers, (You know- the kinda people who are introduced as Yvonne Yourleatherboots – the famous novelist and literary critic), talked about “my bookshop presence”.(Look – the only literary critics that matter now are YOU lot). These guys are in denial but soon enough the old gatekeepers will try and stage a counter-offensive. Outfits like Amazon will not control who uploads their stuff but they can control who gets seen, talked about and read not least by pricing policies. I’m reading Bert Carson’s “Fourth and Forever”. My review will go on Amazon. If you check out this guy just remember that this is a revolution. It will have to be defended and re-won probably several times. The French Revolution led to the dictatorship of Napoleon. But they got there in the end.

God – I’m getting to be an old battle-axe. Just checked in the mirror. No whiskers yet. And that brings me on to the subject of hairdressing. In central St Savinien there are 3 bakers, 2 butchers, 1 pharmacy, 1 bar and at least 6 hairdressers. This gives me a huge choice and I must make an enormous confession. I have never used any of them! For the past 15 years I have been loyal to the same hairdresser in the UK. Luckily business allows me to return to England every few months and I try frantically to get an appointment- even if it means a kitchen table special out of hours. Now, men have witnessed my child-births but not one has been allowed to see me in mid foil bleach spiked head red faced mode. In this transcendental phase the same hairdresser has learned of my loves, pregnancies, careers and romantic heroes. If a woman is not loyal to her coiffeuse then there is no hope. There is also the small matter of what she knows about me, even though I’m almost certain she’d never say a word….. The fact that there are so many hairdressers in a small town must mean something. I think that important government statistics should produce ratios of population to hairdressers. It’s the kinda media guff that gets that final news slot.

Big treat tonight. An English roast for my man. Chicken is so dear here but I bought one. An evening chicken for a morning hot baguette is a fair reward.

Emma thinx: That loser – what’s his story?

Carry on up your organ

Posted on August 24, 2011 by emmacalin

Very few words are worked as hard as “organ”. As I was saying yesterday I was at Saintes. Shortly before my car self terminated (French reflexive verbs are so expressive – we need more in English), I heard the organ playing in the cathedral and had to pop in. I know very little about music and so to me it is a form of magic. The organist was having a right old bash and was creating some arabesque sounds that I had never heard before. I lit my candle to Saint Universe of Beautiful Buildings and carried on feeling in a bit of a spiritual belly dancing mood. It lasted until I came to a halt in a road by the river. Before phoning the dépannage I asked a senior gent what the road was called “It is the road by the river – everyone knows this. But anyway – it will be your battery – oh yes it is always that – I have had awful problems avec myself.” I thanked him and waited for the tow truck in the road by the river. Luckily the driver was a member of the “everyone” tribe who knew where I was. The everyone tribe is pretty big in France and they know most things.

A little later the word organ resurfaced. I told an acquaintance that I had taken to going to a farm shop for my veg’. “You have to be sure that no chemicals are used – otherwise it is no different and it won’t be organic.” She assured me. Well, it tastes delicious and is much cheaper than the supermarkets. The term organic has always been too difficult to me – but generally I find a fair bit of grit inside the lettuce. At least you know it’s been grown in dirt and there must be some carbon in there somewhere.

And of course, there are the organs that concern Romantic novelists. Really I think that there should be a special Organ Thesaurus for we scribblers. We all cast about for some new and perfect way to describe the ACT. I’ve read and written enough cores and manhoods to create a novel set in a monastery apple orchard. The very word organ arouses the British sense of “Carry On” film double entendre like little else. For this reason no one has ever written a Romance where one of the stars has an organ in their front room or even a chest of drawers. Carry on!

I picked up some good words today. The French call computers “Ordinateurs”. They now shorten this to “Ordi”. Well, that’s what I’m gonna call this little machine from now on. They also have an expression for a particular kinda guy. The term is “un chaud lapin”- that is to say a hot rabbit. I see that the charges against DSK were dropped in New York. Ah well, back to the burrow.

Emma thinx: Stuff means trouble.More stuff means more trouble.

Marie Andouillette

Posted on August 14, 2011 by emmacalin

There are many types of folks. Stern warnings about stereotyping from chairpersons of the non judgemental, well paid, busy-body community seriously disturbed my ability to tell the difference between a looter and an impulse buyer. Accordingly I have had to look for areas away from the front line of correctness to spot tell tale signs of discriminating differences between groups and individuals. The most obvious has always been the like or dislike of olives. Now – I make no judgement – but aren’t the olive lovers passionate, witty, sexy, talented and probably related to various Greek gods? Aren’t lovers of anchovy stuffed olives actually Greek gods in themselves? Luckily my tribal pheromones repel non olive eaters so I am unable to judge them. A similar thing applies to sausages. Most folk can eat a sausage. Only those born poor or divine choose sausage over all other food. “Would you like the fillet steak Madame? – It is the finest cut in le monde and will be paid for by your publishers.”

“Non – I will have the saucisse de Toulouse with some ketchup.” This has never happened but I am planning. In France we have SAUSAGE. The choice of sausage is so great that I am afraid of geting caught in a hypermarché vortex of infinite choice and be trapped in a condom shaped time cocoon for ever while I choose my sausage. While I await recognition by the Romance reading masses, my choice is often a reflection of price. There are dried sausages, garlic sausages, chicken sausages, horse sausages and I’m sure that somewhere there are sausages made entirely of old minced up sausages. Enough of this trivia – my choice for today is that of Andouillette. Strangely for a poet this word rhymes with the French word “Toilette”. Now you can see why I am a poet. The Andouillette sausage is made from the bottom end of the pig’s bowel. As I said – only those born poor or divine…….Let them eat Sausage!

I’ve been married. I’ve been a mistress. I’ve been a tandem cyclist. But – at last the French Government have given me an official status. I am a concubine. WOW – my legitimacy and heritage go back to ancient Greece and Rome- (and probably modern Rome if anything they say about Berlusconi is true). I am a concubina. This status is enshrined in the register of tax payers and residents. My relationship with Gilles is described as a concubinage. I always knew that some day I’d be a something.

Peach Jam. Today it rains and I have taken to La cuisine. I know – I know I should be writing a romantic novel, but there is something about the sweet more-ish-ness of jam that is so sexy. Gently she let the jam spill from her engorged lips between the ruthless hard muscles of his pecs. It mixed with the salt and musk of his recently spent passion.

“Oh, Emma,” he gasped as he still shuddered with lust….”Why…oh why the jam…”

“Because – my hero – my rock hard man, jam just won’t set without pecs in….”

See – women can multi-task!

Emma thinx: concubine – sexy but prickly.

You Can’t Fool the Bishops of the Revolution

Posted on August 5, 2011 by emmacalin

Highlight of my evening yesterday was a street theatre performance by M. Gonzales and other acteurs from le Treteau Savinois. To be honest I was not expecting too much. A few folding chairs had been placed before the church. We chatted to neighbours and all of a sudden a lady of the Revolution appeared, knitting and all. Now, may I just say that any kind of anything involving a something of the Revolution plunges me into T. Rex like a submarine spotting a destroyer….. you can’t fool the children of the Revolution can you now ? So – the lady explains that this is the story of the local priest of St. Savinien who was approached by the captains of the Revolution to become bishop of the whole area. As far as I could gather he wasn’t very religious and that is why they chose him. His sermons concerned le peuple and La France. Sadly, churchy type folks got rid of him and he lived out his days in a kinda gluttonous limbo. Now in England they would have made him Archbishop at least. The performance had genuine gravitas and humour and would not have disgraced any stage. My thanks to all concerned, particularly the dear young kids who were sent round with the hat afterwards……Added value methinks!

I also got to see another author. The writer of the play was there, and looked like a guy in a mauve sports shirt who helped serve cidre and sell a few of his books after the show. So that’s what a writer looks like! I had imagined that if ever I saw another writer that some kinda bonding would happen. He sold me a book but I could see in his eyes that no special recognition had taken place. Trouble is – everyone in France is an artist/performer/philosopher/thespian. I’m gonna start wearing a badge saying “Romantic novelist. Stop me and buy one.” Well – it used to work for ice cream.

Tonight is Salsa night at le resto St. Savinien. Tomorrow is La Foire du Vin. I should have done more training – I really should.

Emma thinx: All the world’s a stage – so where do we sit to watch?

Step This Way

Posted on August 4, 2011 by emmacalin

“I love the light from the East.” Explained a friend, showing me her East facing window. She is quite right. The dawn light has a pink texture and ambience which softens whites towards cream and deepens yellow towards orange. I wish I were an artist who could express this. You’ll just have to come and see it for yourselves. The pursuit of light by artists has led many a soul to this region and of course to France in general. The impressionists and pointillists captured for ever the light of their moments. And still they come. Yesterday I met some wonderful lady artists who had settled in St.Savinien. Naively I asked if they had sold many paintings. “Oh no – of course not, the French do not buy original art. They love photos and prints but we sell all our stuff in the UK.” This did not really surprise me. I sell “Knockout!” mainly in the USA. It’s about a Scotland Yard femtective and a French horn. Une femme never makes a profit in her own country. Folk want something from somewhere else. There are few Canaletto paintings in Venice. Now I should not have said that word. It is like the word Paris. Either concept fills me with longing to go there at least once more. I have had so much in life and still I want more and more. How I remember the Grand Canal and the conductors on the water-bus calling out the names of the stops in melancholy Italiano ….”Salute – Salute” (Sal ooo tay). The batobus in Paris where they call out “Notre Dame.” Excuse me but I was having a spasm. In “Knockout!” Freddie and Anna travel and kiss under each bridge on the Seine in Paris. It took me days to calm down!

In the UK there is a type of semi-business person who is a property developer. You know the kind of thing – buy an old house, tart it up, sell it on and do it all again. In France there is a type of long term property developer who buys a ruin, ruins it a bit more, extends the ruin to a far bigger area and sells it on as an even bigger project. It may be harsh, but my description of this business model is that of being a properly developer. Some brave innocent buys the ruin and then has to do it properly. The psychology is this….If it’s a ruin then it must be cheap yah? If you are buying out here don’t be seduced by the “potential”. The price may be set to match your dream. The seller is just as likely to be British.

Now, the naked plug! In St Savinien, Charente, 17350, we have a Maire. He is like the town prophet, clerk of works and manager. This guy has ambition and vision. He is passionate about keeping his town alive and that means Tourisme. Today’s picture is of some of the travaux. This is the most beautiful unknown Ville de France. In the UK there are towns like St Ives or Clovelly which attract millions of visitors. We have alleys and tiny higgeldy piggeldy pathways through romanesque clay tiled cottages. Bring your camera and pickle yourself a winter feast of sun filled ecstasy.

Emma thinx: Despair is merely a starting point. Sell the dream not the ruin.

Checklit

Posted on July 31, 2011 by emmacalin

The holidays have begun for real. Massive queues on Autoroutes, businesses closed down. Our little town was buzzing this morning as campers and day tourists filled the streets. All in all a good day to stay at home and write. I really should talk more about writing. I have all kind of writing missions to fulfill. I have to do something for a web site dealing with French life. I have to do something about being on Kindle. I have to do some book promo blurb. All of these things are quite pleasant and give me the illusion of actually writing. As far as the book publishing aspect of writing I am so lucky that Gilles selflessly gives up so much time to help me with the inflammation technology. Rosina does all manner of promotions and chasing sales. To be honest I’ve come to think that being a Kindle author is almost more about the tub thumping than the actual book. Now, let me say a bit about my book “Knockout!”. Recently a reviewer saw my new professionally produced cover and said ” Excuse me – but it does kinda look like a Harlequin style romance.” Well, BINGO! I wish I had their success. I’ve read many Harlequin Romances over the years and they do not present many surprises. I first came to read them in French when I was looking for relatively unsophisticated vocabulary and prose style. “Knockout!” is a straightforward romance, the sex is on the paler side of purple, passionate and has no obscenities or curious behaviours. It’s about a girl who falls for a big tough bloke. It’s supermarket checklit. It didn’t really happen. It’s a made up story. Harlequin – you can have me – you can kiss my lips numb, find a place in my core that I’ve never known before and carry me to your castle and impregnate me, with a contract and your babies.. You can take me now!

Gilles had his shirt off in the garden. He’s looking tanned. I do like to look at him – what’s the oldest possible age for a Romantic novel hero? I guess if he were a Latin billionaire…..

We have sparrows. The dear little souls have evaded various anti nesting devices under the roof tiles and this year’s brood of piafs seem to have come through well, despite the drought. I can never see a sparrow without mentally acknowledging Edith Piaf and how she changed the course of my life. She still flies on plainly dressed street wise wings and chirrups out the human soul.

Emma thinx: If you just can’t stop – at least enjoy it.

The Grapes of Sloth

Posted on July 27, 2011 by emmacalin

The sun came out and so did my lizard. For what seems like weeks there had been no sign of him/her. He lives either in the drainpipe or in the cracks of the stone wall. What I like about lizards is their apparent perfection. Dogs, cats, humans, foxes and most other things have some kinda limp, crooked ear, attention deficit or bad hair issues. Lizards are perfect as far as I can see. I only saw him because the neighbourhood Patio Posse came round to tell me about South facing walls and the NEED to plant south facing growing things. “OK – I’ll have one of those grape bushes.” I said – hoping that this obviously correctable mistake would appease them. “Vigne!” said the Chair. It was agreed. There will be a grape bush. Now the only reason I know anything about grape bushes is that a neighbour has one and big bunches are growing over onto my roof (Pinching some would be so much easier than growing them) I’m watching their progress..I don’t suppose I could make any wine with it do you? When I was a kid my dad used to go to the home-brew shop in Tooting and buy tins of grape juice. This was just about as his car welding/rabbit breeding phase came to an end. We had cupboards full of “Bordeaux” and “Burgundy” which he made on top of the fridge. He started listening to records like “Beethoven’s Greatest hits”. He assured us all that wine improved the mind. My mother was glad when he went back to beer. There is only so much improvement that a family can take.

Let me just for a moment return to the actual purpose of this blog- Romantic fiction. I’ve nothing against real life but where can you get a sexy romantic handsome intelligent, poetic, muscled super lover? OK – I know we all have one but it’s nice to have a slightly different one isn’t it? (Oh by the way – Gilles does not read the blog!). However, I’ve been doing market research. Well actually Rosina’s been doing it. “Could I do anything involving lesbian werewolves?” She asked on the phone. “What about supernatural bisexual sex therapists?” I retorted. “WOW – Emma – you just gotta do that – WOW, that’s ahead of the market honey!” Food for thought isn’t it. How about supernatural perfectly formed alien sex lizards?”

Talking of wolves – they’re back in France near the German border. Wolf huggers and shepherds are readying for battle. Sheep and little rouge riding hoods are somewhere in the middle. Now, could there be a supernatural angle? Am I the next Dan Brown? Something would be brown if a pack of ’em came at me!….Now how’s that for modern romance style!”

Emma thinx: Know nothing. Advice loves a vacuum.