It's as if I'm 10 years old again and have been asked to write a diary in school; by day four the scintillating content reduced to 'got up, did nothing, ate dinner, went to bed...' So there's not a great deal to report on the book front and whilst I should be creative enough to think of some witty, writerly anecdotes, I'm not. I'm too busy singing Incy-wincy spider at a hundred decibels in a vain attempt to distract Simon from noticing I'm trying to get him dressed. (He's a naturist in the making, doesn't believe in clothes). Or I'm displaying my nipples in more places than the average glamour model in order to feed him. It's all more than worth it of course, it just means I get to the end of the day wondering why I didn't do anything about the publicity, marketing, interest etc in A Blonde Bengali Wife, or indeed, continue writing the next work-in-progress...
Zetta, the publisher, tells me she's entered the book for two awards, the Samuel Johnson Prize for Nonfiction and the Dolman Travel Award, so that's something.
Meanwhile, I'm off to learn some more nursey rhymes. And I'll be inspired tomorrow, surely!
Zetta, the publisher, tells me she's entered the book for two awards, the Samuel Johnson Prize for Nonfiction and the Dolman Travel Award, so that's something.
Meanwhile, I'm off to learn some more nursey rhymes. And I'll be inspired tomorrow, surely!
