Ever heard of personal space?

My day was rather shite if I'm honest. I've come to the conclusion that my landlord is a bully who seems to be used to people jumping at a flick of his finger. After a massive argument on the phone I went to Noah's shop in order to get some inner and outer cables for my bike in progress. The cycling did wonders, so did quickly jumping in when a customer popped by to get a last-minute present for his girlfriend: a bicycle. It needed some minor adjustments, like a basket and longer seat post, so I quickly did it while Noah frantically prepared another Christmas present for sale. Working on that bike cooled down the still hot ashes of my anger and reminded me why I'd become a bike mechanic: I love it. Give me tools and a project and I'm happy. I then came home and made myself something to eat before starting to write. It's a shorter bit today as I simply can't concentrate for the noise downstairs.

Jaegerschnitzel

Although only short, my walk whetted my desire for more. I stopped for a brief moment and inhaled deeply; the air smelled fresh, crisp, healthy. Nothing compared to the smog in London, Witchurch even tasted clean. It didn't mean I'd wanted to move here—no, it was way too far from the Metropole for me; I needed to be able to leave the house and step into life. London had a lot to offer, but it was good to be away, if only to appreciate what I had back home: friends, family, and a wonderful place to live in. And at some point I'd go back to my job. They'd been nice enough to find someone to fill in for me until I was ready. John's life insurance took care of my well-being in the meantime. Money, an important necessity in our modern world, something we long for when we put career first. Once you've had a taste of real love, money doesn't matter so much anyone. That big sum I had at my disposal didn't make me laugh when I was down, it wouldn't gently kiss my neck when it hurt from sitting at the desk all day, it wouldn't surprise me, or take me in its comforting arms when I needed a hug. I'd give all my personal possessions away without even thinking if John would be the other choice.

There was the Inn again; I'd been so deeply in thoughts I hadn't even realised. About to open the door, I heard a sound and turned my head. A guy in a parka was just locking a bike with one of those massive chains. He didn't seem to have noticed me and, before it would get awkward, I hurried inside and upstairs. 'Just my luck', I muttered as I turned the key. Compared to the cold outside and after my brisk walk, it was hot inside. I felt my cheeks burning and took off my coat. Bang—it seemed as if I'd found the culprit. My boots flew across the room—each into a different direction—frustration vented. The kettle boiled, I settled back into my seat with a Lady Grey and enjoyed the other sandwich, before returning to the hospital where the three main characters had their very own challenges to deal with.

Almost two hours later, I stood downstairs in the guest kitchen waiting for my curry to heat up. In search of a plate, I opened one of the two cupboards and had to chuckle; this wild mix of mismatching plates and mugs reminded me very much of Amy's and my first house. We'd shared with five other people; I think Amy and I lived there the longest, our flatmates changed continuously, so did the content of the cupboards. I shook my head at that memory and pulled out a blue plate just when the microwave pinged.

'Smells delicious,' a youthful sounding voice said. I nodded without looking up as I was carefully transferring the food onto the plate.

'What is it? Curry?'

I inched forwards, did that man know the term 'personal space'? 'Do you mind?'

'All right, babe, keep your hair on.'

With him retreating a bit I grabbed my plate and turned to leave. You've got to be kidding me! I could see his expression change from smirk to recognition at the exact the moment it dawned on me who'd been intruding my privacy; without his parka and hat he almost looked boyish.

'So the lady who runs into roads without looking is a curry fan, eh?'

'Not sure why it's any of your business, but since you're bringing it up, maybe I could share what else I'm a fan of: peace and quiet, which includes doors being shut in a respectful manner.'

He nodded slowly. 'I'll keep that in mind.'

'Good.' Having said what I wanted to get off my chest I strode past him and back to my room. At least that would be sorted. I sat down to eat, watching a new documentary.

A review site reviewed: 1 star for effort

An iguana stuck in a sock

Did you miss me? I bet you wondered if I'd committed suicide or were writing another novel in secrecy. I can assure you neither was the case. I've just been busy and didn't have anything writing-related to rant about. Today, though, I've taken time off to tell you about something that happened in August. Yes, yes, I know, I could've--or should've--written about it back then, but I was stuck in a bike shop, seven days a week from morning till late in the evening--don't ask.
So, now I've got this wordy explanation out of the way, I'll cut to the chase; the review site I'm talking about is Awesome Indies, a site that claims to be run by professionals of the industry. Funny, considering they've been rather unprofessional. When I was still in the throes of writing and eager to get noticed as an indie author, and when I heard about them and their 'harsh' criteria to be listed on their site, I accepted the challenge and submitted my book Excuse me, where is the exit? to them. It had been favourably reviewed by Big Al, and was therefore listed. That was about a year or so ago. Well done, me, right? Err, not so, as it seems, but I'll explain later.
After that I submitted No Wings Attached to them. Because I couldn't find a reviewer this quickly, I was offered to have one of their dedicated readers read my book and they'd then decide. Said reader couldn't get into the book (apparently too boring)--a clear no. Eh? That so-called professional site doesn't judge on merit, but on the taste of one person? Interesting. I was told I could re-submit once I found a 'trusted' reviewer (as listed on their site) who gave it four stars. I grinned to myself and submitted to reviewers, who promptly gave the book four stars, but didn't bother to re-submit to AI.
I sent my Thriller to two of their reviewers, though. It's written under a different name and both thought I'm a first-time author. Both also felt need to educate me; one hadn't got the balls to critise me at first, then, when I probed a bit, he patronised me with how well read he is and how I rushed my writing. Eh? No, man, that book took me eight months, I certainly didn't rush anything. One glance at his book, however, revealed he shouldn't be let loose as a reviewer, for he's not even capable of punctuating dialogue, and his writing wasn't convincing either. Made me laugh, to be honest.
The other reviewer was equally patronising, but definitely more on the professional side. Awesome Indies doesn't take to 3rd person omniscient point of view, which is ridiculous. Done correctly, it's one of the best POVs you can write or read. Challenging, yet perfectly acceptable. Anyway, I, again, was told that I could resubmit if I received a 4-star review from one of their listed reviewers. I got them, but couldn't be bothered anymore. AI had lost their appeal and my respect long before.
However, in August, they've topped their inadequate behaviour once again: I received an e-mail, together with three other authors--yes, they'd addressed us all in the same e-mail--informing us that our (in my case the iguana in a sock) book covers weren't good (professional) enough for them to be listed on their site, but that Thalia Newland's daughter would do covers for 20 dollars ... I scratched my head, laughed, and ignored the kind offer.
A few days later, I received the next e-mail, this time a hard-sale: her daughter had made a new cover for me, with example words on it, attached was a link. I opened it and almost fell off my chair when looking at the wonderful creation. Need a laugh? Check out the 'superb' cover that would not only cost me a mere 20 dollars, but also get my book re-listed on their site, for it's just so professional. Who can resist such a great opportunity?
Anyway, here are all my books and covers, just in case you're feeling creative ... I'd like to see if someone can top that cover Thalia's daughter did in ridiculousness. Feel free to post your links in the comment box.

It's my favourite, so don't discuss with me!

For a few days, I've had this craving for cake. Today, while I was cycling through the city, I tried to find a cafe that looked promising. I knew what I was after, but none of the cafes delivered. Mind you, I didn't really look inside, but from the outside it all looked like your typical muffins.
Now I'm not really a big cake eater, sponge cakes, that is; I'm a cream cake connoisseur. Black Forest Cake to be precise. I love the mixture of cherries, cream, chocolate sponge and booze. Each mouthful is an explosion of flavours and textures--pure heaven.

My most favourite treat

Just thinking about it makes my mouth water. However, since I was rather unlucky in my pursuit of a suitable cake, I gave up and cycled home. Upon arrival I had the genius idea to pop by the new ice cafe around the corner; it had opened just a month or so ago and while I've tried their (ridiculously overpriced) ice-cream, I didn't give the cakes a second look back then. The longing to sink my teeth into something soft and sweet drove me into the cafe and the girl behind the counter came to sell me their wares. Nothing took my fancy. Then I spotted it and thought my day is safe. A tiny label read: Black Forest Cake! I could feel my eyes lightning up, and I quickly scanned their display, but couldn't find the object of my desire. Huh?
I asked and she pointed at a cake I'd (mis)taken for a chocolate cake. It was flat and covered with cocoa--no chocolate, cherries or cream in sight. My initial reaction was: That's not a Black Forest Cake; which she didn't take too well. She assured me it was a Black Forest Cake. I insisted it wasn't. It ended with her wishing me a good day, with a sour smile on her face.
Seriously, these things do wind me up. If you're a cafe and don't know how a Black Forest Cake looks like, then don't sell it. And definitely don't try to argue with a German, whose absolute favourite cake is the one in question. And because I didn't get my fix of sweetness, I'm now baking my very first own cake. Coconut sponge cake, for that's probably all I can manage, being the disaster bakeress. Let's hope it won't come out as a brick. Pictures and recipe to follow if it doesn't. So far it looks good and smells even better.

Guilt is the word

I've had a little set back in the past two weeks. I couldn't do as much exercising like I wanted to due to having to rest painful shin splints and, in addition to that, I binged, yes binged! terribly on chocolate. As if that wasn't enough I was so sore after the first box-training session that I literally couldn't move; at least not without grunting, moaning, muttering, or giggling to myself.. The pain was excruciating. Now I thought I was quite 'fit' after having worked out (abs, legs and triceps since end of January), but nothing could prepare me for what I went through the past week. I mean even today, six days after training, I am feeling it when I do some squats, which I never had before. Crikey, is all I can say.
Now I haven't done a proper circuit training in over two decades, and the last time I really did some full-on 90-minutes non-stop sport was when I played Volleyball, also about 20 years ago. I learned that even though I'm okay cycling for three hours, it's got nothing against that recreational boxing training.
Pain aside, I see it as a good thing as I know that there's still some more muscles to be build, even my abs and arse, which I'd thought were quite well developed. As the physio confirmed. Ha! We were so wrong. That means I'll have to go through some more sore weeks, but hey, I want to get fit and lose two more stones. And I'm keen to try out my new boxing gloves. (In case you're interested: they're 16oz as it's the gym's standard.)

Stella 'Rocky' Deleuze

Unfortunately, after the last two weeks of losing control, I have put on a little weight around the belly, and I'm furious with myself. It's not that I'm starving or deny myself anything I like--far from it; I eat chocolate on a regular basis and also a few biscuits here and there. I love my butter, my cream in sauces (rarely, but still); I enjoy pasta and have sugar in tea or coffee. In short: I eat a varied and normal diet with a few guilty pleasures and still lose weight. That chocolate binge, though, was too much. I think I consumed about 2000 additional calories from chocolate only in two days. And I also had spaghetti carbonara (with cream), sausages with ketchup, ice cream, some beers, and whathaveyou. How could that happen? One explanation would be that I had low. A few things happened that accumulated and bang! I undo all the hard work. It's a tricky beast to keep focussed in those times. The shoddy weather wasn't too great for cycling either. I guess I've put on at least one to two kilogramme, which is a massive blow.
However, I'm back on track and looking forward to tomorrow's boxing session, hoping that I'll be able to keep up for the entire 90 minutes. I'll have wheat biscuit (Weetabix style with hot milk) with banana and dates for breakfast, and after training I'll have some Pumpernickel bread, just before I head out to meet my friend Elin, who's in London for a visit.
On Sunday, I'll be grunting, moaning, cursing, and giggling again, as I'm doing a little spring cleaning, keeping my muscles busy, for my friend Piddi will be here from Monday to Friday next week. She's a tad invalid with a damaged knee and I think we'll make the perfect awkward moving or limping couple.
Prepare for a laugh. I might even have a new idea for a short story or book. Who would have thought?
Watch this space for more information.

Love,

Stella

I just hate it

Breakfast, lunch, dinner & snacks

For the past few years, I had an intimate relationship with my keyboards, both, the home and and the garden laptop. (If you look closely, you can probably see whole meals stacked away in there.) You will remember that I've not written anything since end of January and I wasn't really sure if the desire will come back or not, but ... I may have had an idea for a new book. At the moment that's only what it is. An idea. It seems I'm too scared to even go more into detail in my head in case I get stuck again. I think that's what it is, really, I can't take the torture of writing anymore. I hate writing, but I love looking back on what I've created. Thing is that one without the other isn't possible. (Imagine hearing a massive sigh of inner turmoil.)
Guess perfectionism and lack of imagination is not the best combination for a writer. The former is very good, if not necessary for editing, but for writing? It's a huge obstacle waiting around each corner. There's only rarely a flow or something 'pouring' out of me; instead I have outbursts of tantrums. Not very helpful to be honest. Perhaps I should ease back into writing with a few short stories; after all there's still the second book of funny shorts waiting to be done. I have about six or seven complete, but they're not ready and need more work and I need to be in the right frame of mind to write humour. If I don't feel it, I can't do it. Simple. Interestingly, my 5-Minute Tea Break Stories are my bestseller. My guess is that the cover draws them in, and I'm very proud of the picture, for I've taken it myself with my shoddy mobile cam. Not bad for an amateur, eh?
Anyway, what I wanted to say is that there may be a possibility for another book coming at some point, but I've decided to take it way slower than in the past. I will only write when I feel like it instead of pushing myself too hard. I think there's a good story in my own weight loss progress as I was a little breathless yesterday after I whipped my ice-cold fingertips with that leather skipping rope. Not recommended, by the way.

Tomorrow, I'll post some easy tips to get rid of bingo wings and get that wobbly arse back into it's firm glory.

Is this the end?

Me, mightily annoyed

As you know I've been quite apprehensive about 'coming out' as a writer. The reason being was that I didn't feel like a writer; and sure enough, not long after I've announced that I accepted being one, I had this very surreal weekend on which I didn't sleep, but watched every single Backstreet Boys video there is on YouTube, with the result of having lost all enthusiasm regarding writing or editing. It's been weeks that I've abandoned Book 3 of the Branded series just about 20k in and I couldn't care less to return to it, or to writing at all, for that matter. It feels as if a huge weigh has been lifted off my shoulders; writing has never been fun, unless it flowed, which it rarely did. Quite the contrary; it was painful. Writing shouldn't be painful, it should be fun and energetic. Editing, yes, that's painful, but writing itself? No.
I struggled more and more with every book and the frustration and tears were having a negative affect on me, yet I forced myself to write every day so I could finish the books, despite my hitting wall after wall, writing myself into corners I had to fight to get out. It's excruciating and that, somehow, cannot be right. I have no idea if I ever return to writing; at the moment, I'm very happy to just draw a line under that chapter--pardon the pun--and move on. I'm sick and tired of talking or reading about writing, I'm sick and tired of the 'community' and I'm sick and tired of putting myself out there. As you noticed, I've been relatively silent for quite a while and it's heaven to just let the writing world be and turn my back on it. For the past four years I've kept pushing myself to the limits, writing, editing, proofing, promoting and whatnot and I'm so tired. Book 3 of the Branded series will be put on hold and only ever be finished if I feel like it. I have my doubts, to be honest. I haven't read in a while either, just can't be bothered.
I've also buried my dreams of becoming a publisher. After watching the market and new small publishers, who had the same dream, fold, I decided it's not worth the effort. Plus, if I can't sell my own books, despite being convinced they're of great commercial value, I think that's a fairly good indicator that I don't know what the public wants. 
In the meantime, I'll continue with my weight loss programme and spend more time outside, rather than behind the laptop trying to find my balance again.
Crazy how everything can change in just 48 hours, isn't it? I used to say that writing and editing will always be part of my life and that I can't imagine not to write ...

How can you not love this?

I think the only real staple love in my life are reptiles. Perhaps I should just go ahead and look into the options of opening the Rescue & Education Centre I've been banging on about for years now. Even though keeping reptiles is far from easy and not always glorious, but that iguana makes me smile every single day, even when he pissed me off an hour before. He's in mating season again, by the way, which makes him super tough and dangerous to handle. A 6kg monster out of control is not for the faint-hearted, believe you me.
So if you know someone who has too much money to spend and wants to put it to a good cause, put him/her in touch with me. I'd love to start searching for a warehouse tomorrow. :-)

In case you thought I was dead ...

You weren't the only one. I felt like my life was sucked out of me for the past week. Last Sunday, I knew either a cold or cough was coming my way; on Monday, I knew it was a bit more sinister and on Tuesday, a full-blown flu had shot my lights out. I lived on herbal tea and fruit salad as it was the only things I had and I only ate very little as I was too weak to even stand for longer than five minutes. I so hate getting the flu, as experience shows that it's always serious in my case. And, gee, did my muscles ache. Probably the result of my working out on Saturday; far heftier pain than ever experienced during a flu.
By the way: I had typed a long section that somehow got deleted and ctrl z did delete an even bigger chunk. Since I can't be arsed to rewrite the whole thing, I just cut to the chase.
I'm currently writing from my garden-laptop as my work-laptop is in surgery. Fingers crossed. The screen flickered and went dark every time I switched it on, very annoying.
The old laptop I'm using right now has its moods, but better than no laptop, right?
Since I hardly ever use this one other than for writing in the garden, I thought I could have a nosy through my files and found some early drafts of my covers for No Wings Attached, which still went through its many titles back then.
Here are some of the versions which I had made myself in Paint. As you can see, I'm technically challenged when it comes to covers, but I knew exactly what I wanted. They are great to show a cover artist what you have in mind. Although I'd like to learn how to do covers properly.

Being an Indie is exhausting

I need a break!

After almost four years of non-stop working, I'm fairly exhausted. Happy, but exhausted. Six published books, one other novel waiting to be rewritten and the one I'm working on right now, I think it's fair to say that I've worked my arse off, not only the writing and editing, but also the marketing, including special promotions, interviews, guest articles, not to forget updating own Blog, Twitter and Facebook. It's all work, but I love it. Nevertheless, it's quite draining, particularly when you see that the books are not taking off like you've wished for them. Don't get me wrong; I'm proud of all my books and grateful for the readers who either left reviews or contacted me in person to tell me how much they've enjoyed what they've read. I'm most thankful for those who continue to support me, nag me for the third book in the Branded series and humbled when people repeatedly say I'm talented. That's half the road to success, I think. I'm still experimenting with genres as I get bored easily and I believe it's the only way for me to grow: write in as many genres as possible. So far I've covered humour, paranormal romance, non-fiction, thriller and meta-fiction; loved each and every one of them. I'll work on sci-fiction and erotica next before I get some contemporary fiction and dystopian fiction on the way. I think that's basically all genres I'd like to cover. Oh, and clean chick lit. I'd like to try that, too. 
I'm also planning to turn the Branded series and the thriller into screen plays at some point. I have one idea which I'll probably write as a screen play, rather than a novel. It's got to do with football, that's all I can reveal.
As you can see, I'm still very much in love with what I'm doing, but am on some kind of a break. Well deserved if you ask me. It became increasingly difficult for me to relax, particularly while writing; panic took hold of me after the last two books that had me reeling on several occasions when I got stuck. The frustration is beyond belief. 
Then there were a lot of 'fights' going on behind the scenes, one of them being my 'stalker' as I call him, spreading lies about me, trying to ruin my reputation. I can only imagine how it is for a celebrity to read the lies printed about them. It's infuriating. One of the reasons I don't want fame. I'd like to have fortune, but could care less about fame. I don't think I'd handle it well, but then as an author, unless you write for YA, you should be fairly safe. Teens who'll scream their little lungs out every time you make an appearance, aren't for me to be honest. I hate screaming fans. I remember being at a Backstreet Boys concert (looooong time ago) and right behind me (left) was a girl who screamed the whole show. Well, she probably would have if I hadn't turned round to tell her to shut the fuck up, which she thankfully did. The guy next to me cracked up and wiggled his eyebrows at me. Never understood that phenomenon of screaming. I go to a show to enjoy the voices, not to hear my own. Never mind, that's a topic on its own.
I guess I won't be in danger of becoming world-famous any time soon. Lucky me. I'm slowly getting back into writing after a week off and am still hoping to make the 31st of March deadline. Brooding over the title, after the word plays of No Wings Attached and Candlelight Sinner I want to continue with it. All my titles are unique, so here's a challenge for me. Another part of being independent: you have to come up with everything by yourself. Personally, I love it and wouldn't want to have it any other way, but it's your responsibility. All I'd need now is the bestseller to be able to make bigger things happening. 
Oh, by the way: after that Blog disaster with my old Blog URL which is still on the top of Google when search for Stella Deleuze, my Blog with its new URL has finally made it to Google's first page. Yay me. I hope it's going to replace the old link soon. Blogger hasn't removed it yet, and I feel it's not going to happen; slow is an understatement when it comes to them acting on copyright breaches. If you are wondering what happened, here's the post I wrote about it.
Please keep your fingers crossed for me that 2013 will be the most successful year I've had so far. I'm successfully losing weight, but that's fodder for the next post.

Oh my gosh! They came back for me!

Did that make you curious? Maybe you were having a little Schadenfreude moment; if that's the case you'll be bitterly disappointed to hear that I'm talking about the Backstreet Boys. Yes, that's right. Them guys who suddenly appeared out of nowhere back then in Germany, and took the world by storm. Deservedly so. I remember as if it were yesterday: I was at home, listening to MTV or VIVA, or any other music channel while cleaning, and suddenly they were on with the following song:

I dropped everything I had in my hands and danced along. After that I called my friend and told--no, urged-- her to watch out for this new band called the Backstreet Boys, a little out of breath from all the hopping along. I remember telling her that those guys are going to become massive and won't be a one-hit-wonder as they'd got the voices, the looks, the moves and the right beats. One can say many things about Lou Pearlman, but that man had a nose for talents. Seems we have that in common, because looking back now, I was dead right. They're celebrating their 20th anniversary this year, despite a few major rough patches with two band members battling the dark sides of success and one member taking a break before returning. I think there's a bit more to expect from them and I'm looking forward to it. You go ahead and giggle, but I think there's no age limit to music, if you like it, you like it. Simple as that.

So what's got that to do with them coming back for you, eh? Well, I don't know how they managed, but it seems that fate wanted them back in my life. Black & Blue, which was released in 2000, was the last album I bought. No idea why I didn't buy the next one, but my working in bars and excessive partying is probably the safest bet. I worked at night time and when the shift was over in the morning, my mates, who all worked in hospitality, headed over to our favourite club to dance our little arses off until 11am, and then to another bar for more partying. I often went home around 2 or 3pm for a few hours of sleep before I had to get back to work. I'm still amazed that I made it through that time alive. Although I never did any drugs, many litres of alcohol went down my throat. My favourite was wheatbeer with banana juice and, just to spark things up, a few shots of tequila. It was a fun time. Even though unhealthy. After a few years I was done with it. Had enough of living in a parallel world where you come home at noon, crawling on your nipples and getting strange looks. I wasn't twenty anymore and felt the need to get out of it.

A few years later, I moved to London where I went back to bar work and partying, and soon found myself being in the same cycle of drinking, for I hated the job, and getting to bed in the morning hours.My friends started to worry about me, because I drank far too much and too often. Almost daily, if I recall correctly. I knew that I'm not in danger of becoming an alcoholic, despite their worries; I just don't have this addictive nature. I quit smoking over night, because I didn't see any point in it any more. And I'd smoked for sixteen years, but I hated that my life just whooshed past me, so I decided to put an immediate stop to it.

In 2009, as many of you know, I wrote my first novel, No Wings Attached, and since then was hooked on writing while listening mainly to classical music. I drank less and less, with a few heavy binges in between, but no parties anymore. I only drink occasionally now, and that moderate. Unfortunately, depressions set in. Probably because I didn't continue to suppress them with alcohol. ADHD has the side effect of nasty lows following massive highs--almost like bi-polar--and since I refuse to take meds, I can be hit any time. 2011/2012 were terrible years for me, dominated by depressions, but 2013 somehow started with a lot of positivity. Recently, even though I have no clue why, I looked up Backstreet Boys, who've always made me smile. As expected, they didn't fail me. In fact, they blew me away with the albums Never Gone, This is Us and Unbreakable, the latter in particular. Absolutely amazing. I can't believe that I've missed it all beforehand, but better late than  never, right? They've grown up, not only as people (especially Nick Carter), but also their music, and they're still rocking. I'm sort of living a BSB revival and am smiling every day. It's helping me to stay positive and since I'm also on a self-imposed fitness regime (I've decided that I need to lose the pounds I've piled up due to depressions), it's a delight to march around the park while listening to their tunes. If I recall correctly, there's going to be a new album out this year, and I'm sure as hell getting it!

Thanks, guys, for helping me getting better.

Love,

Stella

"Men think with their cocks."

An excerpt from the third--yet unnamed--book of the Branded series. Every now and again we need a good friend we can turn to, be ourselves and let the friend take care of us. (First draft, please keep in mind.)

Celia

I've seen Emily cry many a times but, as I feared, this is way worse than with any other break-ups. The girl standing before me is broken, the cracks running through her heart showing right on her face and in her eyes. She doesn't say a word, but her lips are quivering.

“Oh come here!” I grab her hand and pull her close, into a hug. She sniffles and I squeeze a little tighter. The sniffles turn into light sobs and I continue to hold her, gently stroking her back when the sobs become louder and turn into a staccato. It's intense, so much so that I can literally feel her pain. I know there's nothing I can say that makes it better, nothing that will comfort her. All I can do is be there for her. The bag that is dangling from her left arm drops to the floor with a loud thud; a sound of a bottle of wine wrapped in fabric. I have no idea how long we've been standing here like this, in my hall, but the sobs become less and eventually ebb.

“I–look like a mess. I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be silly, Em. No need to be sorry. And I don't care how you look. I love you anyway. Here, come through. Let's have bottle of wine.”

“Tha–hank you,” she stammers, still gasping for air.

“What for?” I smile, open a bottle of Chardonnay, pour a glass and place it in front of her. She grasps it with a shaking hand. Yes, it hit her pretty hard.

“I really want to wring his neck!” I say.

“Me, too. I asked him why and he said he didn't know, said he was pissed and she'd flirted with him anyway.” She snorts and, for a brief moment, her eyes glisten with hatred. “And that's a reason for you to sleep with that fucking bitch?”

“Do you know her?”

She nods. “I've seen her once. She's nothing special, you know, no arse, no tits, not particularly pretty. Just normal. That's why I don't understand. If she were hot, I'd perhaps understand, not excuse, but understand. Men think with their cocks and when such a woman dangles an opportunity in front of them, their brains switch off. But that grey mouse? What did she promise him I couldn't give? What?”

“To be honest, I never thought Chris would do that to you—with any woman, hot or not. I know he was a flirt before you met each other, but that is really odd. Did you have an argument or something?”

Since her little outburst, Emily has become quiet, staring without focus, rotating the glass's foot between her thumb and index finger. “Let's say we had a disagreement.”

I look up, confused. “I didn't know.”

“Well, you were so busy recently. Working a lot, being at Tom's. I called you, but your mobile was turned off, so I didn't bother to leave a message.”

“When was that?” I have a faint idea and feel guilty.

“Some time last week,” she replies, confirming my thought. It was when I wasn't myself, when I fought my Dark Side. I wish I could tell her about it, but how could I possibly explain that the reason for not being there for her back then was because I was trying to kill my brother? I wasn't the Celia she knows and loves. I might not have recognised her.

“I'm sorry.” I squeeze her hand. “I'm the worst friend ever. What happened?”

Emily sighs deeply and wipes away another tear that had escaped her eye. “Chris and I looked at that flat and we couldn't agree on anything. I felt like he didn't really want to move in with me.”

“Did he actually say that?”

She shakes her head. “No, he didn't need to. It was obvious. That's when I thought something isn't right, but when I asked him, he said all was fine. And the next day he was all normal, his sweet self. You know, as if nothing happened. Until this morning, when I received the e-mail.”

“Bastard!” I shake my head. “Sorry, I shouldn't say that, but I'm really angry with him for hurting you.”

“You should have heard all the names I called him this morning.” Her eyes fill with tears again.

“Deservedly so!”

Emily blows her nose. “If only it would help.”

“Hon, do you see any chance of getting through this with him?”

“No. Once a cheater, always a cheater. I wouldn't be able to trust anymore.” She snorts. “I was pissed! What kind of a pathetic excuse is that?”

“Reminds me of ... you know who,” I say, the memory of my ex makes me shudder and take a sip of my wine.

“Yeah!” She pulls a face, then crunches the tissue into a ball and tosses it across the kitchen into the bin. “Three points!” she says in a thin voice.

I gaze into my glass, not knowing what to say. What can you offer someone who just broke up with her boyfriend? Tell her that time heals all wounds? Hardly helpful, even if true. Besides, Emily is normally not someone who analyses her relationships; she cries, swears, dives head first into work before she starts with rebound sex. At least that's how it was in the past. Since this is—was—her first serious relationship I worry about her. She throws her head back, her shoulder-length bob swinging at the sudden move and lets out a long low scream that probably can be heard two flats below, but I don't care. As long as my friend releases what threatens to drown her, she can scream how long and loud she wants. I pour us another glass, which Emily downs immediately. Right, getting pissed it is, then. But it would probably a good idea to eat something beforehand.

“You eaten anything today?”

She burbs behind her hand, then replies, “No, couldn't.”

“How about I rustle something up?”

“I'm not hungry, really.”

“But I am. I'll cook something and you can either have some or not, okay?”

“Do you have more wine?”

“The bottle you brought is in the fridge.”

“Right.” She stands, slightly wobbly. It pains me to see her like this and I wish I could make it better. Hopefully I can get some food into her; she never denies my cooking.

“I'll just sit and watch you.”

“You better, might even learn something.” Emily's cooking is rather basic. A few dishes like Shepherd's Pie or pancake, maybe a vegetable cream soup or Spaghetti with shop-bought pasta sauce, but that's hardly making her a cook.

“I can't concentrate on anything. It's like one of those cook shows, you know? When you watch them, thinking, I must try that, but never do. You're just like them: you need a bit of this, and a little bit a that, cut this,” she makes a fast chopping movement, “and stir, add this, hey, presto!”

“Are you making fun of me?” I ask, bringing the kettle to the boil.

She pouts. “Moi? Never!” With a big grin, she drains another glass. This will be an early night, and most probably one with a lot of sprints between bed- and bathroom. I cut the streaky bacon in fine strips, then roll the washed chard into a ball and lightly run my knife through it. Emily nurses the next glass and I put the rigatoni into the saucepan.

“You should slow down a bit, Em. Maybe have a water?”

“I don't want any water. I'm all right.”

I chop the garlic and red chilli, then cut the cherry tomatoes in halves. “Your headache, not mine.”

“Your headache, not mine,” she imitates me, pulling a face. Swollen, dull eyes glare at me without focus; the alcohol is beginning to kick in. I bite my lip and say nothing. Instead, I put a glass of water in front of her and kiss her on the cheek. She squints at the glass and dutifully drinks, then slams the empty glass onto the table, that I jump out of my skin, then, with the back of her hand, wipes over her mouth. “Happy?”

“Yes,” I reply putting the freshly roasted pine nuts aside, and throw the bacon into the pan.

“Celia?” Emily slurs.

“What is it?” The scent of tomato puree fills my kitchen and I drain the pasta.

“Why did he do that to me?” she whines.

“I don't know, hon. I don't know.” I scrape the garlic into the pan, then the chard and tomatoes and stir.

Emily sniffs. “Smells good.”

I smile to myself, hearing her scramble from the chair to venture to the fridge. “Can you pass me the Parmesan, please?”

She hands me the cheese and I grate it into the pan before adding the pasta and a tiny bit of cream and salt and give it as good mix.

“Hmm it does look good, though,” she says from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder.

“Two plates, then, my dear.”

She stretches her arm to open the cupboard, holding on to the table for balance. If the reason for her being so drunk weren't Chris, it would be funny, but all I feel is sorry for her. This girl doesn't deserve to be that sad. I take the plates off her before she drops them, serve the food with the roasted pine nuts, and watch with relief that she has developed an appetite.

Hot & Cold

One thing I love about winter is that you get to enjoy some snow every now and again. For the past few days we've had snow in London and the white has transformed the nearby park into a beautiful snowy landscape. So I put on my wellies and gloves and went for a walk. It's the sound of snow crunching under my boots, the way it reflects the sun, making the days look much brighter, the laughter of people throwing snow balls at each other or fall over while building a snowman that makes me smile. I'm more of a summer girl, but the magical white makes me happy somehow. It also changes the familiar park, like a scene change in a film and I have new things to detect. A 45 minute walk in the winter sun is like a quick charger for the mind. I can think, listening to music, while moving my feet to the beat.

Snow reminds me of my childhood since I had to go on ski holidays until I was sixteen. I remember the first time I stood on skiers; they just put me on them and pushed me down the hill. Well, okay, it was more a slope than a hill, but it was pretty scary. I never really learned skiing, I was far too scared to break my arms and legs and rather mucked out the cowsheds and looked after the animals. I was already weird back then. Quite interesting considering the fact that I'm ADHD and therefore should have been all up for the risk of bone-breaking, but it seems I was a reasonable little girl. Anyway, back to the walk in the park. As I marched on, I looked at the scenery with interest, dogs were enjoying the cold white, many people too pictures of each other or the park. And as I wanted to have one with myself in the white, I asked a couple if they could take one of me. They asked me if I can take one of them and while we were telling each other a to move a little bit to the left, and a bit back, then to the right and a little more and ... smile, another woman joined our merry photo session as she was also looking for someone to take a few pictures of her. We handed each other our mobiles and cameras and grinned like idiots. It was quite the funny--pardon the pun--picture, I believe, because people giggled when they passed us. And this is the result:

Well, yes, that's me.

Finally back at home, I went straight to the kitchen and cooked a winter favourite of mine: swede stew, which is basically a hearty and sweet bowl of goodness:

1 smoked Gammon Joint

2 swedes (not someone from Sweden)

2 carrots

2 leeks

A few new potatoes

1/4 of a celeriac

Boil the meat for about 30 min in about 3 liters of water before adding the vegetables. Then cook for further 30 minutes until everything is soft. You don't need to add any seasoning as the smoked Gammon Joint has enough salt in it and the vegetables add to the taste. Dice the meat and put it back in. You can add some parsley or chervil to give it a bit more colour. I love it just the way it is. I normally add a special smoked sausage which I cut into rings. This time I bought some from the Polish shop, which did the job. A hearty dish that warms you through after a long walk.

And the WAR of the Indies continues ...

Yes, that's right. Do you remember the tagging WAR I had last year in May, when I was falsely accused of having an author's book tagged with inappropriate tags in German (because it could only have been me, for I'm German. Yeah, right.) I reported about this here.
Well, recently I was told that he's still onto it and I looked at the forum where said author, as expected, was tangled up in a hostile argument, again throwing abusive comments at people.
I quickly popped by to set the record straight, without talking to my 'stalker', but mentioning that he's got a reputation for being rude and abusive in his comments. He was pulled up for spamming the fora, although he knew about the MOA and that plugging is not permitted anywhere else, then said it was an honest mistake, which I don't believe. I mentioned that I have a strong suspicion that he's partaking in download and review exchanges. Looking at his reviews and then the authors who wrote them, one will find that this was a mutual agreement. Something I'm strictly against. This was a few weeks ago.

This person has now gone and left a review for my Rage against the Indie book, but only on the .com site, although he lives in the UK. It reads as if it was just posted in spite and not as if he's read it. In fact, both 1-star reviews do.

Here it is:
This offering was a load of outdated nonsense. i couldn't decide whether the author needed a pram, a nurse or a shrink. A rant maybe for the sake of hearing her own voice over and over again. It spoke of nothing new, it was at least insulting to anyone with an iota of intelligence. Where to place a comma, you will put your full stop here and not there was laughable. i was robbed, or should i say conned. 

How can you be conned if you didn't buy the book? I suspect he didn't put the review up on the UK site, because it would show that it's not a verified purchase. As you know I'm quite cool and laid back about negative reviews so, again, I'm asking you to not do anything about it. I find every person with common sense can see that it was just pay back and nothing else. The review is from a person who once said to me I should go back to Germany, because that's where I belong!
This is Indies for you, Ladies and Gentlemen. I'm not upset, but I'm annoyed and if this doesn't stop, I'll take further action. This is beyond having a normal disagreement, this is sabotage. And that's one reason why authors get their reviews deleted, because people use the system for childish revenge and authors, understandably, are not having any of it.
I don't have a problem with people hating my books, that happens, but if someone tries to deliberately harm me, that's where I draw the line.

Are you a review whore?

Something I forgot to mention in Rage against the Indie is the constant moaning of authors to not get any reviews. They will say, I've given my books away for free (just out of interest, what do your normally charge when you give your books away?), and I still don't get any reviews. Whine, whine, whine!
First of all, if you call it promo, then treat it like a promotion; that means you give the books away as a marketing tool.
The aim of a promotion should be to spread the word about your books, to generate interest for your other work, in short: it's an introduction of your name. That's all there is to it.
Authors keep expecting readers to fulfil a contract they didn't sign. I've seen many comments--angry comments--saying that a review is the least authors could expect in return for a free book. Nonsense. It's a present from you to the reader and nothing else.
There's only one occasion when you can expect something in return: that's when you give books to reviewers in exchange for a review. There's an agreement on both sides..
If I'm entirely honest, I'd rather have ten readers tell their friends about my books, so that they go and buy them, too, than ten reviews and no further sale.
And I wish authors would stop saying they want the feedback from readers; it's curling my toes. It's not that I don't like hearing from readers, particularly if they loved my books, for it gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling. It's nice to know when people like what I've sweated over, but if they hate it and leave negatives reviews, does it make me stop writing? No, it doesn't. When I hit the publish button I'm 100% behind the book and confident that it's a good book, not some kind of drivel.
I'm an author, it's my job to create a story readers can enjoy. I put my heart and soul, and all my knowledge into my books, and if someone comes along who happens to dislike my them, I'm not going to fall apart. Those reviews are not for me anyway; they're for potential buyers who still have to make a decision. Reviews are like buses: you wait for a long time, and then they come in bulk. I'm always grateful to see them arrive, but I don't expect them. If they come, I use them for marketing purposes, but I won't take any notice regarding my writing. Everyone's a critic; and I'm the most critical one when it comes to my own books.