2.5 years ago a friend advised me to write a book.
"Stop blogging and write it," he said.
So I did.
What surprised me was how darn hard writing a book is.
Narrative arc: what's that?
A plot? Hmmmm...
Thankfully, I've had the help of a brilliant editor who's taught me so much, so that finally, finally, Travels With My Daughter is finished; a book that looks at that meandering process that is becoming our own women, as we navigate the well traversed but still bewildering peaks of motherhood and relationship!
But before I start knocking on agents and publishers doors, I'm asking a small handful of friends and acquaintances if they'd be open to reading the manuscript. And I wanted to reach out to you guys, whose support of this blog I appreciate so much.
I know everyone's insanely busy, so I'm not looking for feedback on the text, but instead a simple yes I loved this and would recommend it to friends, or nope, didn't work for me.
Is there any chance that one of you is looking for some summer reading, and would like to read it?
If you are, please send me an email to: Laura@lfraser.com and I will send back the MS via email, or in the post, whichever format you prefer.
Time wise, I need the feedback by August 26th, so I can get a sense of general feedback to be prepared for the beginning of September when I start reaching out to publishers.
Thank you so much,
PS an excerpt below xx
I’m here: in Tom’s man cave in Battersea. We’ve just finished dinner and opening our hearts to each other, and are sitting across from one another at his kitchen table.
As our conversation takes a pause, he stands and walks around the table towards me.
“I'd really love to kiss you,” he says. Words that transport me away from the land of confident woman sharing truths from her past, to the incredibly shy teenager I used to be. My only response is to bolt to the sofa, where I perch like a frozen lemming.
Unperturbed, Tom walks over, and sits down beside me, leaning forwards towards to kiss me. I lean back, kite-surfing the arm of the sofa. He looks at me quizzically. I look at him.
Oh Christ, Oh Christ, Oh Christ…
The more I try and relax, the more my muscles seize into a response that a chastity belt would give a hearty round of applause to. The atmosphere’s becoming increasingly awkward, so that there’s nothing for it, except for the both of us to bring our lips closer, and just go for it. Our first kiss, roller coaster style.
And so the kissing starts and it’s a kiss that’s been building for a fair few years, and it’s finally happening and it’s… oh Christ, I can’t believe it, it’s terrible.
And it just gets worse.
To make it even more painful, it becomes humiliatingly obvious that I’m not the only one struggling with the kiss. My pride is appalled: it’s one thing not to be into a kiss yourself, quite another, for the person you’re kissing to be as disengaged as a monk who’s been forced into a moment he’d rather not be in at all.
But despite my best attempts, the effect is nil. Marilyn Monroe’s Sugar may have finally caused a flame to flicker for Jack Lemmon’s Junior, but it seems my kissing just ain’t doing nothing for Mr. Bible. So we move to the floor to see if relocation enhances our flailing eroticism. I undo some shirt buttons, (his, not mine), and make all the proper noises, but niente. And so after a few minutes of nothing, we give up, buttoning our shirts and stand.
Then walking the few metres to the door, we wish other a 'good night;' the both of us too humiliated to make eye contact, and then I make the oh-christ-this-is-very-close walk back to my mother’s, just a ten-minute walk away.