Category Archives: Uncategorized

The Website has Landed


cong-ty-thiet-ke-web-site-chuan-seoI’m sorry I have been so silent. It’s been a busy year. Twelve books’ worth of busy (HEARTSIDE BAY, writing as Cathy Cole). I have emerged blinking like a mole in the light, with another hectic year lined up ahead of me. And I have finally done what I’ve been meaning to do for ages: create a proper website.

The website address is I have a picture of my new book on there for you all to admire, and have just started blogging about curtains and deadlines, in that order. So please, if you would like to, leave phraseandfable to wallow in past glories, leap overboard among the dolphins and strike out for the silver shores of my new abode.

See you there?


Big Library Love


Farnham Library's new extension.

Farnham Library’s new extension.

PLR time!

PLR stands for many things. Potato Liberation Regiment. Polyunsaturated Lemon Rinds. For authors, it means angel music  from the clouds, known more specifically as Public Lending Right.

I knew nothing about PLR before I became an author. Then I heard the whispers.

‘With PLR, you earn approximately 5p every time someone borrows one of your books from a library. Last year I earned enough to buy a Caribbean island*!’

Frankly disbelieving, I settled down to debating percentage splits with my illustrators. I filled in some forms. I waited. And in February of that first year I stared at my bank balance with incredulity.

Here are some statistics to send you running half-crazed into the street screaming and rending your beards.

My borrowed books stand as tall as THIS.

My borrowed books stand as tall as the Sneeuberg.          (Bless you.)

Based on data from 45 library authorities, 22372 writers, illustrators, photographers, ghost writers, editors, translators and adapters will receive anything from £1 to £6600 this year. 200 people (1.3% of the whole) earn the maximum amount. If you make more than £6600, the extra money goes back into the system to pay everyone else. 

77 books of mine were borrowed 202,663 times. Assuming each book is 20cm long, a row of them would stretch for 25 miles. I could line the whole A31 from Farnham to Winchester. If each book is approximately 1cm thick, I could stack them on top of each other to a  height of 2026 metres, matching the snowy apex of the Sneeuberg in South Africa.

This is not me. This is better than the one of me.

This is not me. This is better than the one of me.

And PLR is so fabulously levelling. Once a year, puny authors like me can be in the same earning bracket as the leviathans. ‘I earned the same as that JK Rowling last year, yeah…’  It’s a massive part of the average author’s annual income, which can be terrifyingly sporadic. And it doesn’t cost you a THING. 

So I say this to you. All of you.


You pay for my children’s shoes, my annual heating bills, that blackmailer who regularly threatens to post photographs of me with a horrifying teen mullet. I  love you for it and will buy you a coffee next time we meet!

*sandbank of the small variety

Inside The Teenage Mind


HB 1 coverMy hormones are INSANE and NO ONE is respecting my boundaries and it’s all boys and drama and coursework and selfies and it’s like there’s fireworks exploding in my head – which is totally confused totally all of the time – and my body is ballooning in the weirdest directions and ZOMG I have BOOBS now although they are worse than pathetic they don’t even extend past my ribcage and don’t even get me STARTED on the cow in the corridor today who eyeballed my skirt like she’d never seen a skirt like it before and I’m, hello? It’s called a SCHOOL UNIFORM and double hello? YOU’RE WEARING IT TOO, and what the 1D’s wrong with everyone?

*snorts like a bull*

*applies more mascara*

So he says he’ll call me but does he call me of course he doesn’t call me because all boys are liars and I wish they weren’t even on the same planet as us and more especially I wish they weren’t on Facebook with 1643 friends until we actually need them and there’s this one boy? I don’t even like him but I could be twerking through the science block and would he notice me no because I don’t wear make-up HB 2 coverand my phone is the worst phone in the universe because it doesn’t have 4G (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and I’ve never been to Glasto (WRECK MY LIFE EVIL NON-PARENTS) and I don’t support Chelsea United or whatever other saddo teams are out there because footballers are too rich and drive cars that wreck the planet and also nick my mum’s favourite parking space at Waitrose and fill the magazines with their girlfriends’ insanely perfect skinny bodies and I have a BUTT so get over it H&M and make skinny jeans that actually FIT REAL PEOPLE why don’t you.

I need marshmallows. And FaceTime. And nail varnish. And I cannot WAIT for HEARTSIDE BAY to come out in February 2014 because the characters will understand this dumb whirlpool the world calls adolescence and those of us who have to endure its ENDLESSNESS and POINTLESSNESS and there will be hot boys that will notice me somehow through the pages and make me feel better about all of it.

AlexPBut I’ll probably have to keep nicking the books back off my mum sad cow who will read them too and pretend she’s fifteen again because it was fun when she did it (riiiight) and she wants to remember the good times they had in the Victorian days wearing a ra-ra skirt Gran made her out of a pillowcase and eating rainbow crystals from the sweet shop (totally not what they sound like) and watching Bruce Willis when he had hair on some TV cheesefest called Moonlighting.

Here’s Alex Pettyfer.

You know, because.

So You Think You Can Write Children’s Books?



Jonny and Lucy sitting in a tree, G-U-R-N-I-N-G
(except it’s a restaurant)

Don’t stop breathing or anything, but I have an actual career-related blog for you today. Nothing to do with sleeping otters, or noodly boobs, or National Talk Like a Pirate Day. EVERYTHING to do with the job that I love.

Here I am after an exhilarating panel event for the Hertford Children’s Book Festival on Thursday. The silly face is all Jonny Zucker‘s fault for being a hilarious partner in crime. The Space Penguins T-shirt is a thing of beauty, I know.

The event kicked off a 4-day festival organised by lovely author Freya North. It involved posing behind a table at Hertford Theatre while wearing tremendous shoes and said T-shirt, facing a room full of beaming people holding notepads, and blethering on the topic above, on the subject of which I am apparently an industry expert.

I wasn’t sure I was meant to be there.

A quick perusal of my statistics gave me heart. Or, to give its correct regional spelling, Hert. 86 published titles with another 7 lurking in the pipeline, available in around 19 territories ranging from Thailand to Turkey, under a dozen sly pseudonyms plus me being me. Maybe I was allowed to be there after all. Maybe I hadn’t gatecrashed the show. Maybe my experiences WERE relevant to people trying to break into the realms of the printed word. Wow!

Tremendous Shoes

Tremendous Shoes

So You Think You Can Write Children’s Books? For those of you not present in Hertford Theatre on Thursday, here is my version of the basics.

  • We all know how YOU feel about getting lost in a Brazilian shopping centre, or being eaten by the Minotaur, or dangling from a cliff over a pounding ocean. We’ve been there. Maybe we’re dangling from that cliff ourselves right now, shouting for help. But this is the world of children’s books, with a child’s perspective on things. Find your 10-year-old self if writing for 8-year-olds, or your 12-year-old self if writing for 10-year-olds etc. Always add a couple of years on to the age group you’re writing for, except if you’re writing about penguins because their age, frankly, doesn’t matter.
  • Be prepared to fail a hundred times. Getting a deal took me thirteen years, from first finished story to published book. I feel your pain.
  • Find an agent. Curtis Brown has a fantastic new submissions system on their website for you all to throw yourselves at. No more stamps! No more ink running out half way through that scene about a rat and a parasol that you were so proud of! Follow the instructions. No gimmicks. No strange photos of yourselves holding kittens hostage.
  • Don’t worry about illustrations. Publishers choose illustrators, not you. Once you find yourself in the glorious position of HAVING SOMEONE INTERESTED IN YOUR WRITING, then maybe you can dangle thoughts of illustrators like worms on hooks above your editors’ gaping mouths. But not until then. You have plenty of other stuff to think about first.
  • If an agent says they are interested but would like you to change A, B and C – change it. Limbo dancers should have nothing on you. An agent has bothered to contact you. Be grateful. Faint, maybe. Don’t be precious.
  • Yes, I said agent (see earlier point). Not publisher. Always try agents first. Agents know their business, and if they like you, it probably means there’s a publisher out there that will like you too. But if someone offers to represent you for an upfront fee, run. That person is Voldemort.
  • Buy the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook and read all the articles. Learn from what you read.
  • Write because you enjoy it, not because you fancy buying a beachside villa in the Bahamas. It ain’t going to happen.
  • Tibbles


    I wouldn’t advise self-publishing if you want to make a living at this game. As I said at the event, it’s a bit like you drawing a fantastic picture of your cat, framing it, hanging it on your sitting-room wall, throwing your front door open and waiting for the stampeding hordes to admire it. However lovely Tibbles might be, no one’s going to come because they just won’t know you’re there, waiting, your coffee machine trembling with optimism. An agent can get Tibbles hanging somewhere more central for you. Heck, maybe even the National Gallery. Before long, you could be up to your armpits in commissions of cat portraiture. Or writing. Or whatever.

  • I was quite pleased with my cat analogy.
  • READ the books that are currently out there. It’s your competition. Fabulous Young Adult gems like John Green’s The Fault In Our Stars, or Holly Smale’s delightful Geek Girl. Go and fancy Jace in The Mortal Instruments series.  Romp with the monsters in Beast Quest, and analyse why children love them. Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Tom Gates. Books that today’s youngsters buy in droves. This is no longer a world where Chalet Girls or Biggles make readers swoon.
  • Have a really, really good idea and write it really, really well.

Many thanks to Hertford Theatre for such a great venue, and David’s Bookshop for selling our books. Thanks Freya for the steak. Thanks Jonny for the amusing beard. Thanks audience for turning up, listening and buying books. May the words flow from your pens like mighty rivers of inspiration, but don’t come up with anything too clever because I’ll never talk to you again.

See you next year?

Bored now


I know I haven’t been anywhere near you for months. I’m sure you have all been weeping into your cornflakes about my lack of communication. You probably haven’t slept. You may have struck me off, or unliked me, or taken out a contract on my virtual life. Or indeed on my real life. What can I say? How can I possibly make amends?

When I look up, Facebook will have evaporated.

When I look up, Facebook will have evaporated.


You didn’t miss me one bit. In fact – and it’s OK to admit it – the sight of this update pinging into your email made your heart sink. What, MORE inbox stuff to wade through, along with Facebook updates and Twitter follows and Ebay ending-soons and LinkedIn connections (Dolores Umbridge has a New Role as a Health and Safety Officer in a high-security jail in Alabama!)  and that blog you thought was funny six months ago – whoops, that’s me – and something about nursery furniture because you once fatally clicked ‘like’ on a crocheted baby hat that resembled a bumble bee…? Doesn’t it all make you want to put your head in the sand and pull down the blinds – hang on, do that the other way round, grit’s a bugger on window sills – and JUST HOPE IT ALL GOES AWAY?

Sea_otters_holding_handsTo soothe you as you contemplate the fragmented horror of your existence, here is a  picture of snoozing sea otters. They hold hands to stop themselves floating away from each other when they sleep.

But I say to you: Float free, friends! Just don’t get eaten by octopi because you weren’t looking where you were going! Drop by occasionally if you would like to know more about the progressing adventures of the Space Penguins (just finished writing  #6: MONSTER MOON, thanks for asking) or have any questions about those books I have already potty-trained and sent out into the big wide world to widdle on the wrong person’s shoes.

Otherwise, forget me. Go away and live unencumbered lives.

Waddle Twaddle


When you deliberately set out to follow lots of people on Twitter with the word ‘penguin’ in their Twitter address simply because you are madly promoting a series called SPACE PENGUINS – yes, that’s SPACE PENGUINS – you are guaranteed an amusing time.


Here is my assortment, amassed over the last two weeks. My colony, if you will.

1. Penguin Social (@PenguinSocial): Feel uncomfortable among your contemporaries? Suffer from fish breath, identity crises, chilblains? Pop over to Penguin Social to set your tiny penguin mind at rest.

2. Little Penguin (@OhDearPenguin): Heavily into British accents. What.

3. Awkward Penguin (@_AwkwardPenguin): Hasn’t responded to my follow, which is a little… what’s the word… difficult?

4. SpacePenguin(Spacey) (@AstroPenguin1): So out there that he has the word Space in his Twitter name twice.

5. Space Penguin (@THESpacePenguin): A little aggrieved at being alone no longer, but that’s the way the cuttlefish crumbles.

Alfie6. Space Penguin (@_SpacePenguin): A band from Bridlington. Rockhopper on!

7. Emma Dean (@spacepenguins85): Makes me think of school discos in shiny balldresses, don’t know why.

8. Leroy Penguin (@Leroy_penguin): Hip Hop rapping, eyebrow raising, tequila smashing afro penguin, 18. Too cool to follow me back.

9. Alice Sheppard (@PenguinGalaxy): MSc Astrophysicist, citizen science maniac and general dazed waffler (her words, not mine).

10. Pedro Penguin (@PedroPenguin): AN ACTUAL PENGUIN (African) at Toronto Zoo. He doesn’t tweet much. It’s more of a honking sound.

11. Pittsburgh Penguins (@penguins): Ice hockey team. Given to incomprehensibilities like “X played 4 years with #Canes, tallying 53G-54A=107 in 286 reg-season games!”

12. The Penguin Press (@penguinpress): Not literally a press for squeezing penguins, I’m guessing? Though possibly not unlike those apple presses owned by cool people in the country with their own orchards.

13. Team Penguin (@TeamPeng): For all your RuneScape Penguin Distraction & Diversion Means! which explains them perfectly if you are fluent in geek.

14. Penguin Magic (@penguinmagic): Much in demand for children’s parties in Antarctica.

15. Penguin Books UK (@PenguinUKBooks): Why call yourself Penguin Books UK and yet tweet most confusingly as @PenguinUKBooks? Just a thought. (They don’t publish me.)

SPACE PENGUINS are out now. Finally. Buy them all please, for me and lovely illustrator James Davies. One for all and all for FISH!


Swimming Along


imagesSo there I was, head held out of the water like a poodle fresh from the salon, when it struck me that several classic examples of LIFE were there in the pool with me in the form of my  fellow swimmers.

SWIMMER #1: long, slow strokes, cutting through the water so carefully that he didn’t make a single splash. His hands were knives. His feet were scimitars. He swam on his front, then turned on to his back, seal-like, all the while as silent as a ghost in slippers.

SWIMMER #2: faster, this one, with a red swimming cap and fierce boggly goggles, she drove grimly on, splashing a bit but always pushing forward, relentless, never pausing for breath, doing that splashy crawl designed to impress but always with a hint of human flailing.


Paddling perfection

SWIMMER #3: With her nose clip and her sudden pause at the deep end, she sank as I watched. A silent back flip beneath the surface, then back into the world. A handstand next, pointing toes beneath me, hands holding down the bottom of the pool lest it explode upwards in an unaccountable fountain of blue tiles. Handstands again at the shallow end, big white legs straight and firm. Carefree. Encouragingly strange.

I swam until my legs trembled: envying swimmer #1, admiring swimmer #2, dreaming of a life as swimmer #3.  Then a hot shower and away into the chill outside.