Hibernation and teenage makeovers

The SP and I have hibernated.  We have been going to bed earlier and earlier each night and getting up later and later.  We lie, side by side, like medieval effigies, under two duvets, and occasionally an extra blanket.  Outside the rain falls steadily and inside, well, the rain falls steadily too.  What do we do, the SP and I?  Well, I can’t speak for the SP but I just lie there, not exactly thinking.  Not exactly meditating. Sort of freeform musing really.  Vagueing.  Suspended animation.  I’m not depressed; not sad even. Just… hibernating.  On ice. 

Eventually, of course, I have to get up and do what needs to be done.  And then, when that's sorted, the SP and I snuggle up on the sofa in my office, swathed in blankets, with the possible addition of a hot water bottle. Occasionally (see pic) Asbo joins us. I try to write but it’s kinda tough when there’s a small pseudo beagle on one’s lap.  And then, as soon as it can be justified, I light a fire in the Oak Room and we transfer operations to there. I’ve pulled the armchair that usually sits in the window to the fire (my arse was getting numb on the stone bench in the inglenook).  And the SP looks expectantly and, as soon as I’m ensconced, he jumps on my lap and we settle down to watch the flames.  At some point James will wander in and then we’ll all curl up on the sofa instead, under a blanket, and watch crap movies.  Or, occasionally, a good movie. 

Am I reading? Not much. Am I listening to music? Not much.  There’s just the soundtrack of my head and the soft whup whup of the flames. 

But it will have to end.  Much as one may think nothing changes, it does, drip by drip.  And I will have to wake up and rejoin the world.  And then I suppose I really ought to get my act together and try to make myself look vaguely presentable.  At some point over Christmas we went over to see my friend Rachel and her family for lunch.  It was lovely; it always is.  My godson was his usual edible self and his sisters begged me to be their quasi godmother and I said I’d think about it, because being a godmother is an expensive business (cash-wise, not soul-wise). And they made me laugh a lot and I admired their hair and nails and stuff, the way you do, and they said, ‘Hey, we could do your hair and nails.’ And their mother looked slightly alarmed but I said, ‘Cool.’ 

‘We could give you blue streaks,’ said R (15).

‘No,’ said Rachel. 

‘Maroon?’ said R.

'We're good at dipping,' said H (13).

'What about ombre?' I said. 

I think they have this in mind. :-)

'Oh God,' said Rachel.

'We haven't done ombre before,' said R.

‘Whatever,’ I said.  ‘I’ve got to go to London soon for some filming thing – you could give me a makeover. I’m in your hands.’

Rachel’s mouth formed a perfect O of horror.

‘Maroon then, and copper, and maybe a bit of blue and…oooh, and crackle glaze for the nails.  And we could do a face pack – those 99p chocolate ones.’

Rachel shook her head violently from side to side, mouthing urgently at me..

H picked up a clump of my hair (now cascading alarmingly down past my shoulders).  ‘It could do with a cut.’

‘Go for it,’ I said.

Rachel quietly and repeatedly banged her head on the table. 

Wrestling with teens, bingo wings and ruminations on film sequels.

So, I was never going to be the Earth Mother type, right?  I tried hard when James was small – y’know, trying to fulfill the archetype – giving him the psychological safety blanket that the warm nurturing Mother dispenses.  It was a bit hit and miss but then again, trying to get Adrian to act the firm but fair Sky Father didn’t exactly come off either. 

'Psychology isn’t my strong point,’ he said with a shrug. No shit, Sherlock.

But now he’s a teenager (James, not Adrian) I no longer feel the necessity.  In fact, I feel my most important role is to act as surrogate sibling.  So I tustle with him for the last sweet in the packet; snort with him over deeply inappropriate funnies on the Internet; goad him and needle him and, yes okay, wrestle with him.  Cos, see, I do think there is nothing worse than a spoiled only child so I seek to redress the balance.  Our relationship seems to suit us both exceedingly well. I am a revoltingly lax and liberal parent who frequently veers into incipient madness.  Which makes him, by necessity, a relatively sane, sensible and balanced child who keeps me grounded.

‘Mum!’ he said the other day, opening the glove compartment of the car, his tone indicating a mixture of shock, amusement and resignation.

‘Huh? What have I done now?’

‘You finished off the Haribos.’

I shrugged.  ‘Of course I did.’

‘But they were cola bottles. You hate cola bottles.’

‘So?’

He shook his head sadly. ‘You’re such a mess.’

Which made me howl with laughter.  Now Adrian thinks I shouldn’t let him call me a mess but – really – why not?  It’s funny and it’s true and it’s said with love and affection.  It’s part of our relationship. We banter.  I poke fun at him and he pokes my upper arms. ‘You’re gonna start flying soon,’ he says with an evil cackle. Bloody nerve. I have many less than perfect bits but…

‘I don’t have bloody Bingo wings!’

‘Flap! Flap!’

‘You little bastard!’

‘So that’s where my above average intelligence comes from, huh? Cos it’s sure as hell not from either of you two.’

‘Lemme get my hands on you, you little…’

Cue Simpsons style chase round the kitchen ending up in a fight on the sofa. 

‘ChildLine! ChildLine! I’ll call ChildLine!’

‘Be my guest.’ Handing him the phone. ‘Any time like now would be good to pick you up.’

‘No, that would be too easy. I’ll stay and torment you. Brouuuhaaahaaaa.’

‘Sigh.’

We talk about pretty much anything; there are no taboos.  I don’t put filters on his laptop – if he comes across anything weird he tends to tell me and we talk about it.  So yep, we’ve talked about porn, racism, homophobia, advertising, politics, religion, smoking, drugs, alcohol, political correctness, poor taste in pop.  We trade memes and yes, occasionally I commit the ultimate parental crime of posting on his FB page. We laugh – a helluva lot – and poor Adrian hasn’t a clue what we’re on about. 

‘What the hell is trololol?’

‘Never mind, Dad.’  And we launch into a rendition of Carmina Burana, the misheard lyrics version.

‘An octopus! Let’s give him boots! SEND HIM TO NORTH KOREA!’

Adrian shakes his head and walks away.

And yet, sometimes, even now, he likes me to revert to Earth Mother mode.  Like when we got the Ice Age trilogy last week and he wanted me to snuggle up with him and watch a DVD per evening.  Funny thing – he loved them, even though it was years ago we watched the first one at the cinema.  I confess I have a huge soft spot for the first one. It’s funny and smart and tugs on the heartstrings like fury.  The second and third?  Nah.  Which made me think – how many movie series are there where the sequels and beyond are as good or better than the first?  Shrek 2 was sort of okay but not a patch on 1 and, after that it just descended into a big... mess.  

In fact, after…oh at least ten minutes of serious thought, I came up with only four exceptions. The Godfathers (obviously). Lord of the Rings (definitely). Star Wars (possibly).  Harry Potter (patchily).

Did I miss any? 

Oh and by the way, Ice Age 4: Continental Drift is out now in cinemas. God help me, James is desperate to see it.  I’ll take a huge pack of Haribos, my iPod and face mask.  But then again, every so often, there is a seriously funny line. Hmm. Anyone seen it?  What you reckon? 

Is this the twilight of the supernatural romance?

Is the end in sight for teen supernatural romance? Are we really all vampired and ghosted and demoned out? I will freely confess it’s a genre that I love – I’m a sucker (sorry) for books like Beautiful Creatures, Glass Houses, Shiver, Need and so on. Yes, I liked Twilight – I’ll freely admit it.

I love the genre because it encapsulates perfectly the teen experience – that heady mix of intense yearning for love coupled with the almost inevitable existential angst. Who am I? Who is the mysterious other? What is the meaning of my life? It’s a time of poetry and passion – head, heart, body and soul. How can a human boy ever be enough for the passionate heart of a young girl?

The otherworldly demon lover however is much, much more than the perfect bad boy. He is as much an exploration of a young girl’s counter-sexual self, the animus, as he is a real (or idealised) being. He is her creative soul.

As many of you know, I have written my own dark romance novel – Samael – which is now doing the rounds of publishers. Today I received an email from a major New York publishing house. It said:

“It’s a cracking good read, full of dark secrets and thrilling twists. Alexander writes clearly and eloquently with an authentic teen voice. Genevieve is a compelling and sympathetic character; her anguish, and her skepticism, are convincing. Her cynical references to popular culture are witty and grounding. The supporting cast of characters are similarly well-crafted and multi-faceted. We thought Gen’s relationship with her aging-rock star father was actually quite interesting, too, with Gen feeling like she had to act as his parent, sometimes, instead of the other way around. We also appreciated the real-world themes of intolerance and depravity. Alexander reveals that supernatural beings are not the only ones with immoral tendencies: the malicious racism that affect Zeke and his mother and the licentious cruelty that leads to Star’s rape are poignant and pressing issues.”

Have to confess I had a broad smile on my face at that point. But then it went on to say this:

“Unfortunately books that play to the same audience as the TWILIGHT SAGA have been furiously published with more in the works all over town, and by the time we’d be able to release a book like this (in 2012) we have serious concerns about the genre being past its prime.”

So that’s it? Supernatural romance has a sell-by date? I can see that nobody wants an oversaturated marketplace but is the desire for the market really waning? When I look on teen reading websites or the teen author site, inkpop, there seems to be a pretty solid hunger (will stop now, I promise) for this kind of tale.

It’s not sour grapes, I promise. It’s just genuine puzzlement. Is that really it?

It's also left me wondering about publishing.  Today I read in The Times more about the rise of the e-book and the confusion of traditional publishers.  Is print publishing - with its two-year lead times - just too lumbering a beast for today's tastes and market?  Teens certainly want to read more supernatural romance right now.  Whether they will in two years' time is another question entirely. I hope so, but who knows?  Maybe I should put out Samael as an e-book, before it's 'past its prime'.

What do you think? Are we going to see the return of gritty realism to teen fiction? Or something new entirely? If you have teenage daughters how would they feel about the death of the vampire, the demon, the fallen angel? Relieved or sad? How would you feel? It’s okay, you can be honest :-)

And what do you think about how books are published?  Are your teens reading on Kindle, iPad, Sony e-reader? 

PS – on a lighter note, I’m talking about How to Bag a Man over on The Lady blog.