Jojo Moyes’s blog

… by DJ Paterson. Feels like being back in the schoolyard, except that instead of swapping warm cartons of milk and Superheroes stickers, I’m apparently meant to past six random things about myself. So, in no particular order:

1. I can read braille (I used to work in the visually impaired section of a bank)

2. I once got placed under house arrest in China. This was not a whole heap of fun.

3. I bought myself a horse at the age of 14. The fact that I lived in Hackney did not seem like an obstacle at the time.

4. I was once serenaded by David Soul during the 1997 General Election campaign.

5. My favourite song is Rufus Wainwright’s The Art Teacher.

6. I used to go to school with Dido.

Okay… now I need to pass this on (may have to do the links tomorrow):

Jenny Colgan
Kate Harrison
Matt Dunn
Mike Gayle
Lisa Jewell
Glenda Cooper

Oh dear God there are no words…

Okay. So this has very little about publishing, but quite a lot to do with my current state of barely suppressed perma-rage. Very happy to hear any other suggestions, but these are the ones that currently make me throw my alarm clock radio at the wall.

Jordan and her ilk being shortlisted for book awards, when they haven’t read the book that bears their name, let alone written it. (See also prize organisers hiring celebrity judges who have never even expressed an interest in books.)

Banks, who demand minimum regulation - but go running to the Government for bailing out when markets go wrong. And their directors, who somehow insulate themselves against the credit crunch with continuing bumper packages.

Our Government quietly removing our democratic right to object to major planning proposals (new runway at Stansted airport, anyone?) while dressing it up as an easier way of putting up your conservatory.

MPs expenses. Why am I subsidising mortgage-free MPs mortgage expenses? And why am I paying £4000 for John Prescott’s annual food bill? Who the hell can eat £4000 worth of food?

Circle of Shame in Heat magazine, and all its spin-offs. You know what? This is why girls are neurotic about their appearance… (see also the Daily Mail’s “ooh, look how fat/thin she is” paparazzi shots

Eco Towns. Our proposed “eco-town” in Elsenham is planned on several hundred acres of green field.

Okay. I think I need to lie down now…

So I’ve spent some of today reading up the various blogs on the story of the deaf couple below - not least because I’ve had some trackbacks from my own blog - and I wanted to add one point to my comments of yesterday.

I still don’t agree with the notion of “choosing” a deaf child, especially not for the reasons Tomato Lichy and his partner gave in the two interviews I heard. But I do back emphatically their stance on the HFE bill which would effectively not allow implantation of a deaf embryo.

I don’t believe my position is contradictory; I still believe deafness is a disability, in so much as it is the loss, or lack, of a primary sense. But for anyone to argue that my son should not have had a life because his ears don’t work like everyone else’s is frankly terrifying. (Hah! Reminds me of the old bat who once told me I would be “irresponsible” to have any more children. This from a woman who had never held a job her whole life.)

It is entirely possible that our children will have deaf children (connexin 26 is in our family’s genes); if embryos with deafness genes “will be automatically discarded“, well, that just about does for most of us. But living with deafness (our son is still profoundly deaf when he is not wearing his implant) has shown our family and friends that deafness is not a disaster - it’s not even the most interesting thing about him.

He is what he is - a marvellous mixture of deaf and hearing, a bright, impetuous, funny, happy member of our hearing family. As far more sophisticated commentators than I have argued, our increased reproductive technologies have created a moral mess, and here it is more visible than most: IVF embryo selection by its very nature means that some embryos will not be given the chance to live.

If this debate has shown nothing else, it has hopefully highlighted that deafness, or indeed the ability to hear - should not be the grounds on which that life or death decision should be made. I’m not sure I could ever play God enough to decide what grounds would be suitable - I have friends with children with CF, cerebal palsy - would our lives really be so much better without them? The very idea is offensive.

Frankly, if we have to make a choice, I’d be more in favour of pinning the tail on the petri dish - surely that would be closer to nature?

I’ve been thinking all day about the deaf couple who want the right to “choose” a deaf baby - not least because I’ve listened to them interviewed on Radio 4 and Radio 2.

To summarise, Tomato Lichy and his partner already have one deaf child, and hope for another via IVF. New legislation would mean they could not choose an embryo which had deaf genes, if a “non-deaf” embryo was available.

They say the act suggests that deaf people are not equal to hearing people; Mr Lichy almost militantly insists that his deafness is not a disability.

As the mother of a deaf child, I am sympathetic to his viewpoint (I would HATE anyone to consider my son inferior) but I cannot agree with what Mr Lichy would choose.

When we were offered a cochlear implant for Lockie, one of our first reservations was that accepting it would almost be like telling him that he was not “good enough” as he was. But there is a simple fact here - one which Mr Lichy refuses to accept - deafness IS the loss of a primary sense, and in that respect it cannot BUT be a disability. Much as we were afraid to put our child through surgery, we felt it was our duty to give him every option - hearing or deaf - for the fullest possible life.

He is now a hearing, speaking child, one who sings and listens to music, but all those are immaterial next to the fact that we did our duty as parents and gave him as many choices and chances as we were able. If he chooses to go to a deaf school, or a mainstream one, sign or talk - those are his choices, and fine by us. But by choosing a deaf child within a fairly determinedly insularly deaf family, they are restricting that of their putative child.

I am loath to criticise them - especially given the hammering they have taken on the radio today already - but I suspect that the couple’s real resistance comes from fear; fear that they will not be able to communicate or bond with a hearing child as they have with their child who is “like them”.

I understand this view - having a deaf child in our hearing family took some adjusting to too, and a fair bit of actual work. But I would argue that what they propose is just as discriminatory and short-sighted as it would be in reverse. Embracing deaf or hearing culture enriches both sides. For this reason, and despite the fact that I have no doubt that they are loving, caring parents, I hope they fail.

… is my first broadcast piece of writing. It’s almost impossible to say how excited I am to have a short story going out on Radio 4, but if I add that Doon Mackichan of Smack The Pony is the narrator, you will know that my cups runneth over.

All my published books have been made into audio by the wonderful WF Howes and it never fails to surprise me how alien - and how much better - one’s own words can sound when spoken by a professional. I’ve heard an advance CD of Doon Mackichan’s reading, and the words could have been written for her slightly weary, faintly acerbic, but very human tones.

Ooh…It’s given me a taste - I can see suddenly why every other waitress and valet in LA is a would-be screenwriter….

Literary lunches can be strange events. You can turn up and find yourself eyed up by four people and a dog, eat a curly-edged sandwich or two, and sit plaintively, pen primed, at a table of un-bought books, as the guests slink embarrassedly away. Or you can, as I have just done today, find yourself at the kind of supremely well-organised event, with the kind of receptive, attentive audience that are a company-starved author’s dream.

Readers, I sold 100 books today. And I ate a delicious lunch of smoked salmon and new potatoes. And I spoke to an audience of 100 paying guests who asked questions and laughed in the right places. This, in Lit Lunch terms, is like winning the Premier League, Grand National and Pop Idol all in one.

Having had one of those dispiriting weeks, pitted with gloom and disaster, which ALWAYS seem to come in February, today filled my little heart with joy. While signing books (pausing only to swoon surreptitiously with pleasure at the lengthy queue) I took the opportunity to ask some of the good ladies of Hartley Wintney what they thought of the new Silver Bay jacket. (It’s the one on the right. The left-hand one is the hardback version.)

Whereas the rest of the re-jacketed backlist met with general approval, Silver Bay elicited a polarised response. Those for said it was “beautiful”, “compelling”, “intriguing”. Those against said it was “cold”, “ghostly” and “too dark”. I had loved the image, as had the publishers, but several people commented that it did not reflect the book’s contents.

In a world where bookshops are bursting with fictional offerings, and shelf-space is hard-won, these are words to strike fear into an author’s heart. Because readers *do* judge a book by its cover, and unless you are a “brand”, or one of Richard and Judy’s chosen, that one image is likely to determine thousands, or tens of thousands of sales.

So the question we face is: can you afford to risk alienating half your potential readers? Or does this approach doom us to generic, water-colour images and copycat covers for ever? Please do let me know.

Okay… so I was going to write about how I didn’t win the RNA prize today (it went to the very lovely Freya North) and how hard it was to wear my gracious loser face when I was wearing my new too-high boots and they had given me blisters EVEN BEFORE I GOT OFF THE TRAIN, and about the very many very lovely RNA ladies who said they loved Silver Bay, and made me feel pretty happy about being shortlisted at all…

… but having bought a copy of OK magazine on the way home (Silver Bay is reviewed in its Hot Stars section) I was diverted by this little exchange, with Z-listed married couple Michelle and Andy Scott-Lee:

“OK: Has (Michelle’s friend Jordan) spoken out about how she feels before (plastic) surgery?

Michelle: I suppose she gets nervous like everyone else… If I had the means to do it I’d get stuff done as well but, my God, I’d be proper pooping it beforehand.

OK: Katie has also talked about getting a designer vagina

Michelle: I’d rather not comment on it…otherwise it’s me talking about Katie all the time.

OK: Are you and Andy thinking about babies?

Michelle: God, we had a fright when I thought I was pregnant about three weeks ago, but I’m on my period now, so I’m not.”

Ah… the elegance of Jane Austen. The grace and restraint of Elizabeth Gaskell. It’s easy to get snarky about the supposed coarsening of modern culture. But it’s something when you start hankering after Waynetta Slob as a step up…

I have mixed feelings about discussing my children in public - but in this case I’ll make an exception. Lachlan, our youngest, was born deaf. Not a bit deaf, but properly, profoundly deaf, so that he heard nothing.

When he was 15 months old, we were offered a cochlear implant, which, after a lot of discussion, we agreed to, and another 15 months on he is not just talking but stringing together whole sentences, mimicking us, and - albeit pretty tunelessly - singing.
We have felt so blessed - not just to have him, but to witness his entry into the world of sound, - that I agreed to write this piece for the Mail on Sunday’s magazine:

How Lockie Broke Through A Wall Of Silence

Cochlear implants are by no means the answer for all deaf children. The procedure is not risk-free, they can be controversial within the deaf community, they are expensive, and they are not available to everyone who would like them.

But for our son, a deaf child born into a hearing family, it means he can now make his own choices later in life about who he wants to be, which community he wants to make his own. And that while he decides, he can sing “heads shoulders knees and toes”, while watching The Simpsons. Which feels pretty bloody great from here.

Okay… I was drawn in by the fact that Bertelsmann, my German publishers, had given Silver Bay a new title (”The Sky Is So Close”). So I HAD to see their plot synopsis, right? Except the translated version (courtesy Google) is never, quite, what one expects…. (although it does raise the interesting question of what jobs I could do tomorrow that “from the wrist shake…”)

“Mike Dormer, a karrieresüchtiger businessman, flying from London to Silver Bay, a small village on the sea in Australia. There, he will rebuild the millions of Silver Bay hotel management. A routine task it from the wrist shakes, thinks Mike. And perhaps there is still a little time with his girlfriend Vanessa luxusverwöhnten the beach to enjoy life.

But Mike has the bill without the hotel hostesses made Bootsführerin Liza McCullen, their ten-year-daughter Hannah and aunt Kathleen behave not exactly cooperative. The crew of Mike Walbeobachtungsbootes is hostile. The whole city signaled him that he is not welcome. And soon it comes to the collision of two worlds: the arrogant, and the London manager of the self and with nature, in accordance women living of the hotel.

Mike’s beautiful business world gets more and more into the mountains, and finally, it all his previous life in question - particularly as he and Liza, the first violent war, become ever closer… A wonderful read about romantic entanglements in a small Australian fishing village.”