What being a published author is REALLY like… #amwriting

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Welcome to my weekly ‘Diary of a hopeful author.’ Hello! How the devil are you? I’m (finally) back after a winter of editing with a post that tells you, with utter honesty, about, for me, what it’s really like being a published author…

I was going to write about the merits of editing. Pen in hand, I was poised after a long winter of absence from my blog due to a looming deadline, about how nothing needs to be, in your writing, perfect when you first get it to the page.

But that’s not going to happen. I am, instead, going to speak to you about, well, what I’ve found being an author is like.

Don’t get me wrong – being an author is, in the most part, I have discovered, great. But, as in life and other walks of work, there are times when the wall you build to stay strong buckles and the stormy sea beyond threatens to flood what’s on the other side completely.

When I began as an author, got my publishing deal, I naively thought, “Awesome! Job done!’ except it wasn’t, not by a long shot. See, despite so much planning from all involved in putting a book on the market, things don’t always work out quite as you wanted. Sometimes they take longer, sometimes they may not happen at all, but still, you have to deal with comments  such as, ‘Oh, you’re going to go global,’ (Hold your horses); ‘You’ll be the next JK Rowling,’ (only one JK); ‘Why aren’t you on the bestsellers list yet?’ (yup, had that Q a few times) or (and I get this one a LOT, face to face) ‘How are book sales?’(Eeek!)  And without doubt, people are well meaning, but I never wanted to raise anyone’s hopes too much in the first place because being an author is damn competitive, man, I mean, tough, tough stuff.  Consider this: in the UK alone, over the course of 2014, publishers released 20 new books per hour, meaning that the UK published more books per inhabitant than anywhere else in the world.

And so there’s never any guarantee, no matter how cracking a novel you’ve written, that it’s all going to take off. And when it doesn’t, I cannot tell you how gutting that feeling is – you feel personally responsible, somehow, despite the large team around you, you even start, as I have done on occasions, to doubt your ability to even write (daft now when I say it, but it can be a strong feeling for writers at times) But then you remind yourself why you love writing, pick yourself up, look at what’s going well (my novel’s going down a storm in France and is to be published in over ten languages) and try and carry right on.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I love my job, but yeah, like anything – and despite how awesome it may appear from the outside – there are no guarantees and sometimes it kicks you down. Careless comments, working straight through the night for a deadline (twice last week for me. Twice), not knowing quite how to push yourself out there any more than you already are, taking on too much ‘cos you think it might help, writing for free, watching others doing so well and being so, so genuinely chuffed for them, yet at the same time being just a wee bit sad for yourself.

Yep, it’s a rollercoaster, I’ve discovered, but, even though I never envisaged it would be quite this challenging, it’s one that I’m willing to ride.

And boy have I met some amazing people on the way, other authors especially, a whole bunch of us now who have each others’ backs and who I know I could turn to let off steam with at any time and, well, have a bloody good laugh (and a beer) with.

See, writing, authoring (if that’s a word – is now…) or any career really – it can be bloody amazing one minute and a proper downer the next, but, as the great Dolly Parton once said, if you want to see the rainbow, you’ve got to put up with the rain. Well said, Dolly well said. I’m off to fetch my umbrella… :-)

Thanks for reading :-) Join in the writing conversation  below…

Merry (bookish) Christmas :-)

Hey there!

Merry Christmas! Hope you have a cracking one with lots of rest, (nice) family time and maybe a mince pie. At our house, we’re having

A Christmas tree - made of books!
A Christmas tree – made of books!

the whole family over on the big day, but only problem is out oven’s on the blink. Cue parents-in-law having to cook the turkey for us in their oven on Christmas eve, then haul it to our place in the car…

Whatever your plans are this festive season, I hope you have a peaceful, happy time – and plenty of time to read.

Have a very merry (and bookish) Christmas. And a huge thanks for reading my blog this year :-)

Nikki x

What I’ll be reading this Christmas… #ChristmasReads

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday. This week’s fiction gives you the selection of books I’ll be hunkering down to read by the fire this Christmas (mince pie optional)

 

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The Tea Planter’s Wife – Dinah Jefferies

A dear friend of mine, this is Dinah’s unforgettable new (and Sunday Times bestselling!) novel, The Tea Planter’s Wife is a haunting, tender portrait of a woman forced to choose between her duty as a wife and her instinct as a mother…

Buy here

The Well – Catherine Chanter

51aSPnU8ciL._SX325_BO1,204,203,200_When Ruth Ardingly and her family first drive up from London in their grime-encrusted car and view The Well, they are enchanted by a jewel of a place, a farm that appears to offer everything the family are searching for. An opportunity for Ruth. An escape for Mark. A home for their grandson Lucien. A Richard & Judy book club pick.

Buy here 

The Kind Worth Killing – Peter Swanson

A critically acclaimed novel, delayed in London, Ted Severson meets a woman at the airport bar. Over cocktails they tell each other 51xhf1bAusL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_rather more than they should, and a dark plan is hatched – but are either of them being serious, could they actually go through with it and, if they did, what would be their chances of getting away with it?

Buy here 

The Humans – Matt Haig

After an ‘incident’ one wet Friday night where Professor Andrew Martin is found walking naked through the streets of Cambridge, he ihumanss not feeling quite himself. Food sickens him. Clothes confound him. Even his loving wife and teenage son are repulsive to him. He feels lost amongst a crazy alien species and hates everyone on the planet. Everyone, that is, except Newton, and he’s a dog.  What could possibly make someone change their mind about the human race. . . ? Love Matt Haig’s award-winning writing, and Humans is a fine example of it (I’m five pages in).

Buy here 

So there you go – that’s my Christmas reading list – what’s yours?

How to find your writing voice… #amwriting

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Welcome to my weekly ‘Diary of a hopeful author.’ This week it’s all about finding your own writing ‘voice’.

I come from a background of regulation, working wise, that is. Embroiled in a world of statistics and focus groups and set patterned deadlines, my mind asserts that things should be done certain way at times, to a particular timescale. And while this approach, this attitude, if you will, was very handy in the domain of marketing, turns out it’s not quite so hot on a permanent basis for creative writing.

And so to my week and my utterly paralysed writing. I am, see, in the middle of an edit. Book two of my trilogy and way before this stage I assumed I had it all figured out – plot, characters development. The lot. And yes, while these things are definitely moulded, what a great (my) editor does, I am discovering, is take what you’ve got and help fine tune it in ways you never thought possible.

With my head in a muddle, it was only when I went away for the weekend, away from not only my laptop, but from my routine, from statistical head, really, that I realised I had been applying my old marketing work ethos to my writing. I was, in effect, attempting to ‘statistically analyse’ the merits of my edit changes. It came down to this: I had lost my voice. I was forcing words and ideas into my mouth without them actually being mine. It was not genuine. It was not,  I realised as I journeyed up the M4 home, me.

So, Monday morning and I asked myself this: was I writing from my gut? The answer, when I made myself admit it, was no. It was a light-being-switched-on moment. It was not me, that voice I was trying to shoehorn into the edit, but something else, my statistical head, maybe, who knew. But no amount of economics degrees or results analysis were going to help me, because I had been censoring myself, restricting, without realising, my own voice. It was not coming from inside.

We all find this, us writers. Do you find this? We think we should, see, write perfectly straight off the bat, forcing our words into a mould because we think that’s what should be written, that’s what people expect. And the result? The work we produce when we write like this is not true, not us, instead it is someone else’s and, the irony is, that when that happens, the result ain’t good.

So what to do? Well, you can, as I did this week, get into your true writing mojo mode by asking yourself a series of simple, honest questions. Honesty is the key here…

To find your voice, ask and answer these questions:

  • What I would really like to say is…
  • What am I frightened of is…
  • It would be great fun to say…
  • If no one was reading my work, I would really write about…

We all get a confidence knock from time to time – hell knows I do – but these questions to ourselves help. You may have one answer to them, you may have several, but the single thing you’ll most certainly end up with is the true key to who you are and what you write. In short,  you’ll end up with your voice :-)

Thanks for reading :-) Join in the writing conversation  below…

So, this is the first ever short story I’ve ever read aloud… #FridayReads

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday. This week it’s a short story that came Runner Up in the Wotton Arts Festival short story comp…

A couple of years back before I not only got published, but even bagged an agent, I entered the Wotton Arts Short Story competition – and came runner-up. It was an exciting moment and, in fact, later that month I decided to throw myself into writing an idea for a thriller – that idea was for  Subject 375 and the Project trilogy.

Anyhoo, I read the story out at a short story event in Stroud last Sunday and, not only was it the first time I’d read any of my short stories aloud, it was quite a poignant, emotional thing to do given the year I won, I decided to try to get published. It brought that whole year back.

So, here you go, this Friday, my short…

“The woman who walked to school”

When Margaret turned up at the school gates, she couldn’t remember how she’d got there. She knew she had walked, always had; but no, that wasn’t it. She simply couldn’t recall the journey.

The village where she lived was a holding area for commuters, families and people with lives. On a Monday, Margaret would watch them from her lounge window and wonder what they were doing, where they were going. She always imagined they had busy, important things to do; doctors, lawyers, teachers. She would get up, flip on the kettle and check the time. She used to have a life. And now? Now it was as if the world was carrying on without her.

Grassmore Village was postcard-perfect, with the Church at its heart. Her name down on the helper rota, Margaret walked to Church with Thomas about twice a week to give the place a quick vacuum, but, with Thomas now a toddler and into everything, she found it hard to keep up, his endless investigations into hymn books, trees and dog poo, exhausting. When she saw the other mothers outside school, she imagined

Rural field with views to St. Michaels Church in the Cotswolds village of Broadway, Worcestershire, England, United Kingdom, Europe

they never had to deal with a child brandishing a stick of dog muck at them. These mothers arrived glistening, polished and utterly protected from mud and nature, their high heels un-scuffed, their fingernails shining and their hair styled. They somehow reminded Margaret of fresh candy floss – sweet, pink and popular. These women were so composed, so well managed, so…together. They were also together as a group. Every summer’s day they would converse with each other at the gates in fresh, delicate words, words so beautifully blended that if she could pop one in her mouth she imagined it would taste of the lightest lemon mouse. The group was something that Margaret felt, with her frayed skirt, greying hair and baggy t-shirt, she could never be a part of. Ironic, she thought, that this is what it had come to. It almost made her laugh. In her teens, Margaret used to be something of a popular girl at school, not too showy or tarty, but simply pretty, bright and fun. And, now here she was, at school once more, watching the other pretty, bright, fun ones and wishing she were one of them.

The morning when the Vicar first asked her to prepare the soup for the Friends of the Church lunch, Margaret thought he was joking. Do the soup with a toddler in tow? She’d end up wearing the soup, not eating it. Yet the idea, as she soon discovered, was not for her to actually eat any of the soup herself, but to prepare it at home, transport it to the Church and serve it. She wanted to say no. She wanted to tell the Vicar where he could shove his soup. Yet, saying no was hard for Margaret, and so, when she agreed to help, her shoulders dropped and her heart sank. This was her life.

And so it was that on a summer’s morning Margaret found herself entombed inside the Church, shivering and heaving a bucket-sized pot of vegetable soup into the serving area. With Thomas already playing cars on the floor, she side stepped a Matchbox Ford and promptly dropped her bag, the contents spilling to the floor. For a moment she just stood, clutching the soup. She looked at her things: a hair band, a bus ticket, broken breadsticks, nappies, biscuit crumbs, fluff from the carpet at home, tractor books. This was her, these were the items that represented her, who she was, what she was about. When she saw the other mums’ handbags, all soft leather, buckles and brand names, she knew those bags would hold items that kept each owner individual: a bit of Chanel here, a new scarf there, a mobile phone holding a lively social calendar. To Margaret, those women, they were still themselves. But, who was she?

            At the end of the soup lunch, Margaret was exhausted. She’d served and cleaned, and all with one eye on Thomas, who, in his two-year-old wisdom, had decided that the Church was his new racetrack. To her surprise, no one helped. At not one time did any of the Friends, including the Vicar, offer to assist Margaret with the serving or keep an eye on Thomas for her. By the end, her forehead was damp, her hair wild and her stomach rumbling. ‘Oh,’ the women said, smiling as they rose to leave, opening the Church doors, the July sunshine flooding in, ‘that turned out so well, so easy. We must do it again. We raised £75.’ ‘Yes,’ they all agreed, pleased. ‘What a success, let’s do this again.’ Margaret could by now only manage a weak smile and a nod, but, as she popped Thomas on the potty before she began the washing up, she watched the women bustle out and realised she had a choice. She realised that she didn’t have to do this anymore.

From that day, Margaret tried to make herself feel a little better. Like an amnesia sufferer experiencing flashbacks, from time to time she would recall snippets of her former self. She would remember how she used pay regular visits to the hairdresser, how she’d have long, candlelit baths, how her diary would be well thumbed and overused, how she’d meet her husband for drinks in a bar after work just because it was fun.

Wiping Weetabix from her sleeve, the following Monday Margaret began her usual journey to school. This week it was ‘Walk to School Week’, and she was always mildly intrigued to see the usual 4x4s and sharp tailoring replaced with weather-ready wellies and battered brollies. Margaret watched as these glamazons marched their offspring to school with their heads held high and their make up in place. If the day was sunny, out would come their floaty maxi dresses, Birkenstocks and cashmere cardigans, all the time with Margaret watching them, pulling at her t-shirt wishing she has hidden at home.

            So, it was during this week, when Margaret was scuttling to and from school, that Thomas happened to step on the hem of the dress of one of the glamorous mothers.

‘Oh, my, I’m so, so sorry. Thomas! Here, let me,’ Margaret said to the woman, reaching to wipe the dress.

‘Please, no. Thank you,’ replied the mother. Margaret stepped back. ‘I’m Helen, by the way,’ the mother said, holding out her hand. Margaret squinted in the sun and propped her hand on her brow.

‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said, ‘I didn’t ask your name.’

‘Margaret,’ said Margaret, thinking how the woman’s voice was all chocolate soufflé. Hers, she thought, was more of an upside down cake.

The two shook hands. ‘Well, nice to meet you,’ said Helen who began to walk away, then, hesitating turned back. ‘Look, Margaret, we’re having a summer party at our place in a fortnight. 16th July. Just a few drinks, barbeque, that type of thing. It’s eight until late. You should come.’

Margaret smiled; she suddenly felt light-headed.

‘Um, I think I have something with my address’, said Helen, rummaging through her bag. ‘Ah.’ She pulled out a card and handed it to Margaret. ‘This is us. Address is on there. Please do come, your other half, too. Would be simply lovely to get to know you, have a chat.’

Margaret gazed at the card with its gold lettering. ‘Oh, um, yes,’ she said, looking up. ‘Yes, I’d…well, I’d love to, thank you.’ Thomas pulled at Helen’s dress. Margaret took his hand.

Helen smiled. ‘Isn’t he a poppet? Well, nice to meet you.’

Margaret grasped Thomas’ fist. ‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘nice to meet you, too.’

            For the next week, Margaret felt as if she were floating like one of those maxi dresses in the breeze. While she couldn’t bring herself to stand and have a full conversation with the glamorous group, on Tuesday, she did manage to smile at them. On Wednesday, she looked in the mirror and reached for the hairbrush. On Thursday she popped on some blusher. And on Friday she slipped on a dress. Mercifully, Thomas had now begun nursery, so, after walk-to-school week was over, one morning a week, Margaret had a window of freedom for herself. But, first, she just had the Church vacuuming to do.

‘Ah, Maggie,’ said the Vicar when he saw her, ‘just the person.’

‘Hello.’

‘I wondered,’ he said, ‘if you could host and serve at the annual visit by the Bishop? We’re all very excited! It would only be for the evening,’ he smiled, ‘and you do do it so well.’

Margaret pulled her cardigan tight. ‘Um, which evening is it?’

‘Let me see now…Ah yes, Saturday. 16th July. That alright?’

Helen’s party. Margaret felt her heart race. ‘Um, I’ll have to check my diary. I think I may have…Well, I may something on.’

His face dropped. ‘Oh. Oh, of course. We may struggle without you though, Maggie. You’re a real shoulder to lean on.’ And with that, he left Margaret to her vacuuming.

            No energy left in her, Margaret switched off the machine and let out a breath. It sounded daft, she supposed, but was this the way it was always going to be? Was she forever to be viewed as a shoulder to lean on? A doormat? Yes, everyone could rely on her. Yes, she found it hard to say no, found it hard to walk away from people and situations when help was needed. But sometimes…sometimes she just wished it wasn’t always so. She had never asked for any help, even at the hardest of times. When her husband was ill in hospital, when her kids where sick and she was out of milk and bread, or when she was struggling to come to terms with the death of her father – she would simply cry herself to sleep. She wasn’t a shoulder to lean on; she was a mound of jelly to be squashed with one thud.

            Saturday 16th July came and went and Margaret stayed at home. She called Helen and sent her apologies, and she contacted the Vicar and said she was sick. In a way she was. While she didn’t like to lie, she knew she couldn’t face anyone. She was fed up; fed up of her life as it was. Something had to give. As the final week of the school summer term came to a close, Monday morning popped up again and Margaret closed the door to walk to school. Once at the gates and the eldest waved off, Margaret was picking up Thomas when she heard footsteps running up behind her.

‘Margaret!’ came a breathless voice.

Margaret turned. Helen stood, shoulders heaving, bag slid to her arm.

‘So glad I caught you!’ said Helen, fanning her face. ‘God, I’m so unfit. I’m so sorry you couldn’t make it to the party. How you feeling now? Better? God, heels are hell.’

Margaret tucked a hair behind her ear. ‘I’m okay, thank you. I’m better.’ She popped Thomas on to her hip.

‘Oh good,’ said Helen. ‘Look, a few of us are going for a coffee. Fancy joining us?’

‘Um…’ Margaret squeezed Thomas close. Coffee? Her?

‘Oh,’ said Helen, taking this for rejection, ‘sorry, you must be so busy. We always marvel how you’re so energetic, all that walking and so patient with the kids and Church. We’re all in awe of you.’

Margaret frowned. ‘Really?’

Helen nodded. ‘Yes. That’s why we’ve never really plucked up the nerve to talk to you. Sounds daft, doesn’t it? God, I’m sorry. It’s just you seem so,’ she searched for the word, ‘together.’

Margaret let out a laugh.

Helen laughed, too. ‘So, fancy a quick coffee? Bring Thomas?’

Margaret smiled. ‘That would be lovely.’ And so, with the morning sun on her back, Margaret, for the first time, headed off from school for coffee and a chat with the group of mums.

 

How to increase your writing productivity… #amwriting

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Welcome to my weekly ‘Diary of a hopeful author.’ This week it’s all about how taking time out can make you more productive…

I’m in the middle of an edit and I have come to a halt. Fuggy, brain a ball of cotton wool, I have stopped and wondered what on earth is up with me. Why can’t I think straight, I ask myself? I have been sitting at this laptop working non-stop, the writing was good, but now? Now it’s dried up, a well that’s empty of water.

And then I realised: my well, yep, the fact that it was empty – that was my problem. See, as writers, when we get on a working roll, we don’t often want to halt. ‘I can’t stop now,’ we say, ‘I’m in the middle of writing.’ But, I’ve discovered along the way since I got published, that to really be productive, you have to step back when times are busy. We get, we do, see, one eye on the end product. ‘I want a book at the end of this, a succesful one!’ It’s what we think, often obsess on, and that can be our down fall. We wind up loving the end product rather than the process of writing itself.

Here’s the rub: to write, we have to love writing, and to write well, we need to step back from it. That means taking ‘writer’s time’, a day here and there when we go out, somewhere new, refill our well, as it were. Because we need to look up, that blink in the sunshine to remind us about life, because it is life that we draw from to write with, to imagine from.

So, if you’re stuck like I was this week, in a fug after working so great before, step away from the laptop and get out. Breathe in some air, run, go to an art gallery, a museum, the seaside (yes, please!) – anywhere you fancy. Sure, you’ll have a moment of panic where you think you should really be working to hit that deadline, but trust me, by taking some writer’s time, you’ll come back more refreshed, more (without a doubt) productive on the page. Your mojo will return.

What more could we want, hey? Going out for a day and calling it work? Not a bad gig, this writer’s life ;-)

Happy writing :-)

Thanks for reading :-) Join in the writing conversation  below…

BREAKING: Spider has a new title & a new cover!! #Subject375

Morning!! Well, I’m posting on a Saturday, which is soooo, unlike me, but I have some (nail biting) news to share and would LOVE  to hear your opinion on it. So, here’s the BIG REVEAL….

I have a not only a NEW TITLE for my book, Spider, but a NEW COVER. Plus, on top of that it’s been chosen for the Amazon Kindle Christmas sale (whoop! Only 99p, it’s on for! Festive bargain!!)

Same book, new title & cover.
Same book, new title & cover.

I’m so excited about the new direction and very keen to hear what you think. You may be wondering why we changed the cover etc. Well, while I love Spider, the title, and lots of you guys did, too, with hindsight, the feeling was that the original title was intriguing but too ambiguous for the genre – and that with the success of the genre and authors like Charles Cummings, Tony Parsons etc, my clever, lovely publishers at Harper Collins/Mira wanted a simpler, cleaner approach to both titling and image. Makes fine sense ☺

Equally, as there is such a strong sense of place in the novel, we all wanted a cover that would reflect the setting and the tension.

On top of that, by retitling and rejacketing, we’ve put Dr Maria Martinez (God, I love her so much) at the heart of the book – she is such a strong protagonist, so getting her front and centre with book one of the Trilogy will ensure (hopefully!) readers are hooked into her journey right from the word go.

So there you have it – one book, one name change and one cracking new cover. Ooo, and only 99p on Kindle between now and Christmas (very excited about that, as, apparently, it’s a big deal to get on the Amazon xmas sale promo!! Yay!)

Would dearly love to know what you think. Am biting my knuckles in anticipation! It means so, so much to me about what you guys think of it, as, without you, my book doesn’t get read, basically, and the fact that anyone reads anything I write in the first place makes me very, very grateful indeed. I am welling up.

Ok, so, drying eyes, calming down and waiting to see what you say.

Big love, Nikki xx

PS To grab the 99p Kindle copy of Subject 375, if you fancy it (or not!) click here :-)

Bridge of Spies is as poignant today as it was in the 60s #FilmReview

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday. This week I’m reviewing the new release film Bridge of Spies (Dir: Steven Spielberg). 

I thought it would be dull, Bridge of Spies. You know those old black and white movies where time stands still and all you can hear is a wooden clock ticking in the background, daring something to happen? Yeah, that. But while there were clocks ticking, they certainty weren’t slow in what is a tense, intelligent thriller from critically-acclaimed Director, Steven Spielberg.

Set in the 1960s cold war era, Bridge of Spies centres around a Russian spy who’s caught by the CIA, and, going to trial, requires representation as per USA statute. Step forward Tom Hanks. Ah,BridgeOfSpies_060615_263x351 Tom. Rather now like a familiar grandfather, Tom plays the insurance lawyer picked to defend the Russian spy, even though he hasn’t performed criminal law in years. And that’s where the story really starts – with the relationship between Hanks’ character James Donovan and the Russian spy, Rudolf Abel played by the very talented Mark Rylance – and what a sublime job he does.

Statue still and barely moving, Rylance portrays the role of a man not resigned to his fate, but instead at ease with it and the world, whatever guise it is in. When Hanks’ Donovan asks him, upon the event of significant development, ‘Aren’t you worried?’ Abel replies, on more than one occasion, simply, ‘Would it help?’ And that really sums up not only the spy’s character, but the relationship, the friendship even, that grows between these two men.

But of course, being a thriller, a lot more happens. This film is set at a time when Germany was divided into east and west and we see that on the screen, not only the wall going up, but the direct consequences it has. It is sharp, atmospheric, a big winter soup of a movie with added kick. And it gets you thinking. Thinking of double standards, of how, when it comes down to it, governments demand certain behaviour of others, yet do not always display that same behaviour themselves. This film get you thinking about friendship and cultures and how sometimes we just need to be, well, nicer to each other, really. It may be from the 60s, but Bridge of Spies plays on themes that are just as relevant – and poignant – today.

The only downer? It’s a tad slow in the middle, could do with a scene or two ending up on the cutting floor, but still, Spielberg has made an oil painting of a film, one that, each time you peer at it looks just a little different. And it’s that difference, that perspective it gives – well, it’s weird, really, but it kind of follows you around even after you’ve left the cinema and you’re walking home in the pouring rain. Because, you see, when I got royally soaked by a passing truck and immediately went to my default ‘Aaargh!’ mode, I stopped, as, without even realizing, from the shadows of the movie I had just watched, one sentence drifted slap centre in my head: ‘Would it help?’

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Bridge of Spies is currently showing at cinemas across the UK & worldwide

 

Agree with the review or totally disagree? Comment below.

 

 

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