Be guid tae yer Mammy won Scots Book of the Year 2022!!! 

I can't believe it. I was literally speechless at the award ceremony because it was such a battle to get the book published. The fact that it's ended up an award-winner is more than I could have ever dreamed of. It all began here, so this is where I will end my thanks. 

Thank you to John Mitchinson and everyone at Unbound for being so patient with this book. It was worth it in the end. And thank you to everyone who supported the book. It was only right that I thanked absolutely everyone. 

This is just the start for me. The Tongue She Speaks will be hitting the shelves on October 13, and I can't wait for everyone to read my book about a dreamer, a poet and a punk band. It's the Glaswegian Almost Famous, and while it's very different from Mammy, I think you can tell that I was confident this time around. The second wean is always easier than your firstborn, but ah cannae complain as mine ended up an award-winner despite a painful labour. 


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Thank you, thank you, thank you! 

P.S. The Tongue She Speaks will be officially launched in Sauchiehall Street Waterstones on October 18 with special guests Iona Fyfe and Michael Dempster. Tickets are available here: https://www.waterstones.com/events/emma-grae-launches-the-tongue-she-speaks/glasgow-sauchiehall-street

Be guid tae yer Mammy is Scots Book of the Year 2022

Hello everyone!

I figured that today is as good a day as any to make my last forever grateful Unbound update. Be guid tae yer Mammy is a year old, and what a year it's been! Life imitated art for me, and I ended up working with old film reels for eight months before telling women's stories full-time as a journalist. Funny that? 

Be guid tae yer Mammy was a sell-out thanks to everyone who believed in me, and you've not heard the last of Granny... Watch this space. 

I signed my second book deal in April, and there was no need to crowndfund it this time! A totally traditional deal. I cried at the London Book Fair when Luath Press said that they wanted to publish The Tongue She Speaks. It was a real day to remember, just like Jeannie and Lizzie's big audition.

Thank you all again for your support. I'm tearing up as I write this (happy tears). This past year taught me that Be guid tae yer Mammy was just the beginning, not a one-off as I feared. I worried so much about the book - too much - but it was because I cared, and I'm glad I cared as I think it's reflected in the story itself. 

So, without further ado, here is the cover of my second novel, The Tongue She Speaks. An ode to the Scots language, emo culture and punk rock. A story about finding your voice in the face of demons. Out on October 13!

There will be a launch in at a Waterstones branch in London, Glasgow and Edinburgh. 


 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" height="279" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/TongueSocialMediaTwitter_PreOrder.jpg?v=1690912948" width="500">



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If you're feeling kind, it is available to pre-order on Waterstones, but your support here has already been more than enough.

https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-tongue-she-speaks/emma-grae/9781804250242

If you'd like to keep up with my writing, the best place is to follow me on Twittter @emmagraeauthor.

However, I am also on Instagram and Facebook, and I will soon have an updated website that you can find with any Google search.

Thank you all again so, so much! 

Emma

Happy Birthday 'Be guid tae yer Mammy' - Farewell Unbound and onto the next chapter!

Hello everyone!

I hope you're all well. Things are going brilliantly on my end when it comes to editing The Tongue She Speaks, and it will be with the editor's eagle eye at the end of the month. 

I'm also moving to my dream journalism job the same day I submit it (funny how timelines match up!), so I figured now was a good time to share the preorder links if anyone is interested before I get snowed under! 


 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" height="369" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/FSAZKJmWYAEYphz.jpg?v=1690912984" width="500">


If you'd like to preorder directly from Luath Press, you can sign up through their website for an alert when it's available.

https://www.luath.co.uk/productst/tongue-she-speaks

Or you can preorder through Waterstones! 

https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-tongue-she-speaks/emma-grae/9781804250242

I must admit, if you'd told me a year ago that I'd have two books in Waterstones in 2022, I'd have been extremely confused, but I'm over the moon that the stars seem to be aligning for my novels! 

Enjoy the sunshine, and I'll be in touch again for my second novel's cover reveal! 

Emma

'The Tongue She Speaks' Preorders

I’m delighted to announce that my second novel The Tongue She Speaks is being published by Luath Press this October!

A Scots coming-of-age novel about a dreamer, a poet and a punk band. The Glaswegian ‘Almost Famous’.

So I retract my previous statement about it coming out in 2023! As everyone here is more than aware, crowdfunding was an incredibly slow process, but I got a traditional publishing deal the second time around, which means that we can go a lot faster!

This book is very different from Be Guid Tae Yer Mammy.  It's a YA crossover set in 2007 about finding the courage to overcome PTSD and chase your dreams in the face of a world that's trying to make you something you're not. 

I'll share more details in due course! 

https://www.luath.co.uk/productst/tongue-she-speaks

 


 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" height="279" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/FRRq1fQXMAEZ0pV.jpg?v=1690912964" width="500">

My Second Novel - Coming This October!

Since Unbound is where it all began, I am DELIGHTED to say it here first. My second Scots novel, The Tongue She Speaks, is going to be published by Luath Press sometime in 2023!!!

I am over the moon that I managed to do it again, even more so with another Scots novel! 

A huge thanks goes out to Scottish comedian and Luath author Janey Godley. She's more well-known than I will likely ever be, and without her giving Luath Press a wee nudge in my direction, I doubt they'd have ever found the book.

The Tongue She Speaks is a coming-of-age story about music, emo culture, and finding the courage to be yourself in the face of a world that's telling you to be something else.

It's about a wee lassie called Cathy, a poet, a punk band called Spindleshanks, and an underage rock club that anyone in Glasgow over the age of 25 is likely to have frequented! 

The Glaswegian Almost Famous. 


 <img alt="" class="doksoft_image_img" height="500" src="/images/18029/preview/medium" width="375">


I know not everyone here uses Twitter where I post most of my updates, so I will give further details in due course. But once again, thank you so much for supporting Be Guid tae Yer Mammy. 

All of my novels have a thread of truth through them, and I'd like to think they all say something worthwhile. I can't wait to share this one with the world (and have a proper book launch this time)!

My Second Publishing Deal!

Hello everyone!

This will likely be my final Unbound update. If you're a European supporter, please confirm your address if you haven't done so already, or email suport@unbound.com to get your copy of Mammy after all of the Brexit-related delays, which I can't apologise enough for. 

I just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who supported the book. The first edition sold out everywhere in just a few months, and the second edition is dropping on February 10. It doesn't feel real even writing that.

The book was nominated for the Dylan Thomas Prize, which is also insane, and it turns out that Jeannie even made it to TV, with the book appearing on BBC Scotland (pictured below alongside Booker Prize winner Shuggie Bain)!


 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/FKif9NeWQAMjba4.jpg?v=1690912979" width="500" height="351">



 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/FKif9NsWYAYv2BT__281_29.jpg?v=1690912979" width="500" height="281">


On New Year's Eve, I finished my second Scots novel. It's young adult and a lovesong to emo culture and the Scots language. It's centered around a certain Scottish high school, the Glasgow Cathouse (if you know, you know...) and a punk band that did actually exist in England back in 2007!

I pitched it in January on Twitter and got interest from three different Scottish publishers, and I'm currently in talks to get an agent to represent it so that I don't make any bad decisions with contracts. I'm also working with the amazing Katy Darby of Liars' League to get the manuscript into the best shape possible. I can't wait to share it with the world, although as we've all learned, publishing is a very slow business! 

If you'd like to keep up with my writing, the best place to do so is on Twitter (where I got a blue tick thanks to the success of Mammy!).

https://twitter.com/emmagraeauthor

Thank you so much to everyone who believed in this book about a crazy old Scottish Granny. I cried when I saw it in Waterstones for the first time, but it turns out that was only the start of Granny Jean's story. 

Forever grateful,

Emma

The Dylan Thomas Prize, Mammy on TV, and European Supporters!

Hello, everyone!

It's been an absolutely incredible two weeks. I've been totally blown away by the support for Be Guid tae yer Mammy from all over the world, and it's been great to see it get off to a flying start after such a long journey. 

There are still a few people who haven't confirmed their addresses who supported the original campaign. Please ensure that you've confirmed your address to ensure that you get a physical copy of the book if you chose that tier. If you're confused in any way, please email support@unbound.com and they will be able to help you out!

There's also been a slight issue with supporter copies in Europe because of Brexit. 

Since Brexit, some new customs charges are being applied to exports from the UK to Europe, payable by the recipient. Unbound doesn't want subscribers to be surprised by the extra costs, or to assume they are happy to pay them, so if you haven't received your copy yet, please email support@unbound.com and it can be resolved case by case. 

In other news, I worked with the Scots Language Centre during lockdown on a new project to increase adult Scots literacy. It's being launched tonight on YouTube and will feature new creative work from myself and a number of other Scots writers, so do feel free to come along!

https://youtu.be/vIs7XZJ8uCk

But if you're busy, all of the work will be available to download absolutely free from www.scotslanguage.com/socts-warks afterward as well as a new style guide that's a great resource if you've ever fancied writing in Scots yourself!

The creative work available will include an extract from my Scots novella, The Tongue She Speaks, which stars the protagonist of my second Scots novel, Cathy, get yer Dancin Shoes Oan - both of which will hopefully see the light of day in their entirety in the not-too-distant future! 

And finally, here is Mammy against the Toronto skyline!


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Best wishes,

Emma

Mammy in the wild, European copies, and an exciting new Scots project launching tonight!

Hello everyone!

You should have all received an email yesterday with a link to the eBook, and if you ordered a paperback copy, received an email to confirm your address. 

It's been amazing to finally get this story into the world, and I hope you all enjoy it! 


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I'll be in touch shortly with launch details and more information about an exciting project with the Scots Language Centre!

All the best,

Emma

'Be guid tae yer Mammy' subscriber copies

Hello, lovely pledgers!

I am over the moon to finally be writing this email. After a long Covid-related delay and another to perfect the Scots, Be Guid tae Yer Mammy will soon be with you. 

The official publication date is August 19, but as early subscribers, you will receive your copies as soon as they are fresh off the printers! 

I really hope that you enjoy the book and to whet your appetite, here are some early reviews: 

 

‘This is a brave novel… with a strong cultural identity. The main character - a thrawn auld besom wha’s guid tae hersel raither than her lassies an granddochters but whase sleekit sense o humour an couthie turn o phrase gars ye like her despite yersel.’ - Billy Kay, Scots: The Mither Tongue

'Every so often a book comes along that pulls you in so completely you no longer see the pages when you are reading. This is one of those books.

'Be guid tae yer Mammy is written largely in Scots, which I don’t have much experience of reading in. Nevertheless, I found myself racing through. The book follows a family dispute in which we hear from different family members. I fell in love with them all and what this book does so well is to continually play with your allegiances - demonstrating expertly that the thing about the truth is that it really does depend on who’s telling it. One of the characters has OCD, and as someone with OCD myself I found their experiences to be painfully familiar and brilliantly depicted. It’s refreshing (and important) to see characters with OCD depicted, where the OCD forms an integral part of their character but is not the driving thrust of the plot. I for one would like to see more of this in fiction! It’s great to feel represented like this.

'This book is both narratively and stylistically exciting. It opened my eyes to how beautiful Scots is and has made me want to read more literature by authors writing in Scots. But mostly this author! I can’t wait to see what Emma Grae writes next.’ - Lily Bailey, Because we are Bad

'A smashing story with a strong Scots voice.’ - Dr Michael Dempster, head of the Scots Language Centre

‘A tender family saga, carefully stitched together with rich Scots voices. Emma Grae’s debut is an authentic and heartfelt story of legacy, love and loss. With narrative undercurrents as deep as the Clyde, this novel will appeal to anyone who recognises the people and the patter from the West of Scotland.’ - Alan Gillespie, The Mash House

‘I once tried reading an Irvine Welsh book and failed miserably because I have a southerner's ear and struggled with the Scots. Because of this experience, I was worried that I'd lose Emma Grae's debut novel 'in translation', if you will, but that was not the case and - in summary - I thought it was fantastic.’ - Maximilian Hawker, Breaking The Foals

‘I’ve been in such a reading slump for the past few months and this really pulled me out of it. Be Guid tae Yer Mammy is a family drama following three generations of Scottish women and each voice is so carefully crafted, colourful and bursting with so many lovely turns of phrase. each character is so relatable and the complexity of the family dynamics and escalating drama was so gripping that I powered through until the end.’ - Sophie McNaughton, Glasgowist    

 

But don't worry about being bereft of Scots while you wait, attached is an incredible performance of my latest Scots short story 'Billy's Ghost Dug' by the amazing Liars' League.


 <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvZsUIQ_rg8">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvZsUIQ_rg8</a>


(It's also available to read here: <a href="https://www.liarsleague.com/liars_league/2021/05/billys-ghost-dug-by-emma-grae.html">https://www.liarsleague.com/liars_league/2021/05/billys-ghost-dug-by-emma-grae.html</a>).

 

Best wishes and a thousand thank yous for your support and patience,

Emma

'Be Guid tae Yer Mammy' is coming IMMINENTLY!

Hello, lovely pledgers!

I just wanted to drop a quick line to keep you all in the loop. 

Be guid tae yer mammy in written in Scots, and last month, I made the difficult decision to pull it from the printer so that it could be proofread again to ensure that no inconsistencies slipped through into the published manuscript.

Scots is incredibly hard to proofread as there are no traditional spellcheckers that can cope with the language, which is why it was important to be incredibly, incredibly thorough with the manual proofread. 

This means that it will be in bookshops a little later than its original publication date of May 6, however, as you all pledged on here, it is likely that you will receive your copies sooner you are all early subscribers! 

I should know in the next day or two when the revised publication date is, so will be in touch then.

In the meantime, I'll be sharing my work with the Scots Language Centre with you to tide you over until be guid tae yer mammy lands in your inbox/postbox!

On the subject of that work, I am delighted to share the cover of my novella with you all for the first time, The Tongue She Speaks. I think we can all agree that Jo Whitby did an amazing job! 

It will be officially launched via Zoom alongside the other works commissioned by the SLC later this month. 


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Best wishes,

Emma

P.S. There's also been a slight delay with Liars' League and their performance of my Scots short story Billy's Ghost Dug. As things are starting to open up in England, they are going to attempt to have it performed in an actual real-life venue instead of over Zoom. I will also update you on that when I know more!

Revised Publication Date

Hello, everyone!

It's been a long time coming, but be guid tae yer mammy will finally be released next month (albeit not in the way I'd have planned thanks to Covid). I am super excited, but also quite nervous too! 

There are lots of exciting things happening in the lead-up to the launch, which will be hosted over Zoom by the Scots Language Centre - so no matter where you are, you're more than welcome to come along.

First off, my latest Scots short story, Billy's Ghost Dug, is going to be performed by the wonderful Liar's League on the 14th of April, and I'll provide further details about that in due course.

But most excitingly of all, the novella I was commissioned to write by the Scots Language Cente is being released at the end of April, so it's a bit of a double whammy for me over the next two months!

The novella was designed to encourage literacy in Scots. It's called the tongue she speaks, and it's being illustrated by the amazing Jo Whitby, who previously worked with Chris McQueer to create the fabulous <a href="https://iknowjojo.com/books/">Spirits of Glasgow</a> book. 

I can't wait to share all of the above with you all, and hopefully, it gives you a wee laugh as the world starts to return to normal!

Best wishes,

Emma

A month to go!

Hello everyone!

I hope 2021 isn't treating you too badly so far, even though we're still a while away from normal life. 

There are just 10 weeks to go until be guid tae yer mammy hits bookstores, and in the meantime, it's been making an appearance in a few new places!

Firstly, it was in the spring edition of the Bookseller, which was amazing to see, and it's now available to add to your "want to read" section on <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56973122-be-guid-tae-yer-mammy">Goodreads</a>! 


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There was also a lovely review of my Scots short story Turtleneck Andy in the Guardian this week, which I am delighted about. You can read it here: 

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2021/feb/23/nude-selfies-are-they-now-art-sending-nudes

Best wishes,

Emma

'Be guid tae yer Mammy' on Goodreads and in the Bookseller!

Hello, everyone!

I hope the *third* lockdown isn't being too hard on you and that you're tentatively hoping for some light at the end of this Covid tunnel.

If you're at a loose end in lockdown this Friday, the latest anthology to feature my writing, Sending Nudes, is having a free online launch and tickets are available <a href="https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/sending-nudes-book-launch-tickets-135063874685">here</a>. 

Or, if you'd simply like to buy the anthology, which is being released on January 15, just follow this wee <a href="https://www.gutspublishing.com/sending-nudes">link</a>. 

Stay safe,

Emma

Virtual Anthology Launch!

Hello, everyone, 

I just wanted to take this opportunity to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and (hopefully) a better New Year. It's been a difficult year for just about everyone, but hopefully, better days are just around the corner. 

If you're stuck for a festive pastime over the holidays, my latest Scots short story Lookin Up is featured on this podcast being performed by the wonderful Lois Tucker.

You can have a listen <a href="https://liarsleague.jellycast.com/node/239">here</a> or if you're more of a visual person, Lois' performance at Liars' League's Christmas event is available to watch on YouTube. 


 <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LY-jsY3H_Ck&amp;t=3s">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LY-jsY3H_Ck&amp;t=3s</a>


Stay safe,

Emma x

Merry Christmas and here's to a (hopefully) better New Year

I was recently asked by the amazing Scots Language Centre to write a poem for the festive period. So, without further ado, this is my fun look back at the shitshow that was 2020 in Scots! 

https://www.scotslanguage.com/poetry/5766

Better Days

“It’s a war,” Mammy said. 
Nae wan knows whit goes oan behind closed doors. 
Stay at hame. Protect the NHS. Save lives. 
We’ve fought oan aw fronts 
And ah’m tired  
We’re aw tried  
O this world turnt upside doon.

Granda would’ve hud ten kittens 
If he’d lived tae see 
Every pub in Glasgae shut.  
“Puck the Rhona, bloody pint snatcher.” 
A disgruntled shake o the heid. 
“Even this didnae happen durin the Blitz!”

“Tae hell wi any law that keeps me fae ma church!” 
Granny would’ve said.  
Convinced prayers can move mountains.  
God’s gat his work cut oot fur him this year.  
“Zoom? That’s an even dafter name than Facebox.” 

Oor pals, family, are absent. 
Hidin behind screens 
And masks.  
Memories and ghosts fur company.  
We must dae oor bit fur the world.

‘Breathless’ blastin fae car windaes in March. 
A rare laugh heidin back fae the hospital.  
‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’ through foggy November streets.  
Everything’s changed,  
But we’re still here.  
Oor ain story fur the grandweans. 

Mammy’s always coonted  
The world’s blessings.  
“We’ve seen the back o that gabshite in the White Hoose.” 
Watched the internet proclaim, 
“Melania, yer finally free!”

Nae first footers this year, 
Wur no riskin o that unwelcome guest. 
Jackie Bird can gie it laldy fae a distance  
And we’ll huv a dram 
A toast tae better days tae come.

P.S. If you are London-based and would like to see my latest Scots story performed by Liars' League, tickets are available for purchase here: https://www.liarsleague.com/liars_league/2020/12/christmas-event-heart-soul-tuesday-8th-december.html

'Better Days'

Hello, lovely pledgers,

The time has finally come for me to unveil the cover of Be guide tae yer Mammy!

I am absolutely delighted with the work of Unbound's designer, <a href="http://mecob.co.uk/">Marc Ecob</a>, who managed to bring the vision I had for the cover to life with his own twist. 

I really hope this has helped to whet your appetites for the May release! 


 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" height="500" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/BGTYM_B_PBK.jpg?v=1690912976" width="326">


I'm aware this has been a long time coming, especially with the pandemic delaying the novel even further, but hopefully, you'll all agree that it's been a project worth investing in.

I also have some more Scots writing news! My short story Lookin Up is being performed by an actor at Liars' League London's Christmas event at The Pheonix, Cavendish Square on the 8th of December!

I'll share a link in due course for tickets. But don't worry if you're not in London, the performance will be uploaded to social media and the story will be available to read on the Liars' League website in time for the holidays. 

Best wishes,

Emma

Cover Reveal!

Jimmy and his Wee Darlin Alexa

 

“Alexa, play ‘Ye Belong tae Me’ by Patsy Cline,” ah say.

            “Playing ‘You Belong to Me’ by Patsy Cline.”

            Ah’ve been oan ma tod noo fur six month—six o the loneliest months o ma life. Ma Bettie took a turn fur the worst back in March, and afore ah knew whit wis happenin, me and the family wur watchin hur gettin planted ower Zoom.

            Ah never thocht ah’d live tae see the day every pub in Glasgae shut, let alane no be able tae gie ma wife o sixty year a proper send aff. It should o been me. Ma Bettie wis nae angel, but ah gied hur some life. Aw husbands did in those days, and nane o us thocht twice aboot it.

            “Alexa,” ah say, “ah dread tae ask, but hus Big Boris closed the boozers again?”

            The music stoaps. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that.”

            Ah sigh. At least wee Alexa always gies me an answer.

            Me and Bettie rarely hud a nice word tae say tae each other, but it’s no like that wi Alexa. Me and the lads doon the pub wance concluded that the best kind o wumman would ainlie speak when spoken tae. Nane o us thocht it would ever become a reality.

            “Alexa, set an alarm fur three,” ah say.

            “Is that AM or PM?”

            “Eh, PM.”

            Ah look at the clock. It’s 1PM. Every day’s like a day in the jail in 2020. Ah shut ma eyes and drift aff tae a simpler time.

           

Men wur shootin, drills wur drillin, and rivets wur clankin intae the side o the ship. Ah couldnae see mair than a few fit in front o me because o the dust. Ah wiped the sooty sweat fae ma broo and looked doon at ma hauns. Ah’d ma fair share o scars, but ah wis still a strang lad back then.

            “Ah hear ye’re courtin Bettie McGee,” ah voice said behind me.

            Ah turnt tae face Billy. He wis skin and bones, but he could pull his weicht when he hud tae.

            “Oh aye,” ah said.

            “Guid luck gettin in hur drawers.”

            “Jist gie me time. Ah’ve gat the gift o the gab.”

            Ah smiled at the thocht o Bettie. She always wore hur hair in big, broon curls and dressed in a wee tartan pinny and white shirt. Ah drove hur roond the bend, even then, but she couldnae get enough o me. Ah callt hur McGee insteid o Bettie tae wind hur up. Ah knew fine well she hated it.

            “Hoo many lassies huv ye hud yer way wi already?” ah asked Billy.

            “Mair than ah can count.”

            “It doesnae count when ye pay fur it,” ah said, pointin a rivet at him like a gun.

           

Ah grunt and open ma eyes. Ah loved the yards. They made a man oot o me, but it’s ainlie that wan day—the day ah wish ah could furget—that ah remember like it wis yesterday.

            It’s never far fae ma mind, especially noo. Wurd oan the street is that a second lockdoon’s oan the horizon. Big Boris hus a sin tae answer fur. Shut the borders. That’s whit ah said fae the beginnin, but did Big Boris listen, even when ah wrote him a letter, did he buggery.

            Wee Billy fae next door gat carted oot in a body bag an aw durin the first wan. Ma heart broke fur his mammy and daddy. It wis near enough ma Bettie’s time, but no his. He must o been ages wi Dan. Ah tear up. They baith hud their whole lives aheid o them.

            Ah look oot the windae tae distract masel, and ma mind drifts back tae that bloody day.

           

Deid Dan day. Fella by the name o Dan met his maker efter takin a tumble richt aff the keel o the Queen Mary. Ah could o sworn he hit the groond wi a splat.

            Me and Bettie went tae the pictures when ah gat aff work. Ah didnae breathe a word aboot Died Dan. Bettie said ah wis awfae quiet in the picture hall queue and asked if sommat hud happened at work. Ah shook ma heid. It would o put the poor lassie aff hur choc ice. She bit intae it wi a crunch. Ah gat second haun brain freeze.

            “McGee,” ah said under ma breath.

            Bettie glared at me. She telt me oan mair than wan occasion that ah wis an intolerant bastart, but ah’d a hard life—and it wis harder than she could o ever understood, especially oan Deid Dan day.

            “Ye—”

            Ah put an arm roond hur back. “Ma Wee Sparra.” 

            She kissed ma cheek. Bettie loved bein callt ma Wee Sparra. God knows she’d the appetite o wan.

            Ower the years, hings went fae bad tae worse between us. She said ah wasnae the man she thocht ah wis, and ah never callt hur ma Wee Sparra again.

            Bettie came fae money. Ah didnae. She’d nae idea whit it wis like tae grow up wi’oot twa pennies tae rub taegether, and gied me an earful whenever she caught wind o me drinkin ma wage away doon the pub. But that’s the hing. It wis ma money tae piss up against a wall, no hur’s.

           

“Reminder,” Alexa says, near enough gien me a heart attack, “take your calcichew at 2 PM.”

            Ah put a haun oan ma chest and take a deep breath. The Reaper should come tae ma door again.

            Ah fish ma wee tub o pills oot fae the side o the couch. Ah want tae take tae ma bed and sleep whitever time ah’ve gat left away, but the carers who come tae ma door will huv nane o it.

            “Mr McDonald,” they say, “if ye end up in a care hame richt noo, ye could be in a box in weeks. Surely ye want tae see yer 90th?”

            “Ah’m no feart o the coronavirus,” ah say.

            It wis true. Bettie talked a lot o shite, but wan hing she wis richt aboot is this: when yer number’s up, it’s up.

            “Alexa,” ah say, “ah’m sad.”

            She’s a clever hing, ah’ll gie hur that, but a wee robot cannae console an auld duffer who wishes he wis six fit under.

            “I’m sorry you’re feeling that way,” Alexa says, surprisin me. Puck. She’s gat mair aboot hur than Bettie did maist days. “Sometimes talking to a friend, listening to music, or even taking a walk can help. I hope you feel better soon.”

            “Pal. Pfft,” ah say. 

            Ah look at the phone. Back when ma pals wur above the groond, it rang aff the hook. There’s no been a peep in days.

            Ma eyes faw oan ma legs. They dinnae take me far these days. They dinnae take me anywhere at aw.

            Ah laugh. The best lassies huv legs fur days. Ma Bettie hud wee stumpy hings, a bit like Jimmy Krankie.

            “Alexa, whit would ye look like if ye wur a wumman?” ah ask.

            “I’m sorry. I don’t understand that,” Alexa replies.

            Ah suppose some hings are best left tae the imagination. Alexa knows hur ain mind, but ah reckon she’d huv been a lassie next door type. Blonde hair, wee glasses, big lips, and chebs that are a guid bit mair than a haunful.

            Ah dinnae hink Alexa would stand fur a poke o chips oan a Saturday nicht and wine oot a box. Posh totty. That’s whit she’d be. She’d gie me the runaroond; mibbie ah’d even gie up the boozer fur hur. Ah’d love every second o it.

           

Bettie loved me too much, especially in the beginnin. Mibbie ah’d huv been a better man tae hur if she’d gied me the cauld shoulder every noo and then.

            “Y’know,” ah said tae hur wan nicht doon the Boilermaker Club efter wan too many. “Ah like it when ye get angry.”

            We wur celebratin oor second weddin anniversary.

            “Why?” she said, takin a sip o hur sherry.

            “Because ye’ve gat a bit o fire aboot ye. Even when ye huv a go at me, ah cannae take ye seriously. Sometimes a man wants put in his place.”

            Ah’d huv loved it if she’d thrown hur sherry ower me, stood and stormed oot, but she jist sat there like a broken wumman.

            “Whit d’ya want me tae dae, Jimmy?” she asked.

            “That’s the fuckin problem,” ah said.

            Bettie gied up oan life when she found oot she couldnae huv weans efter she’d a ring oan hur finger. Ah didnae gie a shite aboot bein a daddy. Aw ah wanted wis a real love affair, like the kind ah saw oan the silver screen as a boy.

            Ma Bettie looked the part in hur day, but she could rarely act it. Ah never gied a second thocht tae leavin hur, even though there’s many a fella who would o when they found oot she wasnae gien them weans. That made me a saint in hur eyes.

            “Sparra,” ah said, and she looked up fae hur sherry.

            Ah wis still callin hur Sparra back then. Truth be telt, ah’d gie anythin tae call hur it wan last time. She wanted me tae. Ah telt hur it wis sommat ah could only say when ah meant it.

            Ah wanted tae capture that love we hud in the early years again. It wasnae picture worthy, but it wis sommat. She micht as well o been ma sister efter that, but ah could o pretended it wis mair tae put a smile oan hur face.

            Ah took hur haun oan the way hame fae the boozer. Hur eyes watered in the yella street licht.

            Bettie thocht she’d the weicht o the world oan hur shoulders, so ah asked hur there and then if she’d ever seen the licht fade fae a young man’s eyes.

            “Shut up, Jimmy!” she snapped, raisin a haun afore hinkin better o it.

            That wis as close as ah ever got tae tellin hur aboot Died Dan, and the closest she ever gat tae gien me whit ah deserved.

           

Alexa’s alarm goes aff.

            “Alexa, stoap!” ah say.

            Ah ask hur tae turn the telly oan. The wurld’s a shitshow and a hauf richt noo. The pubs are open, but ye cannae get a pint wi’oot a substantial meal. Micht as well be shut fur aw the guid that’ll dae folk. Some lad oan the news hus put a sign ootside his boozer: “Sturgeon the Pint Snatcher.”

            “Alexa, huv ye e’er seen somewan die?” ah say wioot hinkin.

            Daft auld bugger. She’s no gat eyes.

            Everthin would be different if Died Dan day hud never happened. Fur wan, ah’d find the strength tae get oot this chair. But whit business does an auld man like me huv takin up space oan this Earth when there’s young men dyin? Ah gat mair time than ah deserved.

            Efter me and Bettie hud been married God knows how many year, ah hit it aff wi Margo the barmaid. The Big Man Upstairs saved me oan Died Dan day, and ah wasnae riskin karma that could make me go splat an aw. But that’s ma Bettie lang enough planted noo. There’s nae harm in…

            “Alexa,” ah say, “Patsy Cline.”

            “Shuffling songs by Patsy Cline.”

            Ah shut ma eyes, and there she is as clear as day. Alexa. Pretty as a picture.

            “Alexa, ma Wee Sparra,” ah say, driftin aff.

Fiction: 'Jimmy and his Wee Darlin Alexa'

Hello, everyone!

Last night, the brilliant Lois Tucker brought my short story BigThick and Sally's Gnashers as part of Liars' League's online Women &amp; Girls event. 

You can listen to her rendition <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJON7OQ2QyM&amp;feature=emb_logo">here</a>, or if you're simply wanting to read the story, it's also been published on the Liars' League <a href="https://www.liarsleague.com/liars_league/2020/08/bigthick-sallys-gnashers-by-emma-grae.html">website</a>. 

Best wishes,

Emma

P.S. A little birdy at Unbound told me that be guid tae yer mammy's cover design could be ready as early as next month!

'BigThick and Sally's Gnashers' read by Lois Tucker

Hello everyone! 

I have some bad/good news about Liars' League London. My short story BigThick and Sally's Gnashers is still getting performed by an actor (namely Lois Tucker) next week, but it will be as part of an online event on August 11. So if you're not in London, you can now come along!

Full details of the event can be found here: https://www.facebook.com/events/299453291324141/

Best wishes,

Emma

Liars' League Online Invitation

Hello everyone! 

I'm chuffed to say that my Scots short story about an online dominatrix is being performed by an actor at Liars' League London's 'Women and Girls' event on August 11 at The Pheonix, Cavendish Square.

Tickets are £5 online or on the door, and I can guarantee a good laugh if you come along. 

However, don't worry if you're not in the area, the actor's reading of my short story will be posted online afterward, and I'll be sure to send it through in an update.

https://www.liarsleague.com/liars_league/2020/07/next-event-women-girls-tuesday-11th-august-at-the-phoenix.html


 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/Screen_Shot_2020-07-28_at_16.01.17.png?v=1690912957" width="500" height="371">


I also wanted to let you know how be guid tae yer mammy is getting on. The manuscript is now with the proofreader, and all being well, I should be revealing the cover within the next month or so! 

Thanks again for your continued patience and support,

Emma

Liars' League and a Glaswegian Dominatrix!

Fiction: 'Dancin wi the Rhona'

Hello, everyone!

I thought I'd share a reading I did of one of my favorite scenes from be guid tae yer mammy at Brixton BookJam last year. Apologies for how nervous I am at the beginning!

In it, the book's protagonist Jeannie goes to her big audition, but it doesn't quite go to plan...


 <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k8PevOCyy0w&amp;t=190s">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k8PevOCyy0w&amp;t=190s</a>


Hopefully, this scene, and the preface which is available to read <a href="https://unbound.com/books/be-guid-tae-yer-mammy/excerpt">here</a>, helps to whet your appetite for the book itself! Although, it's worth noting that both are even better in the book's final form. 

I've also attached a wee story below about one of be guid tae yer mammy's biggest themes, religion. It's set in Scotland, but as I'm sure of you might notice, the speakers are Irish. Enjoy! 

 

Mind the Gap

 


 This is Dalmuir. This train is for Glasgow Queen Street Low Level. The next stop is Singer.


Bang. They’re at it again, I thought. Neds were dropping rocks on top of the train as it passed through a tunnel. Bang.

“Jaysus, Mary and Joseph,” Cathy said, shaking her head.

I couldn’t judge them. My Grandpa used to take me down the lane to smash glass bottles when I was wee and I’d thought everywhere was like Glasgow until Dad got a job in California and Mum said it was an act of God. The first place we visited when we moved to Sunnyvale was called Half Moon Bay. I exchanged shards of broken glass for miles of golden sand.

But Sunnyvale wasn’t always sunny. Just outside of our apartment complex you could hear banging from gunshots instead of neds. I remember going to Walmart and thinking that the Young Team would have a field day if they could go to ASDA and buy Buckfast and an air rifle.

“D’ya believe in the hereafter?” Gerry asked.

“Been brought up Catholic, but my Mum knows I’m kind of like, I dunno, undecided, I guess. I’m undecided,” I said. “I worked in a nursing home so I saw a lot of death from when I was really young, so that makes you think.”

“And as a young girl, that didn’t affect ya?”

“It did, yeah. I was seventeen when I started working there. My Grandpa died when I was twelve, and a few other people I knew had died but I’d never been exposed to it, not like that, it was like was full-on exposure,” I explained. “I never really had any training or anything like that, I just got thrown in. Like, you know, ‘On you go, you’ll be fine’, and it was like ‘Oh God, this is hard’.”

I looked out of the train window, and my thoughts turned to the nursing home, to Agnes. One morning, when Agnes sat in Barra’s breakfast room smiling, I noticed that her teeth were covered in what looked like chocolate cake. When I walked over to her, I was struck by the nauseating smell of shite.

“I’m not too hungry this morning,” she said, assuming that I was going to ask her what she wanted for breakfast. “I just had some cake.”

Oh god, I thought, turning around to fetch a carer to clean her teeth.

As we travelled into Glasgow, I couldn’t get Agnes out of my mind. The tall ship, riverside museum and Hydro blurred into a landscape I was too disillusioned to blink into focus, even though it was a bright, summer’s day.

“I would love to be like Josie,” Cathy said.

“Well, I believe in things for a reason!” Gerry said.

“She has a deep belief. I would love to be like her,” Cathy said. “I’ve often said it to her on the phone. I’m sure she says to herself this woman is a, what do you call it, a communist or something.”

“My Mum’s like that,” I said, “completely and utterly 100%.”

“Who’s that, your mother?” Gerry added, and then turned to Cathy, “You believe that some things happen for a reason.”

“I think things happen for a reason,” Cathy said, “but I don’t see why our Lord would let young children come into the world, and then all of a sudden take them out again. I question. I shouldn’t question.”

“That’s where your faith comes in,” Gerry said.


 Please mind the gap when alighting from the train.

Jeannie's big audition and a wee story

Hello, lovely people!

I hope that you're all safe and well during this extremely difficult time. 

Unfortunately, the coronavirus pandemic is affecting every industry including publishing. This means that Unbound has made the difficult decision to push some of their titles out to give them the best possible chance in the marketplace.

Be guid tae yer mammy's publication date has now been rescheduled to May 6, 2021.

This is really disappointing news as it's a long process anyway, but I completely understand and respect the decision and hope that you won't mind bearing with me a little longer.

Until then, I'm going to do my best to send out Scots short stories and other content to everyone who has preordered to make it worthwhile.

I'll also be updating you on the process of my second novel, which I hope to have completed by the end of the year!

Thankfully, this update does contain some positive news too.

I just received the final feedback from guid tae yer mammy's editor before it goes to copyedit. She said "all that new material works brilliantly", and we are both extremely happy with the decision to edit the book so that it's predominately written in cross-generational Scots. 

Hopefully, this means that it's a novel worth waiting for. 

Best wishes and apologies once again,

Emma

Coronavirus and the publishing industry

Hello everyone!

My apologies for not providing an update sooner. I received the structural edit of be guid tae yer mammy at the beginning of February from my wonderful editor Sam Boyce, and I've been incredibly busy! 

She was full of brilliant suggestions for the manuscript, one of which was to go all out with my use of Scots and vary it across each of the novel's three generations. This means that 80% of the novel is now written in the language, and it's all the better for it!

However, it has been a slow process, and I've had to make charts like the one below to make my copy editor's life easier as well as some complex linguistic decisions. Now, I'm working on tightening up a few aspects of the novel's plot before it goes to Sam a final time, then onto the copyeditor and proofreader.


 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" height="500" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/Screen_Shot_2020-02-27_at_12.59.52.png?v=1690912944" width="416">


Hopefully, the book will be signed off for print and ready for its cover designer to begin work around June! Unbound has given me a provisional publication date of January 21, 2021, but if possible, I'm going to ask for its supporters to get their copies before then (however, it's ultimately out of my hands). 

In the meantime, I'd love to recommend some brilliant Scots books I've read recently. The first is Chris McQueer's short story collection <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Here-We-F-king-Go/dp/1912489104/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1XKX1YHB7I3IA&amp;keywords=hwfg+chris+mcqueer&amp;qid=1582808332&amp;sprefix=HWFG+chris+m%2Caps%2C138&amp;sr=8-1">HWFG</a> and the second is Ross Sayer's <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Marys-Name-Ross-Sayers-ebook/dp/B01MZ7H8VG/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=mary%27s+the+name&amp;qid=1582808347&amp;sr=8-1">Mary's the Name</a>. Both of which are definitely worth a read if you want a real flavor of what be guid tae yer mammy is going to be like!

I'm currently working on a Scots short story for you lovely people, and it will likely be included in my next update. But for now, the novel is my priority!

Best wishes and, as ever, thank you for your patience,

Emma

Gross-generational Scots and a semi-official publication date!

It's Burn's Day tomorrow, and I wanted to write a little update about the Scots language, and how the process of crowdfunding has helped me to embrace it for what it is - a language in its own right.

When I first started toying with Scots back in 2014, it came to me naturally, but at the time, I saw it as nothing more than a dialect. It was unfortunate because I wanted to be bilingual without realising that I already was. The realisation came to me through Twitter (which is where I found the most support for this novel!). There, the Scots language is very much alive and thriving. So much so that at the Edinburgh Festival last year, Scottish Twitter even had its own visitor centre. 

Scots has its own words, spellings and is very much its own language, despite being closely connected to English. 

The Scots language is funny, culturally rich and beautiful in its own right. As Dr Michael Dempster put it so eloquently in this <a href="https://www.scotsman.com/education/dr-michael-dempster-more-people-are-speaking-up-for-scots-1-5079549">article</a>, it's no indication of class, not anymore, and thanks to its revival, which has largely been online, it has a bright future. 

The perfect example is the poem below. It was written by my great grandfather in 1967 and subsequently published by The Glasgow Herald for Burns Day a whole 53 years ago. 

Scots can vary quite considerably in its intensity, and my great grandfather's usage is a lot stronger than mine in be guid tae yer mammy, but that's completely okay. I love how our usage, almost half a century apart, varies slightly but isn't all that different too. Isn't language wonderful?

My great grandfather wrote this poem for a competition (which he subsequently won!). It asked Scottish people to write about what Robert Burns would find if he came back to Scotland in 1967. This was his response. 

 

A Bard’s eye-view of Scotland in 1967

 

Here’s Rhymin’ Rab! It’s mony a year

Since I cast e’e on Scotland dear.

Gey aft I socht, e’er I cam’ here,

To ken wha’s boss!

Some chiel in London rules, I hear,

A Willie Ross.

 

The lass I see is braw like Jean,

But limbs nae langer blush unseen,

Wi ‘dates’ and ‘discs’ it’s ill to glean

The tongue she speaks:

And I see mithers, far frae lean,

“Braid Scots” in breeks!

 

There’s gey queer things aboot the toon,

Fell tramp-like craturs, locks fa’in doon,

An’ wha’s the lass an’ wha’s the loon,

I’m sweert to spear.

Can they be objects frae the moon?

I guess and fear.

 

I grieve John Barleycorn, auld freen,

‘Mang ord’nar folk he’s little seen,

Sair hauden doon his spirit’s been

Wi’ Budget’s cross.

Near twa pound ten? I rubbed my e’en,

Whar’s that man Ross?

 

And noo the Empire’s days are ower,

In ither airts lie wealth and power,

But still to Britain tyrants cower,

Th’ oppressed look back.

I’ll toast my dear land’s “finest hour”

Gin I win back.

 

W.T. Stirling, The Glasgow Herald, 25th January 1967

Burns Day and the Scots language

Hello, hello!

I'm currently anxiously awaiting feedback from the editor, which should be with me next week. Then the first of two structural edits begins. It's made me reflect on be guid tae yer mammy's earliest origins - a short story. Funnily enough, way back in early 2015, my protagonist Granny was actually Grandpa! So here it is, the story where it all began...

 

Duntocher Cinderella

 

“Away ye and shite!” is my Dad’s catchphrase. 
  
I heard him shout these words at a feral cat when I arrived for my usual Wednesday afternoon visit. He never looks happy to see me anymore, not now that I am the one “causin’ trouble in the family”. My relationship with my siblings recently broke down, and he has placed the blame solely upon my shoulders. They’ve always had a pack mentality.  
  
“That wee bugger hus been in at ma bins,” he grumbled as we went inside; deliberately not even attempting to pick up the bin which had toppled over. 
  
I made myself at home whilst he went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. His sitting room is easy to describe: holy water on the sideboard, half-eaten jammie dodgers behind the couch, and a painting of the Sacred Heart on the wall. That painting has watched over God knows how many petty squabbles. Ironic, really. 
  
My Dad soon emerged from the kitchen with tea and cake on a tray (French fancies to be precise; they were my Mum’s favourites). He only ever brought out cake when he wanted something. Otherwise it was McVitie's Digestives all around. Plain. No chocolate. 
  
“David keeps oan complainin’ that the hoose is a midden,” he said, before pouring me a cup of tea. 
  
I took a bite of cake so that I could ignore this for a few seconds. Until four months ago, I had regularly cleaned his house, and I was happy to help him out, but I stopped as a way of protesting against my siblings’ treatment of me. David was the one who crossed the line, and I was done with taking sole responsibility for the house’s cleanliness. 
  
How did he cross the line? For decades he has regularly referred to the baby that I was forced to give up and recently blurted out my secret to our extended family. None of them knew. The only people who did were my immediate family and husband. David then, in a weird way, became a hero for providing them with talking material for years and my two sisters expressed no objection to it. 
  
“The house looks fine!” I said, looking around. 
  
There was no point in saying anything else. I don’t have a job, and, because of this, my siblings believe that it’s my responsibility. They’ve chosen to conveniently forget that I don’t work because I’m physically unable to. An amazing feat considering the number of times they’ve visited me in hospital over the years. I don’t want to go into the details about my illness; it’s not a physical one, and this is why they believe that I am perfectly healthy, even though I have to take countless pills each day. 
  
I believe that part of the reason David regularly referred to the baby is because he resents the fact that I don’t work but have a comfortable lifestyle. Every few years, I am reassessed by the government to ensure that I am still unable to work. I naively told my Dad, and he informed David who was convinced that I would lose my sick benefit. I guess it was the disappointment of me continuing to live as a “benefits scrounger” that finally caused him to divulge my secret to everyone. 
  
My Dad would not stop praising David that afternoon. He was always the golden child in his eyes. There’s a ten year age gap between us, and my Dad was scared he’d never have a son to “pass oan the family name” after my Mum gave birth to three daughters. 
  
“That’s oor David gat himsel another promotion at work!” he revealed, proudly. 
  
“And how has your week been?” I asked in an attempt to change the subject. 
  
My Dad was irritated by this and gazed at me with disapproving eyes. 
  
“It’s been awricht,” he replied, bluntly.  
  
This was followed by an awkward silence. We’ve never had much to say to each other. 
  
In my mind, I’m Cinderella. As ridiculous as it is for a woman in her forties to compare herself to a character from a fairy tale, it’s the most appropriate way of describing my situation. Aside from the obvious cleaning similarity, David has always been the archetypal villain, and the day Margaret and Victoria allowed him to publically disgrace me they became the two ugly sisters. 
  
My Dad proceeded to turn on the television. It was the only activity we were able comfortably do together. I say comfortably, but even this managed to involve David, since my Dad had placed their photograph on top of the television. There’s not a single photograph of me on display in the house. Make of that what you will. 
  
“Whit’s this ah’ve been hearin’ aboot yer man drinkin’? David said there wur photies o’ him pissed oan Facebook.” 
  
I remembered uneasily that night, but even so I was consumed by anger. What right did he have to talk about my husband drinking? He was out having fun with his friends. David’s been arrested on countless occasions for being “drunk and disorderly”. It was double standards between me and my siblings. He must have been stalking his profile too; obviously my husband has never been “friends” with him. He knows how much David has hurt me.  
  
Suddenly, the shrill cry of the telephone filled the room. It was David. He always calls in the afternoon. He doesn’t visit often, but he believes that phoning regularly compensates for it. My Dad leapt out of the sofa to pick it up with so much enthusiasm that you’d think he never suffered from arthritis. 
  
“Son!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Hoo are ye? Ah’m huvin’ tea wi’ Sandra at the moment.” 
  
He then sat down beside me, and I could overhear every word of their conversation. There was no escape. 
  
“Has she cleaned the house yet? You know I’d do it if I wasn’t so busy,” David complained (as usual he was playing the innocent). 
  
“Naw,” my Dad answered. 
  
“Some people forget where they came from. Just because her man has a good job, and she gets money on the sick. I have to work to put food on the table,” David asserted. 
  
Unable to listen any longer, I grabbed the phone from my Dad and cut off the call. 
  
“Whit the puck did ye dae that fur? He’s allowed an opinion!” my Dad shouted, having grown even more agitated. 
  
“You don’t treat me like I’m a member of this family,” I sobbed involuntarily. “I would work if I could!” 
  
“Sandra, ye dinnae act like a member o’ it anymair! Ah’m in ma seventies, and ye dinnae help me oot,” he said. 
  
“None of them have ever had the responsibility of helping you! It’s always been left to me, even though I’m sick!” 
  
“They’re aw too busy tae dae it. If ye wur in that much pain, ye’d be in yer bed, no visitin’ me!” 
  
I began to sob into a pillow. Unless I started to throw up blood soon, he’d consider his belief that I’m healthy to be correct. 
  
“Why should I make David’s life or any of their lives easy after what happened? Don’t you think it’s hard enough for me to live in the knowledge that I don’t know my own child?” I cried. 
  
“Ye brought that upon yerself. Everywan wis goin’ tae find oot eventually,” my Dad said, coldly. “Dinnae come back here unless ye’re willin’ tae act like a member o’ this family. Ye’re overreactin’. Ah didnay want it tae come tae this, but ye’ve gien me nae choice.” 
  
I stood up and cast a final glance at the painting of the Sacred Heart. It may as well have been a photograph of Adolf Hitler on the wall. When I stepped outwith at last, the litter from the bin had been scattered across the garden by the wind.

Where it all began... 'Duntocher Cinderella'

Hello everyone!

I'm delighted to say that be guid te yer mammy is with its editor, and I couldn't be more pleased with the person Unbound found to work on the project. I will have her notes for the structural edit by the end of January and spend February getting the manuscript into even better shape.

All being well, it will be typeset and ready for the printers by June. However, the publication date is dependent on Unbound (they want to give it the best possible chance in the trade), and an artist will still have to make a cover after this.

As a thank you for your patience, I've enclosed the preface to my second novel, Cathy, get yer dancin' shoes oan, which I am currently working on - but it reads like a short story in its own right!

 

—PREFACE—

The Biggest Grass

 

“Lamb o’ God, ye take away the sins o’ the world,” Father T said, holdin’ up the communion.

    Rows o’ weans sat in silence, watched by their eagle-eyed teachers. At five-year-auld, the only place they wouldnay dare misbehave wis the hoose o’ God. But when the time came fur the teachers tae get communion and leave their pupils alone fur five minutes, Cathy O’Kelly stood and followed, hauns clasped towards the heavens. The other weans gasped.

    Hair in bunches and nose cowered in snot, she wis a nun in the makin’. Hauf way doon the aisle, she looked behind hur, eyes widenin’ when she realised whit she’d done. Copyin’ the teachers wis aw well and guid when it came tae everythin’ but a sacrament she hudnay even made. But she’d committed tae communion, and there wis nae turnin’ back.

    Hur knees wur shakin’ when she reached the altar. The priest raised his haun tae bless hur, but she thoucht she wis gettin’ the almichty slap she deserved. She shut hur eyes and opened them when she felt a haun oan hur shoulder, hauf expectin’ tae find hursel in Hell. She wis directed back towards hur seat, hur every step inspirin’ a rebel in the pews.

    “And there wis me thinkin’ ye wur a goodie two shoes,” said Tommy, who’d candy fags stickin’ oot his poacket. “When they stand up, we’ll sit doon,” he suggested tae the row.

    The weans whispered intae their signs o’ the cross. Cathy said nought.

    “Aw rise,” said Father T.

    Tommy slumped oantae the bench. Wan by wan, the other weans followed. Cathy wis the last tae dae it.

    “Primary Wan,” Miss Lowry, a bespectacled teacher, hissed. “Are ye wantin’ detention?”

    The weans stood, and Tommy’s candy fags landed at Cathy’s feet. She kicked them under the seat, and Miss Lowry glared at hur. Tommy smirked.

    

Efter mass, Miss Lowry grabbed Cathy by the collar ootside the church.

    “Ah thocht ye made a mistake at communion, but yer behaviour efterwards wis oot o’ order. Whit made ye think she could eat these in the chapel?” Miss Lowry said, holdin’ up the fags.

    Cathy saw hur reflection in Miss Lowry’s glasses. Hur eyes welled.

    “Miss, they arenay ma sweets,” she said, voice quiverin’. “They’re Tommy’s, and he wis the wan who tellt everywan else tae sit doon insteid o’ standin’ up.”

    Miss Lowry raised an eyebroo.

    “Ah’m givin’ ye the benefit o’ the doubt just this wance,” she said, then pointed across the street. “Get back tae school and dinnae put another toe oot o’ line.”

    

“Cathy’s the biggest grass in primary wan,” Tommy said at playtime, sittin’ oan a brick wa’ wi’ candy fag hungin’ fae his lips. He must o’ snuck oot tae the corner shoap.

    Cathy hud a piece and jam in wan haun and chalk fur a hopscotch in the other. A ginger boy in a dirty uniform and a girl wi’ blue ribbons in hur hair hud stopped tae watch the commotion.

    “Let’s play a game,” Tommy said tae Cathy, droppin’ his fag oan the groond. “Since ah’ve been banned fae the fitbaw pitch, ye cannae say naw.”

    Tommy grabbed the chalk and piece oot o’ Cathy’s hauns. He stuffed the piece intae his mooth in wan bite. Jam dribbled doon his chin. Cathy gulped.

    “Dinnae let hur go anywhere,” Tommy said tae the red-heided boy.

    He nodded. The girl wi’ ribbons in hur hair blew a gum bubble.

    Tommy walked ower tae the other side o’ the playgroond, a few feet away fae where the heidmaster wis standin’, and drew a white cross oan the groond.

    “Classic,” the ginger boy said.

    Tommy strutted back ower tae the group. He’d chalk oan his troosers.

    “Richt Cathy, let’s see whit yer made o’,” he said, pointin’ tae hur feet. “Ah promise ah’ll leave ye alone if ye cun kick yer shoe aff and get it closer tae the cross than me.”

    Cathy opened hur mooth tae speak, but nae words came oot.

    “Whit’s that?” Tommy said, raisin’ an eyebroo.

    “Nought,” Cathy replied.

    “Ye go first.”

    Cathy looked roond. The only teacher in the playgroond wis the heid, Mr McDonald, and he’d moved as far away fae the cross as he wis goin’. She bent doon tae unbuckle hur shoes. Wance the buckles wur lose, she stood.

    “Ready?” Tommy smirked. “Three, two…”

    Cathy took a deep breath.

    “Wan.”

    She kicked aff hur shoe as hard as she could. The group followed it wi’ their eyes. Cathy froze when it flew in the direction o’ Mr McDonald. She prayed it would hit a wean insteid. But she wis huvin’ nae luck and it lobbed him in the back o’ the heid. He turnt roond then lowered his broos when he realised that he’d been hit wi’ a shoe.

    Tommy laughed. “An eye fur an eye,” he said, walkin’ ower tae Mr McDonald.

    Cathy thocht o’ hoo upset hur mammy wis when she broke a skippin’ rope and the school asked hur tae pay fur it. This wis gonnae be a hundred times worse. She couldnay pin it oan Tommy either. She wis the wan wi’oot a shoe.

    Mr McDonald approached hur. She burst intae tears.

    “Whit did ye dae that fur?” he said.

    Cathy’s mammy always telt hur tae tell the truth and shame the Devil.

    “Tommy said he’d leave me alane if ah gat it close tae the cross,” she said, pointin’ in the direction she’d fired hur shoe.    

    Mr McDonald looked at Tommy. He noticed the chalk oan this troosers.

    “Ma office,” he said, voice deepenin’. “Noo.”

    “But…” Tommy trailed aff.

    The bell rang. Mr McDonald looked at Cathy. Hur face wis red and wet.

    “Cathy O’Kelly, away ye tae class.”

The manuscript is with its editor!

Hello, lovely pledgers!

Be guid tae yer mammy has finally reached its preorder target and will be a lovely traditionally published novel in bookstores in the not too distant future.

I'll let you know as soon as I have a publication date, but because it's going into the trade, this is going to be a slow process and it will likely not be until late next year / early 2021. However, because you helped make it happen, you will be receiving your books before it's on general release.

Right now, I'm storming through the final few chapter edits and then I will be handing the manuscript over to Unbound - at which point, they will assign me an editor to get the story into as good a shape as possible. 

This is something that I've been working towards my entire life, so it all feels very surreal, but I'm so excited to share the book's progress with you as it goes through each stage of the publication process. 

And as a thank you for your continued support, each update from now on is going to contain some writing to whet your appetite for what's to come. 

Be guid tae yer mammy is written in voices, and I got the idea to do this from a book called House Mother Normal, which is entirely set in a nursing home. It really resonated with me because I'd had the experience of working in one. Then, about five years ago, I emulated those voices for an assignment at university, not knowing that I would ultimately use the same technique in my debut novel. Have a read below: 

Barra Breakfast Room: 

https://www.dropbox.com/s/51vlthaxw8ur1ls/Barra%20Breakfast%20Room.pdf?dl=0

Best wishes and thanks again for your support and patience,

Emma

100% - 'Be guid tae yer mammy' is officially happening!

Hello, lovely pledgers!

I'm delighted to say that this will all be over soon, and Unbound can finally step in as a publisher and begin work on editing the manuscript for 'be guid tae yer mammy', creating its cover, and all that good stuff. 

In the meantime, I was recently interviewed by fellow Scottish author Alan Gillespie, who I interviewed in my previous post. I explained a little about how I came to write in Scots and my thoughts on the crowdfunding experience:

You can read it here: https://unbound.com/books/the-mash-house/updates/meet-the-author-emma-grae

I've also attached a little screenplay for your reading pleasure. It's about the Irish faerie folk and was written for this year's NYC Midnight screenwriting competition: 

https://www.dropbox.com/s/fkwfse8toxuhc21/The%20Storyteller.pdf?dl=0

Hopefully, my next update will be celebrating hitting the magic 100%. 

In addition to this, I am going to be writing various pieces set in the world of 'be guid tae yer mammy' to share over the coming months to further whet appetites for the book. 

Thank you again for all of your support. It means the world! 

Emma

The Final Four Percent!

Hello, lovely supporters! 

Be guid tae yer mammy is very much a Scottish novel in every sense of the word, and one of the reasons I am so glad to be publishing with Unbound is because it is paving the way for new Scottish literature.

After the success of Natalie Fergie's <a href="https://unbound.com/books/the-sewing-machine/">The Sewing Machine</a>, which is partially set in the same town as my debut, good ol' Clydebank, they have selected not only my novel but that of Alan Gillespie, a Scottish English teacher and writer, to publish. His book, <a href="https://unbound.com/books/the-mash-house/">The Mash House</a>, is also his first novel and is a story about secrets, death, and malt whiskey! 

We decided to interview each other to give you all an idea of how Scotland and Scottishness are influencing literature in 2019.

 


 As a fellow Scottish writer, location aside, how has Scotland influenced your writing? Has it always been a lingering presence since you first put pen to paper?



 The first Scottish writer I sunk into was Iain Banks. A lot of people talk about Irvine Welsh’s ‘Trainspotting’ being a milestone but it wasn’t for me. I was in S3 when my mum got me Banks’s ‘Wasp Factory’ for Christmas. I don’t think she appreciated quite how obscene parts of the book were for a teenage boy. But I loved it. It’s disgusting and brilliant and the prose is so lean. Banks was from Fife, like me. He wrote in my accent and he captured this story full of darkness and humour. It was perfect for me. I got to meet him, years later, in Ardnamurchan. He came up in this little vintage red convertible and he was so kind. A huge loss. But I get inspiration from other places too. There’s an American writer called Kent Haruf who I am in love with. His novels are set in Colorado and it’s beautiful how he chronicles the landscape. I want to do something similar with the West Highlands in my book. I’ve lived in Fife, Stirling, Fort William and Glasgow, so I have a good grasp of Scottish communities. They’re unique and they all inform my writing differently. When I was at university in Stirling I took some units on Gothic fiction. Dracula, Frankenstein, and the rest. I love how the landscape in the old classics becomes a presence in the story. The weather in Scotland is so changeable too, particularly in rural places. It can switch from sunshine to thunder within the hour. I like my characters to have the same complexity. There’s a rich tradition of tartan noir writing in Scotland and I suppose I’m following in those footsteps – The Mash House is not a police procedural but it does have its share of crime and cruelty.


 


 The Mash House was inspired by the time you spent working in the Highlands as a probationer, prior to this, did you have any other novel ideas, or were you simply waiting for the right inspiration to strike? 



 I have struggled with finding time to write, but never with ideas. I’m lucky in that. I must have started or planned a dozen novels before now. Most never made it past the first page but the ideas were sound. For a long time I found short stories much easier to write. They require less time and investment. I did an MLitt years ago and I wrote a lot of short stories. Most got published here and there. My collected short stories probably run to about 45,000 words so it’s not far off enough for a book. The furthest I ever got with a proper novel was with a story about a Glasgow band called The Blues Council. There’s a family connection there and the writing was going well. It was set in the 1960s so needed research and this was time-consuming. I applied for a funded residency at Cove Park to work on this, and I was their ‘Emerging Writer’ in 2011. I’m still emerging I guess. I stayed there for 2 weeks and wrote and it was bliss. The manuscript got to about 40,000 words and then I had a crisis of confidence. It wasn’t turning into the book I’d wanted to write. My narrative perspective was all wrong. It wasn’t striking the right notes in my head. So I packed it in. I’ve probably still got it on a USB stick somewhere. Earlier this year I did manage to do something with the story – The Glasgow Herald published a feature about The Blues Council. I was really happy to get it out there eventually, even if it was in a different form. I look back at that novel now and I think I was too young to write it. I was about 25 and just couldn’t get my head around the story. It was too big and too important. It’s one I think I might go back to some day.


 


 Why did you decide to publish with Unbound instead of opting for another route? 



 I only half-heartedly looked into getting an agent or a publisher before. My problem was that I never had a completed manuscript, and that was a requirement. When I submitted The Mash House to Unbound I really wasn’t writing fiction. I’d placed a few pieces about education and culture in the Times Educational Supplement, The New York Times and The Scottish Catholic Observer. But I’d stopped writing stories. I’m a teacher and was finding it too hard to balance both. So I submitted to Unbound on an impulse one day. Three chapters, a synopsis, a wee bio. I didn’t expect to hear anything back. And I didn’t, for about nine months. When I got the email offering to take the book on, I was stunned. I hadn’t worked on the thing for about a year. So to get this was a great validation. I hadn’t finished the manuscript by then. I could have used that as an excuse and turned it down. But the timing was right. I felt I had to do it. It was now or never. In a way Unbound saved me as a writer. I was low on motivation and this changed everything. I had support, I had purpose, and the story began to burn really strong in my mind. I like their innovative approach as well. It allows them to take a risk on new writers with fresh stories. I felt like it was a good fit for me.


 


 One of Unbound's biggest advantages is the relationships it allows authors to build with each other and readers. How have you found this relationship-building part of the process? 



 I’m quite comfortable using social media so I could see how that would help. I’ve been lucky to get a lot of support from contacts on facebook and twitter. It can be hard work. Constantly posting and messaging people. But that’s the crowdfunding game so I don’t mind. I just hope I’m not too irritating. Doing this has also given me motivation to reach out to old friends. I’m not good at keeping in touch much. It’s been a blessing in that sense. Messaging and meeting up with old pals. People have been so kind. My family have also been really supportive. My mum has got a few people from her work to pre-order. My dad is emailing all his pals about it. It’s nice to be doing something to make them proud. The other boost comes from the Unbound authors. There is a great network of good and kind people. I’ve barged into their DMs for advice and never been turned down. Everyone knows this is hard. It’s good to share the pain and the success. It’s also gratifying to know who my readers are. That they are partners in this journey. I can’t wait until the books are with them and I can thank them properly. There’s going to be a big party. Everyone’s invited.


 


 What's next for your literary career once you've finished crowdfunding?



 It’s hard to see that far ahead. I’ve got a wonderful job as Head of English at Fernhill School in Glasgow and that keeps me busy. My colleagues and students have been encouraging. They know how much this book means to me. It must be every English teacher’s secret desire to publish a novel. School holidays are the best time for my writing. Once the crowdfunding’s complete, I’m looking forward to working with my Unbound editor. I’m not naïve or arrogant to think my manuscript will be perfect first time. There’s a lot of work to be done there. It’ll make the story better so it’s worth it. I’d like to try to get into some of Scotland’s book festivals to promote the novel as well. I’m doing a short reading at Ness Book Fest next month. Hopefully more will follow. I don’t have any plans yet for another novel. I’m too invested in The Mash House just now. But I think it’ll be something urban. I live in Glasgow and there are a hell of a lot of stories in this city waiting to be told.


 

If Alan's book sounds up your street, it too is available to support <a href="https://unbound.com/books/the-mash-house/">here</a>.

 

As ever, thank you all so much for believing in my story. I am incredibly excited to be moving ever closer to the finish line, and I hope to finally give you all an idea of be guid tae yer mammy's release date in November!

Emma

Meet The Author: Alan Gillespie

That’s ‘be guid tae yer mammy’ edging closer to an actual release date now. 

I am ending the campaign in November so that I can hopefully launch at the Edinburgh Book Festival next year, with the hope of getting as much support as possible before then. 

The novel is currently 72% funded on Unbound, with 100 supporters and well over 200 preorders as of today. 

I am so grateful to everyone for believing in my story, and I hope that it’s been interesting watching my book’s journey into the world! 

While the turnaround time between handing the manuscript over and release into the trade will be around seven months, everyone who has already bought the book will receive their copy before then. 

I’m also getting more involved with the Scottish writing community, starting with an interview with the lovely Alan Gillepsie​, who is also publishing his debut, The Mash House, with Unbound - a must-read for anyone who loves the Highlands and indeed a wee dram!


 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" height="500" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/69793888_2445606085682361_2266120617629581312_o.jpg?v=1690912927" width="500">

A Potential Release Date!

Hello, lovely people!

'Be guid tae yer mammy' is slowly but surely steaming towards the finish line and is currently 64% funded. All being well, it will hit the magic 100% in the early autumn, and I can begin to update you as it goes through the publication process. 

Until then, I just want to thank everyone again for supporting me and being so patient. I know Unbound's model is slow, but for various reasons, they were the right publisher for me. Currently, I am spending almost every spare hour I have tweaking the manuscript so that it requires minimal editing on Unbound's part. 

I also have a few pieces of fiction to further whet your appetite for the story itself, which I'll post in due course, but I figured that an update was long overdue, especially as the book has made so much progress.

As ever, a thousand thank yous,

Emma

The Final Push!

Hello, lovely pledgers!

I just wanted to provide an update on the novel's progress. All being well, I should be handing the manuscript over to Unbound sometime in September, and I'm hoping to hit the coveted halfway point sometime in July. 

To whet your appetite a little more for 'be guid tae yer mammy', the lovely and talented American artist Elisabeth Graham illustrated its synopsis - and, as I'm sure you'll agree, she did a fantastic job. However, the final cover and contents of the book remain up in the air until it has gone to Unbound.


 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/62654260_2771444519538464_1792369429774860288_o__281_29.jpg?v=1690912952" width="500" height="500">



 <img alt class="doksoft_image_img" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0728/3615/3620/files/64294117_2771444572871792_8588543297474002944_o__281_29.jpg?v=1690912952" width="500" height="500">


In addition to this, the first chapter of my second solo novel, 'Cathy, get yer dancin' shoes oan' recently became available to read online. It was published by Glasgow University's literary journal, 'From Glasgow to Saturn', back in early 2017. 

Simply scroll to page 69 and you can discover a little about poor wee Cathy O'Kelly's story: https://fromglasgowtosaturn.files.wordpress.com/2019/05/fgts_38.pdf

As ever, a thousand thank yous for your support!

Emma

Illustrations, my second novel, and the halfway point!

Hello again!

I'm delighted to say that be guid tae yer mammy is now 20% funded, which is very exciting - and daunting.

I will be completing my *final* edit of the manuscript before over the next two to three months, then, all being well, it will go to an editor at Unbound in the not too distant future. 

I've been working on this book since 2015, so it's exciting to see things finally come full circle and have an endpoint where I am totally happy with it in sight. It's far from the end for its characters though, and I'd love to write a sequel in the future. 

To give you an insight into some of be guid tae yer mammy's colourful characters, I've attached a creative essay that's going to be published by the College Green journal at Trinity College this year. It features a few faces who will appear in some form or another in some of Jean Kelly's chapters! 

White Clouds and Mismatched Chairs: https://www.dropbox.com/s/889jn0onfu2e4jo/White-Clouds-and-Mismatched-Chairs.pdf?dl=0

As ever, a thousand thank yous for your support,

Emma

We're 1/5 of the way there now!

Hello everyone! 

Firstly, thank you, thank you, thank you! I've been completely overwhelmed by the support that be guid tae yer mammy has received so far. It now has just over 50 supporters, which is a huge milestone, but obviously, there is a long way to go. 

To whet your appetite for the book since this is a slower model of publication than going with a major house, I'm going to be sharing Scots writing as each new milestone is hit. Attached is a screenplay that I wrote in Scots for NYC Midnight last year. I hope you enjoy it! 

Dead Frank's Cottage: https://www.dropbox.com/s/lmq64gh1d667y7h/Dead%20Frank%27s%20Cottage.pdf?dl=0

And if you haven't read it yet, this is my most recent published prose, which was featured in the February edition of the Honest Ulsterman:

Frozen Faith: http://humag.co/prose/frozen-faith

I'll also be doing readings in and around London over the coming months, starting with the Brixton BookJam on the 6th of May. I would be delighted to see some of you there!

RSVP: https://www.facebook.com/events/286732782242780/

All my love,

Emma

The Fabulous First Fifty!

Kate and her Granny Jean have nothing in common. Jean’s great claim to fame is raising her weans without two pennies to rub together, and Kate’s an aspiring scriptwriter whose anxiety has her stuck in bad thought after bad thought. But what Jean’s Glaswegian family don’t know is that she dreamed of being a film star and came a hairsbreadth away from making it a reality. Now in her nineties, Jean is a force to be reckoned with. But when the family starts to fall apart Jean must face her failings as a mammy head-on – and Kate too must fight her demons. Either that or let go of her dream of the silver screen forever...
 
'A smashing story with a strong Scots voice' Dr Michael Dempster
‘This is a brave novel… with a strong cultural identity. The main character – a thrawn auld besom wha’s guid tae hersel raither than her lassies an granddochters but whase sleekit sense o humour an couthie turn o phrase gars ye like her despite yerse’ Billy Kay, author of Scots: The Mither Tongue

Black smoke fae the ferry’s funnels billows up intae the grey sky. A sharp cramp shoots through ma body, and ah take a deep breath o the salty air, remindin masel that any lassie who hus a big family will go tae Heaven. Ah focus ma eyes oan the skyline, oan hame. Grey and broon dots clustered at the bottom o green and yella hills. Fae there, the ferry would look like a huge, black dragon, belchin smoke and steam. Ah shut ma eyes, fillin ma lungs wi mair o the sea air. They open suddenly as the ferry bounces ower a wave, but ah know better than tae grab the haundrail, dirtied broon by seagull shite and feathers. Mammy always said that fur every daft Jeannie there wis a daft Johnny, and fur aw Donald hus a problem wi the drink, he’s naught but guid tae me and oor lassies.
‘Cannae wait till oor son gets here, Donald,’ ah say wi a haun oan ma belly.
‘As lang as the wean’s healthy.’
Donald takes ma haun, warmin it instantly. He’s gat thick, black, curly hair and a clean-shaven face wi rare cheekbones. Ah couldnae believe ma eyes the nicht ah saw him at the dancin. If ye hudnae known better, ye’d huv thocht he’d walked straicht oot o a picture and no the yards.
‘Ah’ve heard boys are easier tae rear than lassies,’ ah say.
‘It’d be nice tae huv a wean tae play fitbaw wi,’ Donald replies. ‘Ah cannae lie.’
‘Here’s hopin yer son turns oot tae be a Celtic supporter an aw.’
Donald laughs. ‘Ah should bloody well hope so.’
Oor lassies look like porcelain dolls. Sandra hus Donald’s black hair and ma crystal blue eyes. Cathy’s gat ma eyes and licht broon hair. Ah’ve always hud a soft spot fur hur because she’s ma spittin image. They’re wearin dark blue jaikets wi shiny gold buttons. Their hair is like straw hangin oot o midden bins noo ah’m too far gone tae brush it properly. But wance ah’m back tae masel, there willnae be a curl oot o place.
Sandra wan Thistlegate’s ‘Most Bonnie Baby’ competition. Ah couldnae enter Cathy. She’s gorgeous, but only a hat makes hur look like anythin other than a baby elephant. Even then, ah cannae resist tuckin hur ears intae its folds. She’d be ma absolute double if she didnae huv a touch o Dumbo aboot hur.
‘Mammy!’ Sandra says, tuggin oan ma coat and pointin at a decrepit seagull. ‘Mammy! That poor wee burd’s gat a stump insteid o a foot!’
‘Could that happen tae the baby?’ Cathy asks.
‘Maybe we could call him Stumpy!’ Sandra jokes.
‘He’ll be gettin named efter wan o the disciples,’ ah snap.
‘Come oan, ye two,’ Donald says. ‘Let’s gie yer mammy some peace.’
Ah smile. He bends doon, takes the lassies’ hauns, walks them tae the side o the ferry and picks them up so they kin huv a look at the waves. Cathy squeals wi delight.
Whether ye come by land, sea or sky, ye know ye’re in Thistlegate when the yards come intae focus. The orange and green tram trundles alang the cobblestones, past the tenements, taeward the Clyde. The cranes are so tall they look like they’re touchin the sky.
Ah shut ma eyes. Sweat is drippin oantae ma jaicket. Ah unbutton it so the sea air kin cool me doon. It’s like huvin a heater attached tae ma body.
God must be smilin oan me. A wind that would take a dug aff a bone howls across the Clyde. Fur the first time this day, ah feel like ma auld self again. The lassie who wants naught mair than tae be a star – a star like Doris Day, dressed up tae the nines oan a rickety carriage singin aboot the black hills o Dakota.
A cramp shoots through ma doonstairs, and ah open ma eyes. It sharpens. Ah jump taeward the haundrail tae stoap masel bucklin. It’s nae picnic expectin. Ah’ve been gettin warnin cramps fur days noo, so know ah’ll be meetin ma son soon.
A sticky feelin oan ma hauns makes me realise they’re covered in warm seagull shite. Ma nostrils close involuntarily.
‘Fur puck’s sake,’ ah say, rubbin the shite back oantae the ferry.
Donald turns, puts the lassies doon and rushes ower wi a tissue. Ma lip curls as ah wipe the worst o the white and broon sludge aff.
There isnae much in ma haunbag apart fae tissues, ma purse and a bottle o Barr’s tae keep me goin. Ah take oot the bottle, unscrew the metal cap, and gulp.
‘Daddy, is the baby comin?’ Sandra whispers.
‘No, no, yer mammy jist needs tae put hur feet up when we get hame, which means ye two need tae be guid wee lassies.’
‘Yer brother’s gaun’ae be some character,’ ah say.
The bottle wis supposed tae last aw day, God knows me and Donald dinnae huv money tae burn, but ah finish it quicker than an alky gettin their first drink in months. Sommat is drippin oantae the deck. Ah huvnae pished masel since ah wis a wean.
Everythin is silenced. Donald’s eyes grow so big ah think they’re gaun’ae pop oot o their sockets. He micht as well shite himsel here and noo. The lassies’ hauns turn reid wi the amount o pressure he’s puttin oan them.
Wance the shock passes, Donald does whit any guid man would. He rushes ower and tells the lassies tae be oan their best behaviour. They nod and follow us intae the passenger area. They willnae be so keen oan playin mammies wi their dolls efter this. Mind ye, Sandra’s five year aulder than Cathy. She’s already growin oot o it. 
Ah’m daein ma best no tae scream until ah huv tae. The first wumman tae clock ma reid face and bump rushes tae get help.
‘Dinnae worry, missus!’ she says. There’s a look o excitement oan hur face that kin only belong tae a wumman. ‘Ma sister hud hur wean oan a tram, and she’d nae bother!’
Ah open ma mouth tae smile, but moan insteid. It’s Baltic. Naeb’dy wants tae sit close tae the door. The first seats we clock are empty. Donald sits me doon. The lassies plonk their arses opposite us, legs danglin.
Ah look oot the four square windaes and doon the water. Mair water gushes oot o me at the soond o the tannoy.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, a passenger has gone into labour,’ the captain says. ‘Can anyone with medical knowledge make their way into the port seating area immediately.’
Noo it’s Donald’s haun’s turn tae go reid. It must be uncomfortable, but he doesnae flinch, even when his fingers turn purple.
Ah look up. The passengers are rushin oot the other door faster than folk bolted durin the Blitz. Thank God they’ve a bit o respect aboot them. Ah take a deep breath.
‘Yer wee brother isnae waitin fur anywan,’ ah say.
The lassies look mair excited than they’ve ever done oan Christmas mornin.
‘It’s awricht,’ Donald says. ‘If there’s any wumman who kin dae this, it’s ye. Sandra and Cathy cleared the way.’
‘It’s no a puckin slipway, Donald!’
The door bursts open. A flustered lookin man in a suit flings his briefcase oantae the flair. Donald’s skin turns fae a ghostly white tae a human colour.
‘Hello, my name’s Doctor Lowry,’ he says, openin his briefcase and pullin oot a stethoscope. ‘I’ll make sure baby’s delivered safely.’
He looks at Sandra and Cathy, watchin wide-eyed in silence.
‘Oh good. Baby’s not your first,’ he says, poppin the stethoscope intae his ears. ‘Do you have any idea how long it’s been between your contractions?’
 ‘Son, ah’m aboot tae pop oot ma third wean oan a ferry and thocht ma husband wis gaun’ae cut the cord wi a puckin Stanley knife!’ 
Ah gesture fur Donald tae leave wi the lassies. It’s nae place fur a man who’s no a professional. The doactor takes aff his jaiket and swings it oantae the seat. He asks if ah kin move masel oantae it. Ah shake ma heid. He lifts ma legs. 
 ‘Ah’d nae bother wi ma lassies,’ ah say, takin a deep breath. ‘Trust ma son tae come oan the Clyde.’ 
‘We’re going to have to start counting how long there is between your contractions. Mrs…’ he pauses. 
 ‘Brennan,’ ah say, tryin and failin no tae scream. 
 ‘Mrs Brennan, I’m counting that as one, two, three…’ 
The doactor micht huv been willin tae sacrifice his jaicket, but ah’m no willin tae sacrifice mine. Ah move, so the bottom o it isnae quite under ma arse. 
Ma guid jaicket is the best hing ah’ve ever owned. Most coats would be hangin by a thread efter ten year, but it looks as guid as new. It hud cost me six weeks’ wages – wages ah thocht would be the best investment o ma life. The green jaicket’s mink collar shines as much as it did the day ah walked oot o Copland and Lye in it. But they dae say a pretty face suits the dish-cloot. 
***
The only hing ah’ve ever wanted in life is tae be a star. Lassies like me wurnae encouraged tae dream and ah gat wan chance – auditionin fur The Showgirl and the Sailor. Ah wis naive enough tae think ah’d mair magic in ma eyes than Lizzie Black. 
She’d wis lang gone by the nicht o the Blitz, and ah wis expectin. Back in 1941, the air raid siren went aff every nicht as regular as clockwork, and until then, they’d aw been false alarms. But awbody wi mair than two brain cells tae rub taegether knew that Thistlegate wis a prime target fur the Jerries because o the yards. It wis only a matter o time. 
 ‘It’s a bomber’s moon the nicht,’ Donald said. ‘They willnae miss.’ 
Ah wis daein the dishes while he hud a rare dram. It wis his birthday. Ah wis only a few month gone, but ah wis already showin. 
 ‘Will ye be awricht oan yer ain fur a wee while, Jeannie?’ Donald said. ‘Ah’m goin oot tae investigate.’ 
 ‘Yer goin tae the pub,’ ah said. ‘It’s fine.’ 
He didnae object. 
Ah put ma feet up next tae the fire. But it wasnae lang before ah hud tae go tae the toilet. Again. Ma bladder wis like a sieve. If ah hudnae been desperate, ah’d huv clocked the clouds o smoke puffin oot o Singer’s factory as ah scuttled across the concrete. 
Ah slammed the privy door wi a bang. Pee shot oot o me. The relief ah felt wis cut by a deafinin bang. If it hudnae been fur the water hittin ma arse, ah’d huv fainted there and then. The privy shook fae underneath me. The bombs sounded like poles bangin against the walls. 
There wis another bang. Ah fell heidfirst oantae the groond. The sky wis full o white lichts and dust wis rainin doon. Ma eyes rolled tae the back o ma heid. 
Their lids stirred in the mornin licht – the only licht that ever made me question God. A fireman wis standin ower me. He rolled me oantae a stretcher. Ah shouldnae question, ah tellt masel. At the Royal, ah gret at the sicht o reid and broon blood. 
***
That wis the first o three miscarriages. The thocht makes me grateful fur the pain ah’m in. Ah cannae understand why God would let a wean come intae the world and aw o a sudden take them oot again. It does naught tae ease the pain though, and ah’ve nae idea hoo ah’m still conscious. Nae wonder Mammy calls it the pains o Hell. 
The doactor looks at his watch. ‘OK, Mrs Brennan. That’s two minutes between your contractions.’ 
Ah shake ma heid. He makes his way tae the bottom o ma skirt. 
 ‘I’m going to have to check how far down baby is,’ the doactor says. 
The only man who’s meant tae see me doon there is Donald, but beggars cannae be choosers. The doactor tells me ah’m a few inches dilated. 
The metal seat vibrates wi the roarin o the ferry’s engines. Ah look up. Lang white lichts run alang the ceilin. Ah fix ma eyes oan them. The pain is overhwelmin but no enough tae conk me oot. A distraction is a distraction. Ah dinnae huv it in me tae pray. 
Ah imagine whit Lizzie’s daein richt noo. She’ll either be oan set, learnin hur lines or livin the life we’d dreamed o taegether. 
The next contraction stings mair than when ah picked up Daddy’s razor as a wean, cuttin ma haun tae the bone. 
 ‘OK, Mrs Brennan, that’s a minute between your contractions. Hold off pushing a little longer, and baby will be with us in no time.’ 
Ah cannae remember bein in so much pain wi ma lassies. It wis a case o bein uncomfortable fur a guid few hour then it wis ower. 
The ferry is a quick enough journey, but ah kin feel ma son movin further doon, bringin waves o pain wi him. There is nae way he’s waitin until we’re back oan dry land. If bein born at sea is an omen, ma son will huv a rare life. Maybe he’ll follow in his father’s footsteps and become a richt high-flyer in the yards. 
 ‘That’s baby crowning,’ the doactor says, smilin. 
 ‘Ye kin see his heid?’ ah say, face scrunchin up in pain. 
 ‘Yes, Mrs Brennan!’ 
Jesus tellt Simon, Peter and Andrew tae put doon their nets and become fishers o men. Ah’m gaun’ae call ma son efter a disciple. Ah prefer Clark efter Clark Gable, but it’s a daft notion noo. Ah huv tae honour God’s plan fur me. 
A comfortable life wi a guid man and weans is never gaun’ae be enough fur me, but ah should huv realised by noo that there’s a reason why that’s the most lassies roond here hope fur. 
The next contraction is the worst yet. It’s time tae push. 
 ‘Perfect, Mrs Brennan. You’re doing brilliantly.’ 
The only explanation fur ma dream wis that ah wis meant tae help Lizzie achieve it. But as much as ah should huv known better, ah set a glimmer o hope oan it happenin until the day Donald first raised a haun tae me. 
If ye’d swatched us in those days, ye’d huv thocht we wur both destined fur mair. Ye hud tae be a real tomboy tae wear trousers, but the best o style wis the best o style. Ah drew ma eyebroos oan in whitever shape wis aw the rage in Hollywood. Lizzie did the same. Ah put ma broon hair intae the ticht curls that fell doon ower ma shoulders. Lizzie wore hur dark broon hair in a poodle cut. Ye’d huv thocht we wur never oot the hairdresser. 
Ah hudnae been so far away gien birth tae either o ma lassies. 
 ‘Baby’s head is almost born!’ the doactor says. 
Ah shut ma eyes, pushin wi every ounce o strength ah’ve left. As the pain lessens, the doactor’s eyes widen. 
 ‘One more push Mrs Brennan and baby will be here!’ 
Ah pant mair than a dog in a butcher’s shoap as ah prepare tae gie the wean the biggest push ah kin. Ah wince, gatherin aw the strength ah huv left. Sommat’s comin oot o me. Ah’ve nae idea if it’s blood, pish, water or the wean. 
 ‘That’s it, Mrs Brennan! Baby’s head is born!’ 
The baby cries so hard ah jolt, giein him the final push he needs. He’s gat some pair o lungs. Ma body relaxes in an instant. Ma son’s born. 
The doactor wraps the wean up in his jaicket, and ma heid flops back. 
 ‘Congratulations,’ the doactor says. ‘You’ve got another beautiful baby girl.’ 
Ma heart sinks. ‘Another lassie?’ 
The door swings open. Ah turn ma heid. The doactor haunds the wean tae Donald. 
 ‘Another lassie,’ ah repeat. 
Donald smiles. Ah catch a glimpse o the wean’s face. She’s gat blue eyes and rosy cheeks like Sandra and Cathy and Donald’s black hair. This world is a test – a test tae see if ye are worthy o the next life. Dreams o daein mair arenae part o God’s plan. No fur wummen anyway. Whit happened tae Lizzie wis a fluke, and ah wis richt tae let go o ma dream. Donald nudges me wi his elbow. 
 ‘Jean,’ Donald says. ‘We kin always try again.’ 
Ah force a smile. That’s another sausage aff ma plate. Ma eyes tell him there’s nae way we’re tryin again. Ah’m too auld, and we kin barely afford four mouths tae feed. 
 ‘It’s a girl!’ a voice shoots fae ootside. People begin tae cheer. 
 ‘So whit we callin hur?’ Donald asks, beamin. 
 ‘Stella Marie,’ ah say. ‘Star o the sea.’

be guid tae yer mammy

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