Tuesday, 15 November 2011


I am currently writing the first draft of the second book and although the process is quite different from writing I Woke Up In The Future, one thing they both have in common is the first draft is always the hardest. The first draft is always the most painful, its the most difficult thing to get through. Especially when you write something which is so deeply personal as I do and you have to remember what you said, what you did and more importantly how you felt back then. I have journals, twenty years worth and sometimes when I read them  I am so far removed from the memory that its as if I am reading someone else's words. Other times I read the words and cry. Cry because the memory is still painful, cry because I know there is a part of me that still needs to heal, cry because sometimes it's the only thing I can do. I often wonder if someone else were to read those words and feel the pain of their own experience would they cry? if so, how would that make me feel? well although the first draft is the hardest, and the most painful and makes me cry sometimes. I somehow get through it and continue to write, because once I have typed the full stop of the last sentence on the last page, my tears have dried up and I feel better. I even smile. If that's what happens to whomever reads my words, they heal through tears to reach the end with a smile, well then the first draft although the hardest will always be worth it.

Saturday, 29 October 2011


Enquiring minds (mine) want to know. Seriously. Answers on my comment section below, or you can answer on my facebook and I will transfer them to my blog. I want to know. I really do. I suppose the reason why I ask is because it is a complete enigma to me, the Muse that is, especially the nature of it. A few things I know for sure, its unpredictable, I never know when its going to strike, or where or even how. I can not seem to get a handle on its exclusivity, its indiscriminate ways means I can not force it to show me its hand and reveal itself. When it does appear it happens to be at the most inopportune and inconvenient times yet I despair at its elusiveness. My frustration grows when I attempt to seek it out. Only to be reminded that it chooses me not the other way round. Who Where What is your Muse? Sometimes mine is a book I have read that moves me in ways I can not describe yet compels me to continue writing in the hopes that one day I will move my readers in the same way. Sometimes its a song, a lyric, that my heart resonates with, a lost love, a hope for the future, a moment in time remembered with joy. Sometimes its a person, something they do or say, a life changing experience they've had or simply an animated conversation with the local shop keeper punctuated with a killer one liner. Sometimes it's a place, a quiet spot in the garden underneath the protective shade of a tree or a secluded beach where the only sounds are the waves softly whispering stories of old to you. Who Where What is your Muse? right now she escapes my creative grasp and I wait in hope patiently that she remembers me and chooses me again. In the meantime I'll survive on the memory of the last time she gave me a visit and how she made me feel. In awe.

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

The Writer and Patience

If you are a writer or creative of any form, one of the things/virtues/qualities you need the most is patience! you need to be patient with your craft, waiting for your muse to bring you the inspiration you need to create. If your a writer you need to be patient with the length of time it takes to produce a book, from first draft to re-write say oh 10-15 times, then there is the editing and the copy-editing whilst the publishers go over the last minute changes to details. You need to be patient with your agent who is out there working tirelessly selling your book getting you a deal, you need to be patient with the film producers who promise you the moon and the stars and then quietly slip away to work on other projects or find the money for yours. When you are a writer you have to start thinking deadlines in terms of years not months, and then locate an unending well of patience to draw on whilst sitting waiting for the phone to ring. Now being one who possesses very little, patience that is, (apparently a consequence of being a gen x child under Thatcher rule) I want it done now, no right now, in fact preferably yesterday! oh how the universe has a sly sense of humour. Give me the one thing I love to do the most (write for those of you who are not too sure) but add the one thing that's going to challenge me and is a necessary component in the makeup of the creative, patience. So after much cyclical thinking and a few sleepless nights worrying about option clauses and royalty statements and all of the other things a writer pays an agent for. I have come to the conclusion the only option is to carry on, that is write another book or two! I deem it the only thing that will keep me occupied, stop me from staring at the phone and well ironically bring about the one thing I need. When I write, time has no influence, it all but disappears and what I realise when I put the pen down that unbeknownst to me I have found the very thing I was looking for, patience.

Wednesday, 12 October 2011


My agent, whom we will call 007 has informed me that I must start blogging again and tweeting and increase my social networking presence getting myself ready for the next chapter of my literary life. Who knows what is going to happen? if the past three months is anything to go by, well anything can happen and it usually does! I think this time I will be better equipped to handle it. Except really there is no rule book when it comes to your story becoming front page news and going global. You know you've gone viral when they are blogging about you in China and CNN is at your door wanting to interview you. If you don't believe me just type in the words NAOMI JACOBS in google and somewhere you will see the words amnesia and then it will take you on a journey into the viral underworld of mispelt names, unchecked facts and peoples personal opnions on me (they have made for a hilarious read when I have found myself sometimes bored). Being a self confessed control freak my story going global felt like my worst nightmare come true, but now after a while spent on the post-viral sea of calm I have had time to reflect. The whole chapter of I Woke Up In The Future reaching the far corners of the world, freed me, liberated me from the belief that my story was too unbelievable, my book too self indulgent and the constant anxiety of what others thought of me. Now I really couldnt give a damn, you can write what you want or say what you want, (journalists and critics take note) because all that really matters is what I think of myself, after all it is me I have to live with. When this book comes out and you realise what 007 said after reading it which is 'the amnesia is the tip of the tip of the iceberg' then you will fully understand why I needed to let go of what people think, once and for all. Try it, its really rather good!

Friday, 29 July 2011


Well the serendipity happened, and a wonderful wave of publicity came and swept I Woke Up In The Future out into the big blue writing unknown. I held on tightly wondering where it would all take me. There were highs, there were lows, there were calm seas, and raging storms and well now I am about to disembark this ship and board an entirely new one, I have learnt one very valuable lesson, you will never make it in this business unless you trust yourself. Unfortunately there are many sharks out there, that lurk in the darkness beneath. At first you mistake them for a friendly dolphin, you think they want to play, toss a ball or two, take a dive and splash water in your face making your laugh, wipe your eyes and say 'silly dolphin nearly blinded me then' except while you're temporarily without sight, they narrow their eyes, bare their sharp teeth and take a big chunk out of your naivety. So after three newspapers, four magazines, three radio interviews, three production companies and no book deal or agent! I have come to the conclusion that you need to trust yourself and trust the process and no matter how much rejection you get know that it is and always will be about the money and whether a person, journalist, agent, publisher etc can make money from your talent or your story! If you stop trusting yourself, your stop remembering that and well then you can end up on the front of a tabloid newspaper *Laugh out Loud* wondering what the hell went wrong! Putting it all in persepctive, this is an experince, I am writer and one day this will be a chapter in my book! but what I have gained from this and can never be taken away and what I want to share with you is no matter what happens in your life, no matter what you do or say, or even why, none of it really matters unless you TRUST YOURSELF, only then will you truly understand the nature of life, truly understand the nature of you.

Monday, 4 April 2011


Serendipity! my favourite word and my word of the week. When it comes to being a writer or an artist of any kind you have to believe in Serendipity.
ser·en·dip·ity (ser′ən dip′ə tē)
a seeming gift for finding something good accidentally
luck, or good fortune, in finding something good accidentally
You have to believe that at some point in your artistic career that someone just so happens upon your work and wants to buy it, sell it or promote it. They believe that their discovery of your talent is a stroke of luck or good fortune and their only mission in life becomes you, or your work and making sure it is shared with the world. Serendipity! you've gotta believe in it. One day it will fall into the hands of the right person at the right time in the right way and the rest.....will be your history.
So don't give up, when the road seems long, and the fight is too tough, don't give up, always believe there is someone somewhere out there who loves your art as much as you do and will want to shout if from the highest rooftops. If you keep on I promise you, Serendipity will make it happen.

Friday, 14 January 2011

Chapter 14 'Honour Thyself'

I shook my head giving him my 'are you crazy? I don't want to die' look.
"Oh you are like the rest of the people, the tourists, they ride slowly, yes slowly" he lowered his head and sighed clearly disappointed.
It was all the insult I needed before my ego vehemently protested his remarks. I took hold of the reigns. If Ali was eager to break the tour guide mould and actually ride with someone properly, I was going to make his day. I nervously gulped down a mouthful of dry dusty air, held onto the reigns tightly and gave Wardah a gentle nudge with the heel of my sandal, she started to walk again. Ali moved behind me allowing me to lead. The pressure was on, there was no turning back. I dug my heels in firmer and pushed her on, she picked up the pace and began to trot. My body bounced up and down uncontrollably and I immediately regretted my prideful decision to rise to his challenge. I wasn't ready. Ali sensed my anxiety and steered Nesma to the left hand side of me 'are you OK? we can stop if you want'.
I shook my head, No I had to do this it was now or never. I took a deep breath and began to relax into the familiar sit-up sit-down rhythm that came naturally to an experienced rider. I kicked her again and she responded with a faster pace. I was beginning to remember and I moved in unison with her. An excited energy began to rise each time I ordered her to trot on. We were moving in sync, I wanted to go faster and so did she, I kicked her harder and she broke into a canter. The force momentarily threw my body back and I grabbed hold of the front of the saddle with one hand and the reigns with the other. Pulling myself forward, I clung to her body with my thighs, lowered my head and told her to ride faster. She double kicked her hind legs stomping her hooves in agreement and with a three beat gait propelled us forward into a new existence consisting of only Naomi and Wardah. We left Ali behind, a cloud of dust the only indication that we had once been there. We tore through the Egyptian desert, the hot wind stung my eyes, my heart was in my mouth and I could hear nothing but the sound of her hooves pound the floor mercilessly. I felt an electric hum from the base of my spine pitch through my body. She had taken charge, this was her home, her manor and I was her humbled guest. I knew my only option was to hold onto her with all of my strength, give in to her frighteningly powerful greatness and let her take me wherever she wanted to go. The fear of being thrown again possessed my thoughts, I took another deep breath and an exhilarating liberating rush quickly paralysed them, I relinquished control. I knew I was safe. Stripped of any pretence Wardah wanted me to know myself as a rider again, this was her gift to me. It was working and with each deep breath a primitive subconscious took over where I existed in a space of no past, no future, no family, no friends, no memories, no nothing, just me, the real true me. Naomi Jacobs.

Thursday, 13 January 2011

Excerpt from Chapter 3- Enchanté

I took a step closer to him, the golden light behind me illuminated his soft brown liquid centre eyes, his ecru complexion reminded me of a sweet milky latte that once drunk could warm the heart of even the most frozen cynic. He gave me another understanding smile and the snowball of fear, which had grown bigger with each passing hour, immediately melted away. It wasn't the uniform, he could have been wearing a bin bag, it didn't matter. I instantly felt like I had known this man for years and more importantly that I could trust him. 'Do you speak English?' I enquired. I didn't wait for an answer and through tears started to tell him what had happened that night. Not being able to understand me he held his hands up and shook his head 'I speak little English'.
The flood gates opened, I started to sob, he took a step closer to me, we were in each other's space, close enough to feel his warmth I took a deep breath inhaling his presence, a faint mix of tobacco and a sweet musky scent made me want to bury my face into his neck. I exhaled and stared intently into his eyes. Was he feeling this?
'Calm, calm, tranquille' his hands dropped to the side, his brow furrowed and he brought a gloved finger to his lip staring intently at me while trying to figure something out. I took another breath, lip quivering, I allowed his tender command to instruct my tears to stop, they obeyed. A wave of calm washed over me, I mentally dubbed him my Angel.
'One moment please' he said in perfectly formed French, I nodded and watched as he went and fetched another police officer. Moments later, they both approached me, he pointed to his colleague and indicated I speak to him. In broken French and English I told his friend what had happened. He interpreted to the Angel and his expression grew more and more worried. This wasn't good. They both looked at each other and spoke for a while in French, from their faces I began to suspect that there was nothing they could do for me. The colleague confirmed this and my response was to leave my shore of safety and spiral into another wave of fear and panic. I nodded accepting my fate, took one last look at the Angel, he was instantly apologetic and took a step back. I felt doomed. If the French police couldn't help me no body could. it was all over, I envisioned a life destined to walk the streets of Paris, destitute and homeless, with no money, no bag and no phone. The Angel somehow received my telepathic messages of distress as he didn't walk away with his colleague. He stood looking at me pensive, bringing his finger to his lip again, he nodded his head. 'You stay here, for ten minutes, stay here and I will come for you'

Wednesday, 12 January 2011

Excerpt from Chapter 24-The Beginning

My life became a maelstrom of misunderstandings and desperate discoveries of a future I had not envisioned all those years ago. My thoughts oscillated between fears of brain tumours and and tears of longing for the simple life of school. My loved ones omitted the tragic parts of deaths and disappearances, easing me into the narratives of those no longer. Why had life as I'd known it no longer existed? In agreement with my Doctor they insisted I didn't read newspapers, watch television or force myself to remember anything from the past seventeen years. My adolescent self-preserving stubbornness rebelled. I wanted to see how the world had turned out. I was mortified, digital television projected cartoonish images from a flat screen television, a varicoloured wonder to the pale and boring analogue my eyes were used to. Reality TV was a complete enigma, it seemed to churn out this fatuous vat of desperate and unhappy people enslaved to the fantasy that fame would bring their often meaningless lives some semblance of purpose. Men Women and Children lost in a life of lusting after the lens searching for celebrity and recognition. My Sister painstakingly took the time to explain 911 and 7/7, the war on terror and the worlds scramble for diminishing oil reserves. As the reality of the ever increasing technological, biological and psychological threat to the planet dawned on me, I had to stop her before I threw up my possibly genetically modified dinner. I had fallen asleep dreaming of a world full of endless opportunities and Utopian peace and had woken up in a dark Blade Runner-esque nightmare, where someone was always watching you.