Aimee Horton’s all a bit exciting (terrifying).


I’m publishing a little e-book

on Monday 29th April

And I’d love you to check it out…


You see, for those of you who know me, I had a bit of a career change a couple of years ago, and realised that all I wanted to do was write stories and make people laugh.  I never realised what a journey that would be, writing a fictional novel has been like pouring my heart and soul into the computer.  It’s caused me to get lost for hours in my own little world, and when I come up for breath my heart races, I’m a bit sweaty, my hair is spiked up and I’m slightly disorientated.

However, as exciting as it is I also never realised how hard it would be.  The day I deleted about 5,000 words because they didn’t fit hurt a lot – actually, I didn’t delete them, I copied and pasted them into a document called THIS IS SHIT BUT I MIGHT NEED IT SOMEDAY.

Writing 80,000 words is easy.  Writing, 80,000 words in a story that people want isn’t as easy.  You map it out, you plan what’s going to happen, and then as your characters develop you suddenly change everything, the beginning of your book is no longer relevant but you have to go with it, it’s what makes the story enjoyable.

I’ve not quite reached the all important 80k on THE NOVEL yet, and it bugs me.  I’m impatient. I like things NOW NOW NOW, I want to walk down the the high street and see my book in the window of a shop, and I WANT IT NOW GODDAMN IT.  But that’s not how it works.  Once you’ve finished, you’ve got to edit, then you decide whether to self publish or pitch blah blah blah.  I went into this naively and tried to rush it, but realised it’s not worth it.  If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do this properly.

However, that realisation didn’t stop the impatience, didn’t stop the weekly strops as I try and fit book around paid work, the children, the housework.  So, quite by accident I made a Plan B, and that’s where I am now.  I decided to write a little e-book.  Not a novel, a novella.  Something amusing, something to make people laugh, that people can empathise with. Something I can put out there for not only you guys to enjoy, but for me to have hit a milestone, and this is where Survival of the Ginnest came from.

Thirty-something Dottie Harris lived the self indulgent lifestyle of every childless couple.  Then, when she hit thirty her clock ticked and she and her husband decided it was time to start a family.

In this modern day diary, Dottie discovers that once she announces her pregnancy life soon changes.

No more drinking games with the boys, no more energy for the gym and those lazy afternoons infront of the TV are soon to become a thing of the past.

Struggling through the issues of pregnancy and motherhood, Dottie turns to social networking, once there to help organise her social life, she quickly becomes reliant on it, using it as a way to reach out to others and beginning to come to terms with the funny side of mother hood, along with realising that she’s not the only person to consider anything after 7am a lie in.

Follow her journey as her children grow older, and she gets less enthusiastic.

You can view an extract of it on my other website, and if you like it, perhaps you’ll buy it.  Every £1 for a copy downloaded goes into my Gin fund, the rest goes into shoes.

Feeling Fearless


I’m not brave. I worry, I fret, and I panic. (Or at least I used to, I was hypnotised to nip that hyperventilating little freak out in the bud). I overthink things; I dwell and imagine the worst case scenario. If I envisage the worst, then when (alright, if) it happens, I’m prepared. Not only is it really not healthy, it makes my shoulders ache and I’ll probably get wrinkles. I wish I didn’t worry so much, my family wish I didn’t worry so much, my positive glass half full boyfriend doesn’t understand how one person can worry so much, but it’s just the way I am. I was wired to worry and when I don’t have anything specific to worry about, well, that’s a worry in itself.

My worries are wide and all encompassing, I’m not fussy. I worry about my family, my friends, my job, my health, my hips… Everything is a concern, from the mundane ‘my left eye is definitely smaller than my right’ furrow on the brow to the ‘have I set my alarm?’ restless nights to the ‘holy crap, I’ve found a lump’ teeth grinding fear. It’s actually quite surprisingly I’m not a quivering jelly of a woman, wrapped in bubble wrap and frozen by trepidation. No, as a friend of mine so aptly described it, I’m a swan. Utterly serene on the surface yet kicking like a bugger under the surface. See whilst I’m a worrier, my biggest concern would be that I let it beat me. Whilst I’m a clear contender for world championship worrying, this comes second only to my stubbornness. I dig my heels in, grit my teeth and my determination will not waver, which when it comes to apprehension, is bloody useful. I am far too stubborn to let any nervousness stop me doing anything. I don’t want to let on that under this calm (ha!) exterior that has somehow been attributed to me that actually I’m a big wuss. So if it scares me, I do it.

Tomorrow we’re going on holiday. He and I are going to Marrakech, which along with New York, has always been on my list. I can’t wait to soak up the souks, rock the riads and obviously wear a fez. Only one itty bitty problem. Flying. I don’t like it. I do not like being trapped in a big metal box thousands of feet above the ground. In fact, I hate being trapped in a big metal box thousands of feet above the ground. But some things you just gotta do. My apprehension has started to build over the past few days, I feel the odd flutter now and then, but I’m stubbornly ignoring it. No worry will stop me. Last year we were going to Spain, I hadn’t flown for 8 years so was having some cracking anxiety dreams à la Final Destination. So I bought a book on the fear of flying. I couldn’t read it. It was littered with spelling mistakes. So I went to the doctors for a little help (pill) and off I skipped with some Valium. That I left at home. I figured I scored a greater point against worry that whilst I had a backup, I still kicked it to the curb. And once we landed in Alicante, after kissing the ground (joking. Ish) I punched the air. Worry? Pah! In your face!

Admittedly I spent the flight sweaty, clenched and grinding but I felt the fear and I did it anyway. And when I flew again earlier this year, I was less sweaty, much less clenched and experienced little to no grinding. I can’t say my fear has disappeared, I can’t quite shake that sense that I AM NOT ON THE GROUND but I’m pretty sure there’s not a lot I can’t do. Perhaps as I get older I’m getting braver (possibly) or perhaps I’m growing out of my worrying ways (doubtful) or maybe I’m just becoming more stubborn (likely), whatever the reason, no irrational worries will stop me doing anything. Within reason. I’m not crazy.