Saturday 15 December 2012

Rejection and Opportunity

I had my first official rejection letter today. It was a short story I sent to Woman's Weekly, but I felt special because the address was hand written. I can only imagine the cramp the poor person gets, and how bored they must be to do nothing but write addresses on letters all day. I wasn't overly bothered, so my skin must be getting thicker. A few years behind a bar taking crap from drunk people must be having an effect at long last. It does mean I need to be submitting  more suitable stories to magazines, but that's a step at a time.

Opportunity wise, I feel a little more confident as someone has emailed me back about an internship, so fingers crossed it will be a good opportunity. I need to shake my life up again, I'm getting too settled into an easy life. Anything will be better than living above a pub!! 

Novel wise, my novel from Nanowrimo has slowed down a lot, but the ideas are still jumping out at me, I think I need to start carrying a tape recorder around so I don't forget my ideas! It's rather appealing to be saying: 'note to self' when inspired.

Saturday 8 December 2012

Why a cut finger is a good excuse not to write

Well, it's not really a good excuse, and not a very impressive war wound to show my friends. I'm just taking it because trying to type is painful. See the cut is just in the wrong place where I tend to touch the keyboard, and everything else beside. I've been changing beds with gloves on and and gritting my teeth and waving my finger in the air as if I'm at the stock exchange and a really really cool offer has come up.

This week has been proof of life and duty getting in the way. A comment someone made to me last night has opened my eyes too. They said I was more my own person now than I was a year ago. And it's true, I feel more comfortable in my skin, when I look in the mirror, I think, yes, that's me. I was putting the feelings down to rebellion, which they are, but at the age of 23, I'm tired of paying my dues to the family business. So much of my life is wrapped up in the stupid dramas of a pub. I'm feeling ready to let all of this go now. It's a matter of putting my writing first for a change and finding a job related to that.

Sunday 2 December 2012

End of NaNoWrimo!

I am a winner!!

Seriously, it feels good. I've crossed the 50,000 word line somewhat intact, but hell do I feel great. This is the most I've written in a very long time. It was nice to have yesterday off, lots of drama from the pub, needed  a little down time. I've been rewarded with my efforts with a lovely cold that may or may not leave me fighting for my life. Gotta love the cold weather.

My brother has decided to launch his own version of NaNoWriMo for December in his own words ' solitary novel writing non-calander month (SolNoWroNoCalMo).' This did seriously make mr laugh, and snort. Which isn't very attractive of me, but shows my brother has a sense of humour.

Far as my novel goes, I think I have another 15,000 words to go before I'm happy with a first draft. I found a novel competition for the end of January, so I think I'm going to aim for that. I should keep up with the 1600 or so words a day, not a huge amount to write, but in the long term, a great way to knock a novel out in a couple months.

Wednesday 28 November 2012

NaNoWriMo #28- 5k to go

My post yesterday was a bit negative, but it turned out to be a good, positive day writing wise. I'm not someone who can claim to sit at a computer for 8 hours straight and write 10,000 words (although I should give it a try sometime...) I got to my target of 2500 words yesterday afternoon before I went to Ikea to meet my brother for tea -and to browse at the cheap furniture). I got back late evening and managed to write the rest. I've ended missing a day, and doing a major catch up the day after. Whereas before I'd have balked at the thought of writing 1667 words, that seems a warm up amount. Writing 5000 words in a day, once broken down is achievable, and enjoyable. You strangely don't fee like you've written that amount, but the handy word count lets you know all the while what you've done.

Two days left to go. See you all at the finish line.

Tuesday 27 November 2012

NaNoWriMo #27-Nearing the end

My word count is shamefully behind. Again I have work to blame, it's been a busy few days, which leaves me rather frustrated when the only down time I manage to get I need to sleep (working ten-twelve hour days with a couple hours for a break isn't the best for writing). Yes it is my sort of fault when I have taken on a part time job on top of my full time hours, but you gotta do what you gotta do. But I can't beat myself up over this too much, sometimes life has to take front seat. Writing is also priority, but paying the bills has to come first, and that means working. I do work for my family and I can't slack at that. I've still achieved 40,000 words in less than a month. I have found that in missing a couple days, I suddenly can't be bothered, though I am still bothered about falling behind. I do really want to get this month finished and say for my first NaNoWriMo I am very capable of writing a novel in a month. I am going to cross the finish line, even if I am going to be a little tired and cranky because of it.

Thursday 22 November 2012

NaNoWriMo #22

35,000 words to my name so far, in three weeks no less. There have been some days where I have lagged behind but managed to catch up the next day. This has made me realise a key factor which is good and bad about me:

I need deadlines.


The thought of falling behind a day, or missing that deadline has had me achieving the minimum word count at least. (some days have been better, in the region of 1800 words.) I haven't steamed ahead by many more, but I have been doing enough to keep my head above the water. Again what does that say about me? I shan't head too deeply in those waters, after all this is about writing, not my messed up psyche.

It's been a sense of elation and sometimes frustration that I have to write the 1667 words a day to achieve it. I know I am capable of writing more in a day, and some days when I've struggled I've written utter tosh (which doesn't bother me, editing is for that!). Life gets in the way, but NaNoWriMo has given me permission to tell it to bugger off and get on with my writing. It's felt great to get a novel out in such a short time, and it's again more practice for me. I haven't had time to wonder and ponder over things, just to get the characters and the story down on paper.

It's been a fantastic journey.

Thursday 15 November 2012

NaNoWriMo-Halfway there

I can't quite believe it is already half way through the month. I am nearing my target of 25,000 for tonight, less that 1300 words to go so I think I will make it.

Last few days have been draining and a tad dramatic. I learnt the hard way yesterday not to drink too much caffeine when you're over tired. Resulted in lots of shaking and a fair bit of crying. That aside I feel better and got some time today to tap out some words. I am starting to jump about with scenes but I will come back and fill the gaps in later, that is a way I tend to work. At least I know how this story is meant to end, and I can work on from there.

Tuesday 13 November 2012

NaNoWriMo # day 13-slowing down

Life seems to be throwing plenty to keep me busy at the moment, hardly a moment to sit and breath let alone bang out the words in the day time. I'm currently at my brother's new flat (most of this evening I've spent cleaning!) and been busy all day. I got to meet my friends Stephen for a coffee and discuss our novels, which was refreshing, he's enjoying the challenge and I loved the theme ideas he has in the novel.

Currently for today I'm about 1600 words behind, so I'm gonna see if I can get back on track for tonight (still a way to go until midnight!) Just got to the 20,000 word mark which I'm pleased with! Just gotta carry on and get this baby done in time!

Sunday 11 November 2012

NaNoWriMo day #11-beating the story back

The last few days seem to have been so busy, I am finding it very difficult to keep on top of the word count. I sat in a coffee shop for a few hours yesterday to catch up and I feel I made progress, but I did forget to update my word count!! My stats show I am starting to lag a bit, but that's simply because weekends are very busy for me (and general running about for my parents.)

I'm enjoying the story, but now I'm finding I'm not sure where to take the next part, where the heroine has to make a home for herself in the wild. In the original fairy tale, she says 'oh no problem, I'll eat some nuts and roots, and I can use my deer for a brother for a pillow....'

Yeah right! My girl is fixing the roof, falling off the ladder, trying to climb trees and getting stuck, learning what leaves to eat and which not to. I have a nice old guy helping her out, he doesn't ask much from her, if not he's a bit lonely, and his family have all moved away.

I've got the court fleshed out a little bit, and I want to make my girls interaction with the price/king a little more interesting than in the tale where the King goes 'you are the fairest maid I ever saw, come to my castle and be my wife!'

How many girls have been won by that line? So I have the guy say it in a drug induced stupor which merely makes my girl roll her eyes. But they do fall in love. That will be fun to write, I don't know the name any of the royalty yet, but I have time for that...only 19 days left! I will beat this!! I will win! For writing is coming!

Tuesday 6 November 2012

NaNoWriMo day #6- Onto the 10,000

Today I lost a bet. I actually lost it whilst I was at creative writing class. It's mildly annoying, as my friend has reached 10,000 words, and now I have to buy the coffee when we hang out next. But it's also fun, and amazing that he's reached the goal already! Considering he has a full time job and only squeezes some writing in at lunch, congrats to the guy!


Yesterday was busy for me, I worked in the morning, had a couple hours off, did a couple hundred words and had a busy shift in the kitchen in the evening. I guiltily dipped into my small buffer of words to help keep me on target. I've got tonight and tomorrow off, so I'm going to really go for it. I feel I'm sticking to the spirit of the month by writing everything as fresh as I can everyday. I'm not going into my buffer unless the scene is needed. I'm definitely not doing that tonight. There's wine in the fridge and I won't stop until I've got to 10,000 tonight.

See you on the other side, hopefully not too drunk though!

Saturday 3 November 2012

NaNoWriMo Day #3

Progress is underway for today's target of 1667 words, I aim to go over a bit everyday. I do have a small buffer of words but it does feel dishonest to use them at this point in time. They're only quick sketches of scenes I'll add in when I need them, and probably expand them too.

It's always hard finding the feet of a new main character. My girl Evara is a mix of headstrong and a bit laid back. I suppose she needs to harden up a bit after getting away from the evil stepmother! 

What I'm loving about the spirit of NaNoWriMo (this year I've really got into it) is that I'm wanting to write, the challenge is exciting, it's daring me to succeed. I recently took on part time job (only two mornings a week) and it is hard work, but quite enjoyable. I come away feeling I've done good but achieved very little as the house will no doubt be a mess when I next go back! It's good pay, but the family make sure they get what they pay for. Today I worked from 8am -2pm, and didn't stop the whole time but for a quick tea break. I'd also been working the night before until 12:30 pm, and normally after a long couple days I'd crawl home into bed and sleep. But today I got on my laptop and actually wrote a bit! I am taking advantage of the pub being totally dead tonight (being bonfire night) but I am achieving my word count each day so far. 

Feels good to be back in the game.

Tuesday 30 October 2012

NaNoWriMo 2012

Ten days ago I turned 23. I am two years away from being a quarter of a century on this earth. Dear god let's make next year a good one. I had a bit of a wobbly in the kitchen last night when nothing was going right. I had a Gordon Ramsey moment of swearing (not as fun as it sounds, but very cathartic) and said something along to lines to my mum about how I can't get a proper job. She replied, 'try harder'. Which is totally true. If at first you don't succeed, go on a reality TV show.

I have my novel roughly planned. since it's based on a fairy tale (with a lot of artistic license), I'm ready to approach this year's challenge with some actual gusto. It's a good way to train myself into writing, and rediscover the fun you can have in the process.

Rules for myself.

If I'm watching TV, then I'm can write. If I'm honest there is very little TV I really enjoy watching, it's just background noise for me most nights.

Not to beat myself up if I don't make the min word count.

It's all fun and the spirit of month.

Not to think too hard about the past of the writing, but to carry forward like a charging rhino.

and also try very very very hard not to buy a netbook or ipad mini until I've at least paid off a credit card or saved up the money!!

Sunday 21 October 2012

Where literature leads you.

This week has been a bit of an adventure. I got to write my first ever tripadvisor review, and I wasn't a total bitch about it. Sure the service could have been better, but for £30 for a night in Manchester, I can't complain about the fact the woman serving breakfast gave me ideas for a story, (as well as getting her life story in 5 mins...).

It's funny how you end up meeting famous people you aren't overly bothered about.  I know a bit about Red Dwarf, and that it's had a revival in its new series. I didn't know the name of the actor who plays Kryten until someone at the event I was volunteering at mentioned it. Since it was quiet duty wise, I got to sit in on the event and listened to an hour's delightful readings from various talented writers.

I text my friend to say Robert Llewellyn was reading, and it was funny to imagine how she was reacting to the news. Robert Llewellyn read a bit from his new book, and I was delighted at the voices he put on. Afterwards my friend begged me to get his autograph, so I shyly approached him to ask for an autograph and asked him to sign it in my friend's name. I know some famous people can get sniffy about signing any bit of paper or body part pushed at them, but he was polite and his signature put mine to shame. The boyfriend of my friend has given his blessing for me and my friend to marry. He's pretty chuffed on her behalf. So I've come away meeting someone famous and a have a marriage proposal. Time for the hers and hers bath towels.


Monday 1 October 2012

The Leaves are Turning

It's gently come to that time of year where winter in on my doorstep. The leaves are just starting to set on fire  and have not yet engulfed the trees in their inferno. I don't know why I love this time of year so much, but the air feels fresh, it speaks of winter around the corner. It does of course promise wet afternoons, cold evenings, but the rare days of dry sunshine are so rewarding. I adore the harvest moon as well, so big and bright, the halo of moonlight that glows on a clear night.

I have finished my MA, and celebrated with a friend from the course in the proper student fashion, ie, ending up on the bus drunk at 6 in the evening. Quite fun, a bit strange, a great day to feel the relief of no more deadlines. For a time anyway. I'm currently volunteering for an online woman's charity, which I may have to pack in soon for other work. It makes a good mark for my CV, but I am due to start a new care job that pays well. I have time to sleep when I'm dead, I joke. 

Next week I'm off to volunteer for the Manchester Literature festival which promises to be interest and a great time. It's just booking somewhere cheapish to stay. Staying in a dorm room isn't the best for me, given my talking in sleep tendencies.

Saturday 4 August 2012

Work Experience

I have a cup of decaff coffee (the weary writer's best friend) and some time to myself, so I thought I'd better update this little place of the going ons (or lack of) of my literary life.

Big Fat Zero.

Well, not quite. I've been volunteering for a new organisation which is proving you need to be focused and disciplined (which I haven't got much of at the moment) to get work done for someone else. The vague deadline of my dissertation is looming ever closer, but I am slowly chipping away at it. There's been little support for the dissertation so far, so I'm going with the freedom of what I want to do and hope it actually gets a passable mark. I want to do well, but my marks so far as good passes (average of marks in the 60's). 

To add an excuse, my work life has become a bit more demanding since my dad is away from the pub during the week, even though we have bar staff, time just seems to crawl away from me at the moment. Of course there are the mornings wasted when I sit in front of the computer surfing the internet. Damn you internet! Excuse over now, I've gotta pull my socks up and achieve something this year.

Sunday 15 July 2012

New Toy

I caved in a few days ago and bought myself a blackberry PlayBook. It's a neat little thing but I don't think I could type hundreds of words on here given how small the keyboard is. The best part is that I can use my phone as a mouse and keyboard. Maybe with some practice I'll get the hang of this.

Overall I think it could be good for my writing once I get a decent wireless keyboard so I don't strain my neck looking down at this whilst it's in my lap. The documents to go is basic but good, it's very usable for quick stories or notes on the go. More so it can fit in my handbag!!!

I joined a website called my writers circle which is an online forum. Feeling a I wasn't getting much writing done a member suggested I do the monthly flash fiction challenge. I threw something together a and entered it. Few days later I found out I had won! The prize is that I get to host the next monthly challenge. Should be fun to see what people make of my prompt.

Sunday 1 July 2012

I think I've finally woken up

Yes I do. I'm going to look at starting a business with my friend. But I've got to carry this through unlike a lot of other things in my life. I'll start researching all of this. 


Watch this space.

Tuesday 19 June 2012

When to stop?

I'm half way through my masters and I'm leaving the comfort zone of the course, in a matter of months I need to be looking for a job, and not just some bar tending to keep things ticking over, a proper job with a dress code and cheap coffee from a nasty machine that is never cleaned. I've been looking at several correspondence courses, and now I'm wondering those really live up to their promises. 


The British College of Journalism promises that with their freelance journalism course you're guaranteed to make back your course costs with your first four assignments or they will refund the difference. as good as that sounds, I get the sneaky feeling it's just to pull you in. Some research on the internet reveals very few people who have completed the course, it is hard finding reviews about it. I did get in touch with one young woman has done it and confirmed that the feedback from the tutors was frustratingly little, and it has taken a while for her certificate to arrive, but her media pass has arrived. Now one must wonder if that media pass will work, or if someone just photocopied an old one. I am being cynical, they are keen to sign me up, even dropping the course from nearly £400 to £245. Sounds like they need to fill a few spaces up. The course content to me is aimed at beginners or people who want to dip their toes in, though the young woman who did the course confirmed it had been useful to her. 

The next course I researched was a copy writing course promising I could earn £££ part time or as a new career choice. And guess what, after a few weeks of not replying to emails, they're willing to knock £60 off the course, just after I enquired! It's hard to tell if any of this is what I want to do. A friend said that if you can't pick it up on the job, then God save us all. So that suggests copy writing is a good help for creative writers, as we're still keeping on the pulse of creativity. 


I don't really know where I'm supposed to go with all of this. Maybe barmaiding is the life for me.






Just kidding. I'm getting out of this hell hole soon.

Tuesday 22 May 2012

If I read my own book, do I create a time paradox that is equal to Dr Who?

I'm sure that as I'm typing this, an alternate story is being played out in a backwards timeline with me discovering what being a Dr Who's assistant is really like whilst fighting off stone angels (shudder) and Time Lord knows what else. Actually, that would really rock. I'll go read over my novel some more to find out. Perhaps I'm writing this from the future (or past, or both) somehow.


Anyway, onto the subject matter of the post. Lulu.com is a fantastic resource for those who want to self publish but without the fuss of vanity publishers. You keep a lot more control over the content of your work, but the downside is of course the lack of service that you'd get from a publishing house. Getting your stuff printed by Lulu.com is easy, perhaps too easy, a toddler could do it. I had a couple copies of my novel done (typos and spelling errors galore, don't get me started on how bad it is) just to hold my beloved baby book in my hands. I was reading through it the other night, and something magical happened that can only come about reading in print. The cliff hangers felt real, just by having a white page between chapters, character's ending the chapter with actually held some gravity. It was reading like a proper novel.


My profit is zilch from this little endeavour, it isn't cheap getting copies, £7.07 for the book, then £3 postage. But they do deliver quickly and the quality is just wonderful. It satisfies my want to see my novel looking semi professional. I would have to charge £15 per copy, and even I wouldn't buy one for that much, but I'm happy to charge it at cost if someone is serious in buying a copy (I check a few times in-case they're pulling my leg, which happens often.)


But reading my own novel feels like I'm doing something vaguely filthy, like my 1950's housewife mum has told me numerous times that I'll go blind if I keep playing with my novel. Heck, if I do go blind or open up a Tardis time paradox, at least I've seen my book for what it could be.

Tuesday 15 May 2012

Sold my first book

Today fortune must have been smiling upon me, as a trio of what I would call the dying breed of English gentlemen happened into the pub and I got chatting to them about my writing. Much to my delight they actually approved of me having an education and my ambition to write. One chap kept rambling on about the love of writing and how it should be spread about, so in I approve of his attitude, the world needs more people like him. I showed him a copy of my novel and he spent a few minutes looking it over and causally announced he would like to buy it and offered a tenner. Needless to say I took him up on it. 


My dad thinks I should frame the money, but I think I'll spend it. 

Sunday 29 April 2012

10,000 words

10,000 words on my third novel, it's early days, but to me it's a significant milestone. The characters are becoming more familiar and the writing is flowing more easily. That's pretty much all I have to report on a dreary Sunday night!

Thursday 26 April 2012

Oh sweet vanity

I got my first poem published a few weeks ago, by a company named United Press. Of course I was elated, it was my first poem, my work had finally been noticed. I sent off another poem and a letter arrived saying they liked it but I didn't win the competition. It wasn't until my brother noted that the contents of the letter were word for word the same as the last. I had a niggling feeling about the whole company, using my google fu (my brother's term, not mine) and it turned out that United Press is pretty much a vanity publishing company, just no where near as obvious as the rest of them out there. I was fooled a first time, but now I wonder about letting them publish my poetry. It's a lesson well learnt early on, so there's no need to beat myself up over it. Still, I have a poem published, that counts for something....right?

Monday 23 April 2012

Just hit a glitch, nothing major.

This is my problem, I sign up for something that sounds great (like voting, you don't read the fine print or think too hard about your decision) then realise down the line you haven't got the staying power. That can't be a good sign for a writer, now is it? I suppose with the NaWriPoMo that I can catch up with it, but I'm not in the spirit of the quest. I'll do a catch up over the next few weeks and stop making excuses. On the plus side I've had a small article published on a student website.

Sunday 15 April 2012

How to do it rite, and how to do it rong

Yes the misspelling in the title is intentional, I've not lost all sense (well I have, just not with my spelling. Yet.) I was chatting with a friend of a friend the other day about books, and they mentioned their mother in law had written a book. Given their faces were like they'd swallowed a bucketful of lemons juice and bleach, I admit I was curious. A nice surprise for me a couple days later is that I was handed the said book. It's a story about a young woman named Kate who's, let me guess, beautiful, rich, but has no personality of her own other than to fall in love with a Masai warrior. The idea of the story isn't so bad, but the amount of bad grammar (even I can do better than this!) is just appalling. Any editor or even proofreader worth their salt would not let this amount of bad grammar slip through the net. There's also the issue of nouns with stray capital letters like' Giraffe' and 'Leopard'. It's as the author is using the German rule that all nouns have capital letters. Last time I checked we were writing in English. It's clearly quaint how she's tried to use African words to make it more realistic, but when you include a dictionary reference for it, it does take away the tone of the book.


Unsurprisingly, it's been published by Authorhouse. Just a quick search shows up that it's not a trusty company to handle publishing your books. Clearly the author thought that her work would be in safe hands. It appears that Authorhouse haven't updated their spellcheck software.


I can't be too hard on the book, because after all, the author has gone out and published, and the story with some work and revision may have actually been a good story, but her hurry to publish it has created a half done job. Most publishers would say that to pay for your work to go into print is not good. But some people simply want to have their work printed and keep it between friends and family. There's nothing wrong with that. Just at least chek Ur spelling is rite b4 u publizh it.

Thursday 12 April 2012

Writings

It's currently thundering outside and pouring it down with rain. The first flash did scare me because I thought someone was taking a picture of me. It's gone strangely yellow outside as well, a curious sort of hue. Strange things you notice, like how the stone wall is dry in some places, so it must be well made. Probably not so dry now though, the rains just really stepped up. Even the streets look defensive, as if they're covering their faces from the worst of the cold rain. I love the sound of it the rain hitting the conservatory roof, makes you think of being inside a glass jar. Thunder going off felt like a landmine going off, and sounds like a large plane in the sky.

Anyway, that ramblings aside. My writing seems to be coming back slowly, which is good as I have a deadline at the end of this month. It's been a bit of a struggle to shake myself out of my laziness at the moment. Internet doesn't help and my lack of will. And Ben and Jerry's on half price offer. Doing the NaPoWriMo has been good for me, flexing the creative muscles has been good warm-ups for me. The novel I started recently is starting to come together more, I'm understanding my characters better and suffering less from White Page Syndrome. Word count is currently at 7974. Not bad, it's a decent start, the characters are introduced and the setting is taking shape. I'll hit a bump in the road soon, but that's the fun part in thinking a way around it. Many novelists will think I'm rather twee and sweet getting on with a third novel, but at 22, it's too bad to say I'm on my third.

Back in my third year of university I could bang out 1000 words a day easy, but I was younger with not as much responsibility as I have now. Work hard, play hard does not apply to me. I'm a sad case of a writer when I'd rather be knitting or watching TV and eating ice-cream. But then again I am human, we have our ups and downs. I guess this is what makes the difference over art and mass produced material, that there's a touch of human in us all. 

That last blast of thunder was, to use a word a friend loves, glorious. A good note to end this blog on. 

Wednesday 11 April 2012

NaPoWriMo #5

Today's was to steal a line from another poem and make it mine. 

I have stolen away the dreams
that induced the great Kubla Khan,
In dreams I fall
down to a sunless sea. 
I hear the sirens of old,
singing the grace of their gods.
War! War! I hear the ringing
in my ears, the gasp for breath,
saltiness between my toes
and water down my throat. 

I build the dome in the air
with my waving arms, 
but poets and maids playing
in their sweet eastern symphony, 
do not hear me. The man
with bewitching eyes,
drunk on honey dew,
instead I have sunless water to drink.


Monday 9 April 2012

NaPoWriMo #3 and #4

For day three, to write about a country walk, or something nice


The blossoms unfold
Until the spring rain draws them
away, indefinite.




For day four it was to write from the point of view of someone.


I spend my days weaving,
gathering together the tresses.
singing off the loneliness with no one
to share in the beauty of my tapestries.
Of course they are all one
colour, sublime golden hues.
But even gold is boring,
if all you do is weave your long hair,
make little silky corn dolls, that
fall apart in my dove white hands.


I sit and sing by my window,
a sweet little perch,
as I darn the holes in my clothes
with my golden haired sewing thread.
It is boring, weaving all day,
with no one to hear my singing voice.
But I weather it on,
weaving scenes of children and firesides,
of grubby hearths and empty bellies.
If Mother Gothel does not come tonight,
I set my deft fingers to weave a noose
and not a rope for her to climb.

Saturday 7 April 2012

NaPoWriMo #2

Today's prompt was to pick a colour and talk stuff related to it, I deviated, but I rather like the idea of watching the Northern Lights. 




The taste of the hoarfrost,
The aura borealis,
Woven in the sky by a spider god,
Tailing of long silk, stars,
Could we taste the night,
Would it be sweet sugar,
Wrapped over our imaginations,
Kindred to the northern hemisphere,
The dark sky, too twee to call it velvet,
Even if our skin touching
Feels the same.

The hotness of our mingled breath
Expounds the night air
But not eternally beneath us,
Even a thousand hearts, hands and feet
Will melt away the tundra,
Sweet ice blues, polar bears hunting
On glades of ice, fortresses trapping
Secrets, our unknown history
Written together. 

Friday 6 April 2012

NaPoWriMo

I stumbled across a link to this http://www.napowrimo.net/ and thought what a great idea! I need a little boost for my poetry at the moment. I generally favour fiction, but I know with poetry it is a muscle you need to keep flexing or else you'll get sudden cramp and it feels sore for a while.


The prompt today was animals. I chose to write about a hare.


I looked at his sinews,
thick snaps and twacks of
ligature and bones grinding
to ecsape the gun dogs.
But there was no victory
for this hare,
he hangs solemn like
garlic hung in the rafters
but he does not deserve
a burial or rites.
I do not weep, I am
not a little girl. Grim, my brother and
I, we set to the task of carving
him up, starting at the neck,
shaving off his fluff of
sweet furs shedding like
dandelion down, but we make no wishes.
Grim, we could be
collecting tales of hares
bounding over fields,
but ours is destined for nothing more,
sustaining, thick globs
of his glorious blood,
my first rite and my brother's passed.

Sunday 1 April 2012

Life Writing: Onion Country


On a sunny morning, in rural Lincolnshire, a young woman wakes up to her day’s work. She is no ordinary young woman. She is the forefront of a revolution, but she does not know this yet. Her name is Victoria McDonagh. The backdrop to this revolution, the all-important catalyst is the pub her parents bought when she was twenty. Little would she ever realise what an impact this place would have in the course of history.
      Quietly she gets on with her day’s work, trying to set herself to writing something. But mostly she ends up texting her friends when she feels bored or uninspired. There are a few texts to the friends she’s left behind from University There is the occasional joke sent to her friend Toni Cox, lamenting her singleness.
     ‘We should just get married!’ is one text sent early in the year of 2012. The Facebook records show it has been a long time since her last relationship, two years perhaps. Her diary from university reveals scant facts about her dating life, but the joke clearly shows a point of frustration. But this is not uncommon in her generation, despite an ever expanding world of networking and tweeting, people are continually isolated even with vast amounts of useless technology.
      Her ambition to be a writer has not yet burnt out. There are still the odd status updates on Facebook saying how many characters are in her novel. She tries not to be too smug about her success in actually writing a first novel, even if it was rejected by nearly every publishing house and agent in her time. It is only marginally successful now because of her curious death.
     Victoria frequently laments her life as a barmaid and general dogsbody for the family business. Her parents were always self-employed, so taking over a rundown pub seemed a logical way forward. The actual paperwork agreeing the lease and general documents have been lost for a number of years, but many of the locals remember the family and Victoria;
    ‘She were a good looking lass, if I’d been forty year younger,’ one rather tall, but frail looking man comments. ‘His features have a strange rat like appearance to them’ and he’s ‘not all there with his cough drops,’ appear in a stray email Victoria sent to a friend describing some of the people who visited the pub.
   All of Victoria’s experience at the pub was not wasted. Her second novel, Onion Country was in its final drafts before the unfortunate accident that lead to her death. Onion Country was published by her family two years after her death, and donations went a charity for those who have been injured in incidents with pool balls and cues. It was difficult procuring any support from the locals to make any sort of donation, as Victoria once noted on a Facebook message that ‘the only way to get a tip from a local would be to prise it from their cold, dead fist, and even then it would be difficult.’ She presents them as curiously simple minded and rather backward, but this could simply have been because she had a degree. One resident was reported to say to her once. ‘Who needs a degree?  I went to university of life me.’ Victoria was rather happy when he was run over by a tractor.
     The Kindle had been a revolutionary reading device in the early years of the twenty first century, and as a keen reader Victoria invested in one. Her reading downloads show a variety of classics that she intended to read, but never got around to, as well as some other types of fiction. Sadly now the Kindle has gone out of use long since replaced ‘the Douse’ by Rainforest, the branch that took over Amazon in 2030.
   Victoria was keenly remembered at the pub for her unusual interest in handicrafts. A few locals remember her knitting behind the bar. She would often become a little too involved with her knitting and the residents developed a system of banging their glasses down heavily on the bar to get her attention, and would sometimes throw in an softly uttered swear word for variation.
   ‘Lol, I’m just getting high off the fumes coming off the munch bunch! Victoria sent this text to her brother one evening. It is difficult to pin point exactly who the ‘munch bunch’ were, but it appears to be a nickname for a group of people who made a habit of smoking cannabis. Such drugs are now long extinct, but in Victoria’s time the use was common. The laws at the time stipulate no smoking inside buildings, so actual fumes would not have been present. Victoria is possibly referring to a particular smell, the use of cannabis was said to have had a very strong, sweaty sort of aroma.
Victoria’s twin brother, Robert was two minutes younger than her, but that did not allow for any superiority on Victoria’s part. Records show that he was over 6ft and a rather solid mass. It is probably the reason why Victoria had few reported bully incidents during secondary school. Victoria closely describes one incident from her diary of a fight in which her brother took part.
      Some little shits had been giving Heather some grief, and she stupidly decided to try and have a go at them. They started chucking some stuff at her, so my brother went over to sort it out. His silent tall approach didn’t work, and on the grass he tried to trip one up. Rob couldn’t, so he just grabbed the little shit by the hands and just swung him around instead.
       Victoria’s diary kept during the years of her school life show she was secure in her ambition to be a writer, even adding a few poor poems into the pages, and oddly enough a few pictures of her cats with silly captions beneath them. The family have few surviving pictures. It is curious as many people in the early twenty first century were obsessed with displaying photographs in their homes. Some pictures have been salvaged from her Facebook account, and show an increase of pictures during her time at university.
      Her university life was fraught with the social problems that many poor students faced, especially arguments over food. One message from Facebook shows tension over Victoria using a cup full of hot chocolate without asking permission from her flatmate:
       Hi, u just can’t go around like taking stuff you didn’t ask for. PS it’s snowing outside!!!
Victoria being the wimp she was, gave a bland response about being sorry and replacing the amount taken. It is presumed they did not talk after the hot chocolate incident.
      Her diary during the second year of university shows she got little sleep in the first semester. The reason for lack of sleep was wayward housemate who in Victoria’s words ‘didn’t know the bloody difference between night and bloody day!’. There were reports of the housemate taking showers in the middle of the night and singing randomly. Presumably Victoria was still a wimp and was not able to confront the housemate about the problems, or the housemate simply didn’t listen. A record from the university shows that several complaints were put in, and Victoria recalls in her diary that when the house warden was called into have a talk with the accused housemate, Victoria gleefully eavesdropped on the whole conversation. She does admit it was childish, but felt rather good. Contemporary critics agree it was very childish.
       Some of her writings were thought lost until a discovery only a few years ago. A collection of notebooks were found in the attic space of a house she presumably lived in at one stage. Historians had hoped that the discovery would hold some great writings, but they were quickly disappointed to find that they were merely half finished stories and ideas written during her teens.
       It was during 2010 when plans were being made to start moving to the pub. Her parents wished to keep it quiet until plans were definite, but Victoria knew something was amiss as she mentions in email to a friend. ’Mum and dad must think I’m stupid. Don’t they think I won’t notice when they hole themselves up in their office for hours and don’t tell me why?’
      Such messages are hardly of someone who is supposedly revolutionary material, especially since she commanded little success and hardly managed to secure an audience for her writing. The most revolutionary thing she did was vote conservative in the 2010 elections. What is revolutionary about her is the lack of revolution. Her aims in writing were basic, until she moved to the pub. It was the environment of the pub that gave her such rich material that inspired her famous novel Onion Country. It was such a revolutionary hit, it sold millions of copies, but people still can’t really figure out what is so great about the novel. Probably because it’s a fad, just like Justin Beiber. 

No Love Lost

I do some work for an older chap who's trying to break into writing. We met at the pub a few months ago and got talking about our work. He suggested we form a partnership, and I agreed since it sounded like he had some connections in publishing I could use, and he said he's critique my work. Sounds good.

Only he didn't  want to work that way, and it quickly became apparent that I was being used for ego polishing purposes. I'm a young person, what do I have to know about writing, of course I've haven't lived for nearly long enough to  have anything good to say, let alone even be able to produce anything worth while. Needles to say our opinion about each other's writing is mutual and the only thing we have in common. 

It comes down to this, it's for the money. He pays me to type up some of his work and offer some criticism (but only what he wants to hear, but hey, I'm happy to say that for a bit of petrol money.) It's a good learning curve for when I get a job, the boss wants my opinion, but only the one he wants. I'm actually good at biting my tongue, I'm the perfect daughter to a father who likes only to hear his own voice. 

There are days I feel like hacking his website and putting up a link to something less than tasteful. I might only be a typing assistant, but my CV says I've been a mentor to a new poet for several months now. The job of a writer is to twist the truth and words, is it not?

Thursday 29 March 2012

Thursday 22 March 2012

Missing: motivation.

Missing: Motivation last seen boarding a airplane, possibly clutching a passport that could be fake. Tracks have stopped at Paris, sightings suggest the motivation has made it further into Europe, either towards Italy.


The owner of the motivation is upset and only wishes to know that the motivation will return home soon, as she desperately needs to get work done for university.


Little git probably won't even bother with a postcard either.

Sunday 18 March 2012

The Hunger Games

There's been a huge amount of hype about this series recently since it's been made into a very big film, so I decided that it was worth downloading onto my kindle.

And I think I'm getting addicted.

The main character Katniss is strong, a little bit sassy and sticks her fingers up to society (well, not openly). What I like about her is that she has flaws, she's bitter, but tough. Who wouldn't be in that sort of world? And the sense of televising such a brutal show where young people kill each other, well it if we did Big Brother in the same way, it would be a helluva lot more interesting than it is now. It would also help cull some of the stupidity in this country too.

I'm only at Chapter Three, but I'm looking forward to where this will go. Might even go see the film when it comes out.

Friday 16 March 2012

My first publication

On Wednesday morning I opened a letter to find a letter from the lovely people from United Press that they liked the poem I submitted in their competition 'Pastures New' and wanted my permission to publish.


Yes I squealed. I'm a writer, I have no dignity.


I didn't win the £100 prize (which would have really made my day) but I'm happy anyway, it's my first poem actually in print.


http://unitedpress.co.uk/


Go visit them, the competition is free to enter (but what they will do it charge you for extras, like putting your bio next to the poem, a mere 14.99 for that considerate service.)

Tuesday 13 March 2012

Dating for Writers


So at the ripe of twenty-two I decided that it was time to take my life into my own hands and try again at internet dating. I thought this time round I would part with some money and get on one of those better websites. The appeal of a guy singing to me at the train station got me to sign up onto match.com (for a month’s membership at an eye watering £29.99). And they brag that have more relationships and marriages than any other website. So why not?
   It’s filled with hundreds of semi good looking men, some with vague interests outside of hiking, meeting their mates for a beer, and let’s say, happy slapping sheep. I’ve moderated all of my filters so no one older than 30 can get in touch with me, but still somehow men old enough to be my father are trying to talk to me. Then there are the guys my age who write like five year olds. Too many emails going, ‘hey how r u?’, that I am so tempted to offer a long essay discussing the theory of metaphysical poetry, or plays I’ve read, or just something more interesting than what music I’m into.
   I think courting in Jane Austen’s era would be more fun than this. I feel my stomach plummet with dread faster than a rollercoaster with a death warning attached when yet another greasy looking man in his forties has winked at me. They most probably have a couple kids and a few tattoos and couldn’t even spell the word novel, let alone discuss the themes of one.
   Strangest of all, I started chatting to a guy who was a journalist, and it was clear there was no interest of a spark, but I’ve got some good advice out of him. I bet that made his day thinking that of all places to give a young writer at advice, it was a dating website for singles. The internet is a hard place to generate that instant, ‘wow you are good looking and this could go somewhere’ feeling. One guy ticked all the boxes, but in person, just nothing seemed to happen.
   Perhaps I’m setting my standards too high. I’m angling all of this from a very literary perspective, but books and writing are a key interest, and there’s only so far you can see going to the gym as a hobby. I find myself trawling through pictures of hundreds of guys thinking, you’re okay, not so good looking, oh what tragic fish eyes, and one good looking guy turned out to be an inch shorter than me, and he was off the list.
   The world of internet dating is as fraught as the real world of dating, expect there’s less chance of getting felt up, but the virtual feeling of being felt up is far worse (a hot shower and a bottle of shower gel helps get rid of the dirty feeling.) Maybe I should start trawling the bars in the local city, and just go with the next guy who says, ‘hello sweetheart, how’s it goin’?’. It’s about the same as what I’m getting online.
   

Lourve


Louvre
To a bronze Egyptian mirror seen at the Louvre

A mirror, not cold greyed glass,
instead warm ambiance of polished amber hues,
halo gilded owner.

Shines still after millennium of reflecting
Sand specks in dunes,
Dust gathering of old pharaoh’s breath as
he rests, cocooned under lays, brainless,
heartless, all exchanged for a feather.

A mirror raised from the tomb,
packed in reeds cut from the same riverbed,
then brought across hundreds of miles
for each thousand years of waiting.

Hush now, and view yourself, I have not seen a face
for three thousand years.
Hush, watch yourself,
connecting with your wooden carved ancestors,
polished onyx and jet beads dance
under the glass panels
as I see again.

Saturday 3 March 2012

A Misplaced Generation



His weathered hands shook as he read over the Melbourne Age again. The pages rustled as he slowly put it down and spread it out across the worktop. Matthew wiped the sweat from his forehead and then dragged his dry hand over his eyes too.
The thought of it was too much to bear, why now? Why after all this time?
‘Granddad!’ Melanie called crossly. She crossed her arms, the plastic fairy wand sticking out like a street sign from her hand. The tiara was falling forward over her forehead. ‘Are you going to come play in the garden?’
‘In a minute, sweetheart. Granddad has to finish making Grandma a cup of tea.’
‘Okay,’ Melanie sounded defeated, and hung her head in the expert childish fashion.
‘I’ll find you a bit of chocolate if you play with your brother,’ Matthew bribed her.
The smile from her was worth it, and Melanie skipped out into the garden, her dark hair swinging behind her as she went. It was hard enough trying to keep up with her at this age, especially when their mum relied on him so much for last minute childcare.
He flicked the kettle on again, and scanned over the paper in disbelief. It wasn’t possible, after so many years.
‘Probably media scares again.’ He muttered to himself, at least to correct his fearful assumptions. Normally it worked, this iron will over himself. Matthew could displace any bad thought; bury it into the workings of his mind like a gravedigger. But today, that would not happen. It niggled in his stomach like a flea irritates a dog.
‘Oh lovely,’ Margaret purred as she accepted the hot cup of tea from him. She sat in the shade in the garden, watching the children play at the old swing set. Melanie played with her younger brother who trotted after her, pointing at things and grinning wordlessly. Matthew’s hand shook, and
Margaret reached out for it, calming him.
‘What’s the matter?’ There was a rise of concern in her voice, and
Margaret abandoned her book. Matthew trembled.
‘Front page of the paper,’ He managed to say in a whisper. Margaret rose from her chair and went into the kitchen to find the paper. She came back a moment later, clutching the paper to her chest like a new born child.
‘They’ve issued an apology.’ She whispered.
‘Sixty years too late.’ Matthew murmured. ‘I can’t forgive them.’ His
face was sunk; suddenly the years had caught up with him.
‘I’m here,’ Margaret said, enfolding her arms around his shoulders.
‘What’s wrong, Grandad?’ Melanie stood on the patio, utterly puzzled.
‘Nothing pet, your Grandad just lost something.’
‘Can we find it?’ Melanie’s eye lit up at the thought of a game.
Margaret found tears in her eyes.
‘What he lost, a long time ago, it can’t be found, pet.’ Melanie looked at her grandmother, studying the words of the
newspaper, making out a few of the words.
Child Migration victims given long awaited apology’
She didn’t know how you could lose your childhood.




Friday 2 March 2012

Falling Feathers




When he disappeared, they told me not to follow. In the Goodwill Institute for Homeless Children, we di as we are told. I clasp my hands in prayer, dig my nails deep into my hands so we could feel something.
            The walls are grey. The seats are old concrete. Even the nuns wear a washed out grey habit. It was like God didn’t say ‘There shall be light’ over this place. The world like newspaper print dipped in water. Nothing thrives here. Once in the corner of the yard some children found a tiny plant sprouting up through the gravel. It was delicate and green. We watered it and kept it safe until one of the sisters came and plucked it like a tick our heads.
            Kindness was a word I had only read in the dictionary, along with words like vermillion, turquoise, flowers. But fear, hatred, we know these better than we know ourselves. It is the taste of hatred that sits on our tongues every night. It is the sweaty fear that keeps you awake.
Even when one more child has been ripped from their bed, silent hands clawing at the sheets, their cries smothered out, no one hears it, no one sees it. But we know. You turn over, pull the coarse sheets over your head. Somehow, you are glad you have another day in this miserable existence.
            They say to us that the saints were born from suffering. All of us here should be saints. The nuns even gave us pious names, as if this should help the process along. I hate my name, Hope. It’s bitter, hangs on at the end, promising me something I’m not allowed to have. I try to nurse a tiny sliver of it, hiding deep in my chest. But the sisters can smell it on you, and beat it from you. Everyone has the marks of the cane on their thighs and buttocks.
            Gabriel is like a brother to me. He could be my brother for all I know. We don’t remember where we came from before this place. It was like you blinked, and were here, suddenly alive and awfully aware of the grey around you.
            He went last night, the head sister told us at breakfast this morning that he ran away to the outside for a life of sin.
But he’s still here, I can feel him.
We have never told anyone how we can feel each other. We can share words and pictures if we feel strong. The nuns almost found out once. I fell over on the hard gravel outside and scraped my knee badly. Gabriel fell over instantly, his knee mysteriously bloody. The nuns made me kneel and pray on my cut knee for hours. I still have a scar, a bit like a heart falling sideways.
            He’s asleep. It makes me feel sleepy, and once I nearly fall over during prayer. I have to find him, I feel so lost without him.
I’ve never been much of a dreamer, but sometimes Gabriel lends me his, vast blueness, fading into glorious deep magenta. I didn’t know the sky was supposed to be blue. My dreams are often me trying to climb a wall, but between the gaps blood leaks out, and I can’t keep my grip.
            I start planning my escape. At dinner I steal a spoon, and at night I bend off the top and carefully sharpen it against the brick wall at the top of my bed. I also scrape my name into the walls, and Gabriel’s too. I store rations of bread traded from the other children for my few precious belongings.

They come for me the night before I decide to escape. Cold hands grasp at my throat, the deep voice of authority whispering in my ear not to make a fuss. My hand finds my weapon, and I drive it hard into soft flesh. The cry of pain is inhuman as I bolt from the dormitory. Children lie huddled in their beds, and I know they are awake, silently cheering for me. I make it outside, half way across the gravel.
            There is pain, like lightning across my shoulder blades. It hits me twice more. I clutch at my head, curse, scream. It’s him, it’s Gabriel.
Darkness, cool ground against my cheek.
I feel close to him now.

When I wake, the whole room is white, blinding and clean. I didn’t know so much white existed in one place. This can’t be heaven. It is too cold, too awful. The back of my hand itches, I see a small tube leading out of it, taped secure against my skin. I reached out clumsily with my other hand to try and pull it out, only to find I’ve been restrained. I trace the small tube to a clear bag of liquid. It could be water, or poison.
            ‘She could be the key to this. She might be the first successful transplant without a donor.’
            ‘His operation went without many complications; he seemed to wake at one point. The donor tissue however has taken well to his bone structure. Only time will tell.’
            ‘This is a miracle, the first miracle in years!’
            Someone strokes my hair almost lovingly. I struggle, twisting my head away weakly.
            ‘You’re our hope, our little Hope.’
            I hated him, whoever he was, whatever he had done.

I next woke to find Gabriel in a bed near mine. The pain in my back is unbearable. It  itches like someone is constantly pressing needles into my skin. Gabriel is lying on his front like me, to allow the air to get to our backs. I reach out from the bed; our fingertips just meet, but that contact is enough.
            ‘What have they done to us?’ I ask.
            His eyes darken, unreadable even to me for a moment. I didn’t need to speak, but it breaks the silence.
            They weren’t trying to make saints of us, no, they are trying to make angels.

Later, a man comes to the room, robed in clothes that once were brilliant and white, but look tatty and worn now. The air about him is repulsive, and the way he looks at us isn’t like we’re human to him.
            ‘Marvelous, simply marvelous, we want only one messenger, but here we have two. Hope and Gabriel, fitting names!’ he cries happily. He continues to speak, telling us that we are the first successful grafts to accept the donor tissue. A large wing had been found several years ago, rumours told that it was an angel’s wing. The world outside the walls is broken, filled with disease, hunger, poverty, greed, murder, rape. We are man’s salvation, we must fly to God, to prove that the remaining humanity is worthy of heaven. All we must do now is rest.
            The days blur into weeks, all the time the wings from our backs grow strong, firm and beautiful, but we become thin, despite all the rich food they feed us. The veins stand out on Gabriel’s face, bluish against his pale skin. Dark circles hang under my eyes, and my mouth had become a thin line. All the time Gabriel and I talk in our heads, dreaming of blue skies, flying endlessly. When the time comes, we’ll know what to do.

The day comes sooner than we are ready. Only we know our wings aren’t strong enough, but they are desperate for deliverance. What remains of the world is falling apart rapidly. Sirens and alarms sound in the distance, along with the sounds of bombs, faint echoes of shock waves travel through the building. They dress me in silk, a flowing robe that must have cost the earth so long ago.
            They lead me and Gabriel onto an open roof, and the sky above us is terrifying and wide. The priest chants quickly, dozens of nuns lined up neatly in praying, rosaries swinging from their clammy, nervous hands. A scroll has been tied to my waist, detailing a plea, names of those to be saved, those to be punished.
            ‘Go forth, messengers! Bring forth the love of God to purge this land, and all ascend into the glorious heaven!’
            I grasp onto Gabriel’s hand. The wind feels strange through the feathers on my back. Each air current is begging to be ridden, explored.
            ‘I love you,’ I murmur. Gabriel’s hand squeezes hard. I have never felt more alive or whole. I spread out my wings, and leap into the air, suddenly soaring. Our bodies are so light, our wings carry us up with little effort. The sky wraps around us, becoming bluer than Gabriel ever dreamed. I tore the scroll from my waist and threw it away. I faintly hear the priest cry in outrage and despair. I smile, laugh. Gabriel laughs too.
            Our wings aren’t strong enough to go the whole way. We didn’t want that, anyway. I breathe in the air, so pure and wonderful, but keep my eyes fixed on the sky above me.
            Gabriel held me as we fell.