#FridayFlash - Poker Face

            There was no electricity in the shed. Dan said this created 'atmosphere' - just seemed dark and gloomy to me. We couldn’t see each other properly. Ruth had brought candles and she lit them with my lighter, melting wax onto the wobbly old table and lodging them upright. Shadow and light flickered across her face. The candles seemed to make the shed darker, it lit the area where we all sat balanced on stacks of unwanted books or hunched on old boxes and crates, but behind us the darkness deepened.

            ‘How’d you find this place anyway?’ Moggy asked, her rich Scottish accent warming the shadows.

            Dan shrugged.

            ‘It’s Grandad’s,’ I said, earning a sharp look from Dan for breaking his air of mystery. ‘Or was,’ I added. ‘No-one’s been here since he died. He grew potatoes in the plot. Couldn’t grow anything else.’

            ‘Alright Simon,’ Dan said, smacking my arm a little harder than playful. ‘They don’t want our life story.’

            Moggy took the lighter from Ruth and began playing with it, flicking it on and off. She smiled at me through the glow. Maybe Dan was right. No electricity was good.

            ‘What now?’ Ruth asked. ‘We’re just going to sit in the dark and stare at each other?’

            Dan shook his head.

            ‘Course not, I came prepared.’ He bent down and rummaged about in the plastic bag at his feet. ‘Ta da!’ he waved a large bottle of cider in the air.

            The girls rolled their eyes simultaneously and shared a glance.

            ‘Classy,’ Ruth muttered.

            Dan’s face hardened and I could tell he was on the brink of losing his good humour. That’s Dan for you. He’s fine as long as everyone thinks he’s brilliant, but as soon as he thinks you’re laughing at him, you’d better watch out.

            ‘There should be some cards somewhere,’ I said, before he could ruin everything. It had taken ages to persuade the girls to come up here alone with us. What was the point of all that sweet talking if he was just going to lose his cool and get moody on them? I don’t think girls like that moody act as much as he thinks they do. ‘Let’s play poker.’

            Moggy’s face lit up instantly.

            ‘Strip poker,’ Dan suggested.

           ‘Yeah, Dan, in a grubby shed, in the middle of November.' Ruth sighed and shook her head. 'You sure know how to show us a good time.’

            Moggy giggled and tucked her chin into the collar of her coat.

            ‘Come on then Si,’ she said to me, kicking me lightly on the shin, ‘get the damn cards. And Dan, pour the cider, I could do with warming up.’

            Dan frowned as he stared at the bottle in his hand.

            ‘I didn’t bring cups,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll have to swig from the bottle.’

            ‘Better and better,’ Ruth muttered, but she reached for the bottle anyway and Dan’s face cleared as he unscrewed the top and gave it to her.

            I turned away, my stomach squirming slightly with excitement. Ok, so this wasn’t exactly the most romantic place in the world. And maybe letting Dan sort the drink wasn’t the best move. But the girls were still here and they were laughing and joking and they seemed kind of keyed up too. I could feel Moggy’s bright eyes on me and my stomach squirmed again. I took a deep breath and began rummaging around in the boxes where Granddad had stored his supply of cigarettes, drink and cards. Empty bottles clinked, whispery things brushed my hand, my fingertips slithered over the layer of dirt and sludge at the bottom. Finally I felt the wooden edge of the box he kept his poker cards in. Clutching it tightly I turned back to the group. Moggy was drinking from the bottle, her mouth twisting at the taste as she passed it back to Dan.

            ‘Here.’ I set the wooden box down on the table. It was a faded, plain box with a rusty metal latch to keep it closed, but the dancing candle light threw patterns across the worn surface and I remembered Granddad snatching it out of my hands when I was younger.

            ‘It’s not for playing with,’ he’d yelled, his bloodshot eyes bulging slightly while Dan and I slunk away from him. ‘I told yer to leave it be.’

            Dan was looking at the box with a strangely sombre expression on his face. Was he remembering that same moment? Grandad was always an intimidating figure. Stinking of cigarette smoke and stale whisky. His eyes were yellow, and his skin seemed yellow too. He said it was jaundice from the jungles when he’d lived abroad... fought abroad. We were terrified of him, but he impressed us. He was tall and he kept his army figure right up until he died.

            Moggy reached for the box. I grabbed her wrist.

            ‘What?’

            ‘Nothing... I just-’ How could I say I had a bad feeling about opening the box? It was just a box.

            She smiled, her lips soft and kind. She twisted her wrist so that we were palm to palm. My hand tingled.

            ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘he was your granddad.’ She drew her hand away and gave a small nod. ‘Go on then, you do the honours.’

            There was no other choice. I reached for the box. My fingers seemed to curl away from it, but I made them wrap around the solid shape. It felt warm. I drew it in close to my chest.

            ‘Grandad never let us use them,’ I said. ‘He said, they weren’t for playing with.’ I felt stupid as I spoke. Like a small child.

            ‘Come on,’ Dan snapped. ‘Grandad’s dead and the cider’s running out.’ He took another swig.

            ‘He wanted the shed burnt down after he died,’ I said, still staring at the box. ‘He left a letter to mum, said he wanted everything in it turned to ashes. She wouldn’t do it though.’

            ‘Simon.’ Dan leaned in close. ‘You’re kind of killing the mood here. Grandad was out of his head. He wanted to burn himself with it as well, if you remember - that’s why they sent him to the home. Now, either open that damn box and cheer up a bit, or give it to me and bugger off.’

            The box was still warm in my hand and for a moment I swear it shuddered in my grip. I almost dropped it, but as I looked up I saw Moggy’s large eyes watching me. I must look mad to her. She’d never let me talk her into coming up here without Ruth at this rate. I swallowed down the anxiety that was starting to bubble inside me and turned my attention back to the box.

            I unlatched the clasp. Lifted the lid and...

            A tired looking pack of cards sat inside.

            ‘These are well old,’ Dan said, reaching past me and grabbing the pack out of the box. ‘The old git picked them up from Vietnam, or Cambodia or China or somewhere like that.’

            ‘Cool,’ Ruth took them from him. She slid the cards out of the cardboard pack and fanned them out.

            I grabbed the cider and took a long deep drink, barely tasting it as it slid down my throat and into my stomach. My heart was beating madly and I had no idea why. My gaze was on the cards in Ruth’s hands, I couldn’t look away.

            Ruth’s face twisted slightly.

            ‘Ugh,’ she said, ‘these are creepy.’

            Moggy peered over her shoulder at them, her nose wrinkled.

            ‘What are these?’ she asked.

            Ruth turned them so that they faced us. Dan and I both leaned in. I frowned, squinting in the light to make them out. There were no usual images of queens, or jacks, or kings, or aces. Instead there were photos of people. Some were Asian in green khaki uniform, some were western with big perms and hanging hoop earrings, some were older with white hair and creased faces. All them wore a look of terror – their mouths twisted in silent screams, or grimaces of pain, their eyes stretched with fear.

            ‘I don’t want to play with them,’ Moggy said, drawing away and pulling her coat tighter about herself. A shock of wind made the candle flames flicker.

            ‘Look,’ Ruth said, pulling a card out of the deck. ‘This one’s normal.’ She held up a jack. The usual sort of jack you’d find in any pack of cards. My heart seemed to freeze for a moment.

            ‘Ruth,’ I said, and I knew as I spoke that it was too late. ‘I think you should put the card down.’

            Ruth turned to look at me. As she did so the card twisted in her hand. Not like cardboard. Like a living thing. Ruth let out a small cry of horror and tried to drop it. We all leapt back. The card wrapped itself around Ruth’s wrist, was slowly twisting up her arm.

            ‘Oh my god!’ Ruth was scrambling away from us, shaking her arm. ‘Get it off, get it off, get it off.’ Her face was stricken with terror.

            Moggy and I lurched towards her at the same time. Moggy wrapped her arms about her.

            ‘Simon,’ she yelled, ‘pull that bloody thing off her.’

            The card was like a red and white snake, entwining itself about Ruth’s arm. Her skin was turning an awful grey colour wherever it was touched.  Ruth’s eyes were wide, her breath coming in convulsive gulps, unable to utter any words. The thing wound up higher towards her neck.

            I grabbed at it. It was thick and muscled beneath my touch. And hot. Burning. I let out a cry of pain, snatching my hands back. Ruth staggered, her arm flailing wildly, knocking Moggy aside.

            The thing was up her neck, under her chin, curling up and over her face.

            I could hear Moggy’s terrified sobbing, behind me Dan was cowered against the wall. The thing now covered Ruth’s entire upper body and was working downwards. Waist, hips, thighs...

            One moment she was there, a heaving mass of white and red. The next there was nothing.

            I staggered back, knocking against our table. The candles toppled off. Silence fell with the darkness.

            ‘R-Ruth?’ Moggy’s voice filled the shed. ‘Ruth?’

            I fumbled for a candle.

            ‘Moggy,’ I whispered, ‘do you have my lighter?’

            I heard her moving over to me, her touch trembled on my arm, she pressed the lighter into my palm. It took me a couple of tries to get the spark to ignite. Each time Moggy’s face flared pale and sweaty in the brief illumination. Finally I lit the candle. The flame wobbled. Daniel was still pressed against the wall, his face stricken.  Moggy stood beside me, her breathing ragged.

Ruth was gone. I stood up and moved forward, to where she had stood a moment before. A playing card lay in the dust at my feet.

            I bent down and picked it up. I turned it over.

            Ruth’s face stared up at me, frozen in a look of terror.         

Writers Process Blog Tour

Thanks to Ellis Kerkhoven for tagging me into the chain for the writer's process blog tour. It's been fascinating reading writers' processes and seeing how people manage to articulate why they write and how they write.

For anyone who hasn't heard of it, the Writers Process Blog Tour is 'simply a weekly insight into and sharing of people's writing process.' So here goes...

What am I working on?

I have a lot of different stories at different stages of development, but the one that I'm concentrating on at the moment is called The Burning. 

I've been writing this novel for children aged 10+ for about seven years now. I've written draft after draft and seen my writing evolve and develop with each one. I've restarted about four times and the current reincarnation is vastly different from the others (working titles include Master Juggler, WordWeaver, The Storyseeker). It's a story about storytelling and the importance of having the freedom to create and to imagine. Culture and society is founded on our ability to communicate ideas through writing, art and song and I am intrigued by what happens when you take this freedom away or try to annihilate culture. 

I travelled to Cambodia around the time I started writing this story and learnt a lot about the Khmer Rouge, about how Pol Pot wanted to take the country back to year zero and start again,obliterating its past and history. When the regime began taking over the people they went after were the intellectuals, the masters of their arts. Now a new generation is growing up with gaps in their history. People are relearning their traditions and its hard work because there are so few people left that remember or have the skills to teach what is lost.

My three (well, ok, it's actually four) line breakdown is: 

Romy is a storymaker in a world where storymaking is forbidden and the only tales you can hear are Emperor approved propaganda. When Romy’s identity is discovered her home is burned, her mother taken and she is left alone with only a raggedy juggler boy to help her. Determined to save her mother and with the help of Mister and the travellers who can tell Romy more about her past, Romy does her best to survive and find her mother without being caught. As she travels through the country towards the City of Lies, her stories begin to ripple about her, perhaps paving the way for a new way of life for everyone.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

My genre is usually fantasy or magical realism and I like to try and turn usual expectations inside out. During University I wrote a story about a world that existed behind this world and it was run by fairies and elves and goblins. However, the fairies were huge, like giants, the elves were strange creatures with four legs, they were green all over and grew moss like fur and they were very down to earth and practical, also the goblins were not the bad guys - I like to have a different slant on things if I can.

Aside from that though, I don't know if my work is that vastly different from others, I'm just trying to engage readers in a world that feels real and in the lives of empathetic, believable characters with strong story lines to follow. I think that what makes it different is that it is written by me. My way of seeing things, of writing things down onto the page is my way and that will always make it different from someone else's.

Why do I write what I do?
Looking over things that I have written, I suppose it would  be fair to say that I write what interests me, what captures my imagination, I write to explore ideas and possibilities. But I don't ever sit down and think today I am going to write about such and such. Something triggers a scene, or a line of dialogue in my mind and I go on from there.

 Sometimes it feels like an addiction. I don't know why I have the compulsion to write, I don't know why certain characters or scenarios or ideas take shape and become stories or poems. They just do. It's all part of the mysterious make-up of the Universe. It's a kind of magic. 

How does my writing process work?
I very much admired Candy Gourlay's and Vashti Hardy's descriptions of their writing processes and would like to be able to be as eloquent as them. For me writing is a process that happens in fits and starts, that means bouncing off the walls one minute and then slinking off to hibernate the next. I'll try to break it down.

Most story ideas I have tend to be triggered by me being somewhere and seeing something. In my book The Burning my main character, the storymaker, has to be surrounded by people, by experience and by life in order to be able to tell stories. Life seeps into her, ideas recharge her, she learns and thinks and words take shape within her that she releases into stories. I feel writing is much the same - you need to fill yourself with experiences and ideas gleaned from being around people, or walking through a city, or sitting in the sun, or browsing an art gallery, or reading books, or listening to music, or watching films, or travelling to a land you've never been to before and breathing it all in. I collect postcards and objects that have the tingle of story about them and I use them as story starts. See my earlier blog post about this here or my feature for Words and Pics here).

The current story that I'm writing was triggered many years ago when I was in Belgium eating waffles in one of the main squares - all of a sudden there was a juggler there. He was wearing stilts and he began juggling and then there were hundreds of people all juggling. Here my memory gets a little hazy because I have written that as a scene in my story so many times that I can no longer remember how much of it is real and how much I have made up. But in my note book that day I wrote: 'Juggling Master at the Grand Palace dressed in red, girl apprenticed, the drumming of the clubs, cries and shouts, heat of the sun, sticky chocolate, stripey socks, red wagon.' This somehow combined with a memory of a trip to St Ives in Cornwall and sitting on the beach eating chips in the dark listening to the sound of the waves rolling in and seeing the humps of the fishing boats left stranded on the sand when the tide came out.  An image arose in my head of a girl seeking shelter in an upturned boat and meeting an extraordinary boy, a juggler, who tells stories. And the story in its first carnation was born. 

   

A couple of scenes I drew out for BackWorld

I write feverishly when I have story to write -  I can spend hours and hours in front of the keyboard not even noticing when it's time to eat or drink. My waking hours are spent thinking about my characters, about the story. I wake up with lines of dialogue in my head and plot problems solved. I'm not an artist but I try to draw out scenes and characters, I write back stories for the world I'm creating and all the characters. 

I search out pictures of my characters.

I map out the country, the terrain I'm writing about, I search out pictures of characters or places and I display them all around me.

 Then there's a lull. Everything goes quiet and I begin consuming books. I read, read, read. Preferably books that I've never read before, a mix of genres, and age range. Recently I've switched between reading Longbourn by Jo Baker, Alice in Wonderland and Generation Kill by Evan Wright. 

 I watch films and I think and I don't write a single word. Then I'll make myself write something, anything. I have a trashy romance story that I keep going as a way to get me writing again. This story allows me to write anything without self editing. I write without self-consciousness like I did when I was a teenager. I write without inhibition or rules. Then that dries up too and that's generally when I'm ready to continue with the story that went into hibernation.

 Once the first draft is done I send it out to those people I trust to give critical, useful feedback and then I start working on something else until I feel ready to start editing. I try not to edit as I write, which is hard because I love editing as much as I love writing. But as Fletcher Moss tweeted recently in his series of 52 things he's learnt since The Poison Boy was published: 'A slightly crappy finished novel is ten-times better than a brilliant first five chapters. Whatever you do - finish it! #pb52s'

 

So as you can see it's a muddle. I don't have word limits, writing days or any real structure to my writing and sometimes I wish I did but every time I've tried it's just felt forced and difficult. 

 I was asked recently what would I do if I never got published, would I still write? For me the answer is that there isn't really a choice. Yes, I would still write. I write because I have the compulsion to do so and I love it. It would be a dream come true to have my stories read and loved, treasured by readers for generations and yes, that's what I hope for. But it's not why I write. I write because the stories form inside me and so I write them out as best that I can. Besides, never is a long time and by the time you get to the end of it... well I don't expect you'll worry about things too much then!


For the next link in the chain I pass you on, appropriately enough, to a storyteller - Charlotte Comley. 

Charlotte Comley is a creative writing group organiser and now self-employed writer of educational resources, blog content and articles. She is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing for Children at Winchester University. She is a member of SCWBI and regularly blogs at  aimingforapublishingdeal.blogspot.co.uk/

 Enjoy!

The thing with writing...

Here’s what I find difficult about writing. 

Sometimes your mind can be burning with ideas. Your characters chatter away in your head, you see scenes  - image on image like beads on a rosary*- you can’t concentrate on conversations people are having around you, you drift off into storyworld while you’re in the middle of shampooing your hair in the shower and you stand there with the suds dripping off you and your skin turning wrinkly while plot-holes are fixed, motivation is explained and the way forward is revealed to you… and then, then you sit down at your computer to write it all down, feverish with anticipation, your fingers tingling with the words waiting to pour out of your brain, down your arm and out through the keys on the keyboard and… and… AND

Nothing. 

The words don’t come.

Story lines submerge themselves once more beneath the fogginess of Other Things. You sit, searching your brain for those bright gems of insight you just had and… nothing. 

You start thinking about the washing up, about the bills you haven’t paid. You start thinking about how you should be mowing the lawn, how you need to take the car in to get that engine light checked out, you notice that the windows need cleaning, remember you haven’t got any milk, that you were meant to reply to an email from your mum, that you haven’t checked social media this morning and before you know it you’re on Facebook browsing the lives of other people.

Is this just me? Why does it happen?  When will a story sucker be invented? You know, a little gadget that we can plug into our brains and that will simply suck the story straight out as it’s supposed to be. Neat and tidy, perfect as it exists inside us before our reality filters and normal life filters get in the way. 

Is writing a form of procrastination for life and life a form of procrastination for writing? All I know is that this morning I knew exactly how the next chapter of my story should be written. I KNEW. And now when I sit down to type it out, I find myself typing this instead. That’s what’s so annoying about writing – it’s so easy in your head but when you come to pin it down on the blank page it’s like catching dandelion down on a windy day wearing boxing gloves.

*yes, this is nicked from an elbow song.

One Picture, Three Stories

For me this little brooch manges to convey the  beauty and elegance that dance can encompass. I took this photo of it to try and capture the magical nature of it in the hope that it would inspire a short story.

As part of the one picture, three stories link up with Jane Heinrichs, I'd like to share some of the thoughts, stories and memories that this picture evokes in me.

1. Oh how I wanted to be a ballerina! To have grace and elegance, to twirl and leap as though I was made of dandelion down... alas for me I am flatfooted, clumsy, have no sense of timing and have all the grace, poise and balance of a lumbering anteater. Any time that I have ever performed anything resembling a dance on stage I have come in at the wrong time, or turned the wrong way, or missed my entrance completely. As you can imagine, a career in dance was never on the cards. But how my heart soars when I watch anyone else more blessed with talent, skill, and the ability to stand right up on tippy-toe without looking like a gangling idiot.

2. I found this brooch on  the pavement lost, abandoned, covered in mud and broken. It makes me wonder who owned it, where they got it from. Was it a gift? A token of love, of faith, of hope? Was it a promise? How did it get lost? Is it missed? Who could not miss such an elegant, pretty treasure? Stories can be found anywhere and attached to anything. I like to think of this little dancer as a talisman, a good luck charm for someone embarking on their life of dancing. I hope though that they are not suffering for having lost it, but rather that they no longer needed it and it has been passed on to inspire someone new (i.e. me!)

3. The Steadfast Tin Soldier is my favourite Hans Christian Anderson story. Although this dancer is made of plastic and not paper, I imagine her as the dancer in the story and can understand the love she inspired in the  Tin Soldier. If you're not familiar with the fairytale, you can read it here.

I haven't written the dancer her own story yet but if I do, I'll share it with you!

Weekly Wishes #2

Ok, so it's been an extended week, but here's how my list of wishes looks now:

 1. Use my spare time to do something related to writing be it a feature proposal, competition entry, research.  Sorting out my shelving unit and filing systems I encountered numerous story starts and ideas. One has been growing and growing. I re-read my current book and the next part of the chapter is bubbling away in the back of the mind. So although I haven't actually WRITTEN anything, I have most certainly turned my attention to writing.
2. Write the next chapter of my book (or at least start on it) This is rolling over to the coming week.
3. Sort out the loose filing on my desk. Done!
4. Send back the pension information form sitting on my desk. - It's in the envelope to be posted.
5. Write a blog post about my word of the year. Online!


So for the next week I'm just making a very focused wish list:

WRITE

Specifically:

• book
• feature ideas for submission

That's it, short, simple but very very important! 


One of the nice things about this link up is that you visit other people's blogs and offer them encouragement and motivation on their goals. Apart from this being a nice thing to do, it also means that you come across some truly interesting, creative and inspiring people, like Dija.

If you want to join in with the Weekly Wishes link up just click the button below:

Good Luck!

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Never Give In, Never Give Up: REACH!

Every year my friend makes a scrap book page for her word of the year and it's something that I've started to do too. A word of the year is sort of like a mantra for that year. Last year my word was FEARLESS and I think I lived up to it by chucking in my job and branching out on something completely new. That actually didn't work out as well as I had hoped, but the sentiment was there: Try. DO.

Last year my being fearless did open new doors for me too. It led to my features being published in the SCBWI online magazine Words and Pics (Happy Birthday by the way Words and Pics), it led to me being part of some fantastic writing workshops with the Golden Egg Academy led by the inspirational Imogen Cooper and it led me to start writing again.

This year I didn't want to stray too far from the idea of being fearless, but I have to admit that the whole job situation not quite working out did leave me quite bruised. I wanted a word that would express a desire to remain positive, to not give up, but that wasn't quite so 'in your face'. I chose:

REACH

Here's my scrap book page for it. The quality of the picture is not very good because I am camera-less at the moment and having to borrow my husband's i-phone.

The journalling on the page reads:

Never give in, never give up. 
2014 is the year to keep trying, to keep reaching for my goals. 
Flapping your wings is the first sign of life!

The last sentence links in with the Snow Bird image on the top right hand corner which is a page out of a book. It says:

'Look!' said Jim, 'he's opening and shutting his wings! He's come alive!'

For me this is a reminder that although it can seem easier to just pass through life without taking risks and making mistakes, to really live and and make the most of your life you have to take action - you can't fly if you haven't stretched your wings. So that's what this year is all about. Moving forward, making progress, reaching for all the things that are important to me with hope in my heart and the sky as my limit.

Weekly wishes

So as I was entering Jane Heinrichs give away and exploring the blogs involved in it I came across a link-up called Weekly Wishes - a community of goal setters:

I followed the button above which took me to this post: thewellnessdoer and then this post Challenge Accepted. The idea of the community of goal setters really appealed to me because my friends and I hold 'Positive Planning' sessions (to read more about what this means, visit my friend's excellent post all about them: Jennifer Grace Creates. Anyway, the idea of weekly wishes fits perfectly into this idea of positive planning - although we tend to make targets for a month rather than a week. However, as we are in the middle of March, I'm going to do a few weekly wishes and see how that gets me through, ready for April and a load of monthly wishes!

So, my weekly wishes for this week:

1. Use my spare time to do something related to writing - be it a feature proposal, competition entry, research...
2. Write the next chapter of my book (or at least start on it)
3. Sort out the loose filing on my desk.
4. Send back the pension information form sitting on my desk.
5. Write a blog post about my word of the year.


Just five to get me started, though I know a couple of them will be tricky!

Want to join in too? Then just click on the button above and get going!

One Picture, Three Stories - Childhood

Thanks to Jane Heinrichs (janeheinrichs.blogspot.co.uk) for inspiring me to think about this and for having the idea for a 'one picture, three stories' link up on her blog (see her blogpost about it here and take a look around the rest of her site, I guarantee you that you'll find something to encourage/dazzle/motivate/inspire you).

Here is my picture, and the three stories that it sparks off:

1) Childhood - that time of long hot summers, wonder, exploration and adventure, when everything is new and exciting. This is my niece. I don't see her as much as I would like as we live in Dorset and she lives in Oxfordshire so every moment I have with her is magic. This was taken last year when she and her dad (my brother) came to stay for a few days. She is standing on the walls of our town surveying the world below her and engaging in some impromptu ballet! If any child captures the sense of joy and excitement of being a child throwing herself at the world in joyful and trusting abandonment, it is my niece. She fills my heart with joy and also a wistful longing to remember the experiences and feelings of being that young, that small and that sure of yourself.

2) Hope - The pure joy and hope of being alive is, for me, captured here. The sunny day, the warm breeze, the beauty of life and the promise of a future yet to unfold. A grown up shadow falls across her, every so slightly touching her - the reassurance of security, the suggestion of the life she will lead and the woman she will grow into.

3)The Circle of Life - my niece looks extraordinarily like I did when I was her age. She brings back vivid memories of when I was her age exploring the countryside around our home. She reminds me what it is to explore as a child - something so necessary for someone who writes for children. Sweet, vulnerable, stubborn, strong, excited and overwhelmed, I can see the influences of my brother, of me, of my mother, of our family shining out of her, even (maybe mostly) when she's sulking, having a tantrum and trying to make sense of this sometimes unfathomable world she's learning to navigate. She seems to be a part of me, and I a part of her.

I highly recommend that you browse through your pictures and see which ones prompt three stories from you, and then link it back to Jane's blog and explore what other people have posted. Candy Gourlay's post is fascinating!

happy story making!

Rosie

Some thoughts on poetry

I woke up on Wednesday morning thinking about poetry.

Why?

Well I think it's because I was at Winchester University the night before listening to Rebecca Alexander talk about her experience of making the transition from MA student to fully fledged published writer. One of the things she remarked upon was that when editors were thinking about taking on her book, they looked to see what else she had written and Rebecca is a prolific blogger (see her blog here ). I have tried on various occasions to blog regularly and have not had a huge amount of success, largely because I never know what to blog about - I worry too much that nothing I say is worth reading. Rebecca described her blogging experience as being more of a journal. She used it to chart her experience of writing, had posted short stories, ideas, thoughts and poetry and had thought of the blog as writing to herself.

This approach made sense to me because I often have an internal monologue (perhaps all writers do... perhaps everyone does) and maybe blogging could make use of this monologue. It would get my thoughts out in the open, where I think they flourish and grow, and it would encourage me to write regularly (theoretically).

Rebecca mentioned that she had posted  poems on her blog and I thought this was a brave thing to do. Poetry can be personal, abstract, deeply meaningful, moving, beautiful and terrible. I write poetry and have always written poetry. I love poetry. I don't think my poems are particularly good. They are too abrupt and lack depth, but neither do I think they are terrible. This is how I feel about poetry:

I like short poems. I like poems that are simple and direct. I like poems that are strange and abstract. I often feel that most poems get to the point in the first two verses and then waffle on for a bit longer. I think some song lyrics are poetry.

I like poems that seem fragmented and alien when you first read them - you have a sense that there is something beautiful being created, but you can't quite see it. Then when you read it again and the pieces begin to fit together, the rhythm and cadence settle and you start to understand. Good poetry is like a stained glass window. Beautiful when you first see it but also a blur of colour and images; the closer you look and the more time you take to decipher the images, the more you see.

I can't write poetry like that. My brain just doesn't work that way, my words don't flow so wonderfully. My poetry is about capturing a moment. I don't have hidden meanings in my poems, they are droplets of time, a distilled memory. I have decided to share them on this blog, because why else do we write if not for others to read? My poems are imperfect, bare boned and often in need of texture, but they are part of me and how I write and how I capture the world I encounter.

The first three poems to share with you in this post were written while I was travelling in India. Every time I read these I am taking back to the moment they crystallise. I can see the colours, taste the air and feel the heat of my skin. India is a country that gets in under your skin and stays there waiting for a moment to bubble to the surface again and take you by surprise with a strange home-sickness.

Eels of Arambol

Scattered in the surf

stripy eels lie twisted

like sock puppets

fallen between washing machine

and line,

mouths gaping

silent astonishment

at the air that drowns them,

dreaming

of the spin

once more.

Tide line

Beneath the cool waters breathing

scallop shells shimmer

pricking my sole.

Splash by splash

footprints fade

sucked back to be

prints within the sea.

Firewood girl

Wrapped in pinks and greens,

firewood bundled
like hair on her head,

the girl is caught:

twiggy strands snagged

on a power cable

hanging too low.

I lift it.

She giggles

and is gone,

flitting

through palm trees,

a butterfly released.






This next poem was an entry I sent in Mslexia on the theme of Skin. It didn't get anywhere in the competition, but I did get a nice letter back saying that it had been highly considered, which was not a bad thing to get.

Landscape Face

Dimpled skin of the earth  

rising to mountains and falling to valleys,

thick craggy skin that craters,

that rolls and bursts;

the soft light of evening

undulating

over hunched backs of the Quantocks,

of the Pennines;

the dips and shadows of dell and dingle...

We stop and breathe and wonder.

Not so my face:

the Lake Districts of blemishes across my cheeks,

the Yorkshire valleys of scars

have no allusion to wonder.

Caves that pockmark the cliffs of Dorset,

with rustic allure,

make nothing but rubble of my expression.

Better for me to be a landscape.

Then my pitted, polished, rocky

skin

would cause people to gaze,

dumbstruck with admiration

while the bare, un-cratered contours

of faces that roll 

and swell like quiet water

would be ignored,

put to shame for their emptiness.

That's all for today. Maybe I'll post some more in the coming weeks.

Until next time,

RBH