“The Solstice will soon be here, but I cannot go to the Grove meeting. I shall be travelling home.”
John looked at her, smiling, “You need to do something.”
Laura sighed. “Perhaps. Maybe I can visit my plants and speak to them about the turn of the year, of the darkest time, of bringing back the light.”
“You should do something.” His voice was insistent. Strange for one who did not follow her path to be pointing her towards a rite - something important, something she needed to do.
Time passed. She fetched holly from the garden, weaving it through the three woods of her pentacle – hazel, willow and ash- to bring green and red to her altar. She threaded velvet ribbons, green and purple over the holly and seashells, over the elder necklace and around the antlers holding her maiden and mother ornaments, their soft folds draping down to the kestrel feathers, the swan feathers, the polished wood of the yew bowl.
She brought home mistletoe, placing it reverently into the horn cup; the white, translucent berries adding richness to other hues gathered there.
Laura was sad it would not be blessed over the Yule fire. There would be no gift for the Dark Goddess this year.
How mistaken she could be!
The postman left a parcel. Out of brown wrapping she drew a gift. John explained in his letter. “The painting was done a while back. It was never quite what I wanted it to be, but I supposed that comes with working in a medium like oil on a small canvas, with limited skill. I always wondered why his face was never clearer, but perhaps it was never meant to be seen clearly. I thought you might like to have it.”
She sat for a while, taking in the scene – the Horned God striding through his wildwood, his long knife in his hand, caught by surprise by the watcher, turning to look over his shoulder for the briefest instance before returning on his way. His long legs and flank were fur-coated. There were antlers clearly visible on his head, yet merging with the branches of trees around him; vegetation shielding him from prying eyes.
It was time. It was the shortest day. She would be given space to bring light into darkness, blessing both mistletoe and gift before the Old Ones.
She lit her candles – a circle of flame creating a place apart from her modern world. She did not need to contain the sacred space, no circle casting on this occasion; it was her intent which was paramount.
She lit a charcoal brick, placing it carefully in sand where a bowl sat in the centre of the light. Incense from far away dropped onto heat, wafting smoke and scents into the air.
She stood before the flames, adopting the stance of invocation which came so easily to her now.
“I ask for blessings upon this room, upon this house, upon those whom I love and who love them.
“I bring air to this place in the incense burning. Air, so essential to our life; for without breath we cannot live.
“I bring fire to this place in the candles burning, drawing light into the darkness as we move from the dark time of the year once more into the time of light, illuminating our path.
“I bring water into this place.” She stopped and dipped her hand into the bowl, scattering droplets around the circle. “Water which sustains us, from which we came; without which we cannot survive.
“I bring earth into this place. Earth, which is beneath our feet, which is in the wood of the instruments, the wood of the candleholders, the wood of the furniture which supports us. Earth, from which we came and to which we shall return when the life spark leaves us.”
She drew the mistletoe from its horn and brought it towards the smoke. “I ask blessings for this mistletoe. May it bring joy, health and happiness to this household for the coming year.” She passed it through the smoke, before returning it to its place.
She turned to the painting, now sitting in the centre of the bookcase. She carried it tenderly towards the smoke. “I ask for this picture to be blessed with love; which was born of love and sent with love to be used on Hu Garden’s altar, to bring down the God into this place beside the Goddess. This day, when she brings forth her son into the quiet of the darkness, so he may grow and take us into the light.”
She passed the picture three times widdershins around the smoke, then returned it to the plinth.
“Finally,” she said, “I dedicate myself anew to the Old Ways. I ask for patience and compassion towards all who approach me. I ask for clarity of speech so all may understand my ways and how they, too, may be helped.”
Her voice dropped and her eyes glittered with tears. “I am so blessed in all that has been given me and I offer thanks.”
“Is there not one more thing you wished to do?” a voice inside reminded her.
She went to the bookcase and withdrew her herbal tarot cards. Sitting in the centre of the room, she shuffled the pack, then drew the first three from the top, laying them face up in front of her.
The first card was the five of wands – Turmeric. Such a lush, green plant, speaking of abundance in her life. The stave were crossed, preventing her from moving back into the past, but the wood showed green shoots - new life!
The second card was the six of wands – hawthorn, the herb of the heart, of love, of nurturing. Six staves were stuck in the earth, still sprouting leaves, protecting the man in the centre - a time for rest amidst the bustle of life before continuing with the battle.
The third card was Judgement. A woman held a goldenseal plant in her hands – rich, fruitful, mature, she was the plant, offering herself to the opportunities in the sky – renewal, new beginnings.
It was enough.
She put the cards away, standing to thank those who had drawn near to assist with her rite. She bad them farewell, opening the door to allow them to leave and the outside world to enter once again.
She doused the lights, leaving a single votive candle to freshen the air with scents of oranges and cloves.
It was done. She felt the quiet of ritual fill her deep inside and she smiled.
“A Blessed Yule to you and all you love and cherish.”
Let it be so.
Friday, 18 December 2009
Monday, 16 November 2009
Excited, inspired, enthralled! : An evening with Roger Ellory
On Wednesday 11 November 2009, the crime writer, R J Ellory, came to talk to Solihull Writers Group. We usually have at least two speakers during our writing year. They are generally enjoyable and informative, but over the past few years I have not felt the need to take copious notes.
Roger Ellory was different. From the minute he began to talk, I was reaching for paper and pen to capture the nuggets of inspiration he was offering. He excited me and made me think everything was possible. As he said, "A published author today was an unpublished author yesterday. A writer is someone who has to write. They have no choice, so never apologise just because you haven't been published."
You wouldn't think that 96% of writers work full-time; that the average earnings of best selling authors is £7,000 a year. If a publisher gives you an advance and your book doesn’t make the requisite number of sales to meet the advance, you won’t be offered a second contract.
We were curious to discover Roger’s background and his inspiration for writing. He told us much of his life had been devoted to drug rehabilitation following his brother’s early death from a drug overdose. He first started writing ate the age of 22 during a course on nutritional and dietetic therapy for drug rehabilitation after noticing another student engrossed in a novel. He wanted to write something which held the reader’s complete attention.
Over the next six years he wrote twenty-two novels in longhand and spent £12,000 on photocopying and sending them out to publishers and agents. He collected over six hundred rejection letters and decided to let the matter rest. He was £40,000 in debt and needed to recoup his losses.
The day after the 9/11 terrorist attack on New York, Roger remembered a conversation with his grandmother. She told him, “Don’t live a ‘what if?’ life.” Looking back, he realised the time he felt most happy and creative was whilst he was writing. He began again and wrote three books in seven months. He sent the second manuscript out to thirty six publishers.
Thirty five manuscripts were returned with rejection slips. The remaining publisher was Bloomsbury. Having not heard from them for three months, Roger rang them to ask for the return of his manuscript so he could start sending it out again. The person he spoke to had read the novel and liked it, but he needed to get twelve other people within the company to read it and agree to accept it for publication. This took a further two months before a contract was signed.
Roger received £5,000 in advance. The manuscript was taken to the Frankfurt book fair where three translation rights were arranged. This paid for the advance.
Roger doesn’t think anyone can write full-time. A writer has to get out and “do stuff”. He also told us to “Write about your passions, don’t fall into the trap of writing about what you know – if you stick to that you’ll find yourself limited. You have to write the book you want to read, not the one you think other people would like.”
Roger works very quickly. He currently writes 2,500-3,000 words a day whilst researching simultaneously. Most of his novels are crime thrillers set in the US, so his attention to time and details has to be meticulous. He can produce a 120,000 word novel in 6-8 weeks.
He believes there are three types of novel.
(i) A page-turning pot-boiler where the reader is hooked in the first paragraph or page. The plot twists and turns. Afterwards, a little like a Chinese meal which leaves you feeling hungry, you can’t actually remember what happened in the book.
(ii) Literary fiction – a triumph of style over substance.
(iii) Books found on Desert Island Discs – compelling narrative tells the story in a way that can’t be put down. You read the book again and again, buying copies as gifts for friends and acquaintances. It is challenging, human emotionally engaging and changes your perspective on life. Talking about the book will always include a narrative by the reader on, “This is how it made me feel”.
Non-fiction books convey information. The primary purpose of fiction is to evoke an emotion, not to educate people, so too much information or detail is not helpful. A story can be organic and grow.
Roger recommended two books for the aspiring novelist.
• On Writing by Stephen King
• Paris Literary Review Anthology No 1 published by Picador
When asked how to go about getting an agent, Roger directed us to his website. He thoroughly recommended getting an agent because publishers will not consider unsolicited manuscripts any more. They can also be successful in negotiating substantially larger contracts than an author on their own. An agent will take 10% of earnings but will be concerned with the author’s best interests and leave them to do the important job of writing.
The importance of dialogue in a novel was discussed. When using dialogue, you can achieve the same result in three lines where it might take six pages of description. A fast pace novel has a scene or dialogue of significance which is pivotal to the plot every 1,000 words.
The easiest way to edit writing is to read your own work as a reader. Print it out and read it aloud. A writer becomes a writer by writing. If you read something you have written six months ago and can’t see how it could be made better, you are not improving as a writer.
Roger Ellory was different. From the minute he began to talk, I was reaching for paper and pen to capture the nuggets of inspiration he was offering. He excited me and made me think everything was possible. As he said, "A published author today was an unpublished author yesterday. A writer is someone who has to write. They have no choice, so never apologise just because you haven't been published."
You wouldn't think that 96% of writers work full-time; that the average earnings of best selling authors is £7,000 a year. If a publisher gives you an advance and your book doesn’t make the requisite number of sales to meet the advance, you won’t be offered a second contract.
We were curious to discover Roger’s background and his inspiration for writing. He told us much of his life had been devoted to drug rehabilitation following his brother’s early death from a drug overdose. He first started writing ate the age of 22 during a course on nutritional and dietetic therapy for drug rehabilitation after noticing another student engrossed in a novel. He wanted to write something which held the reader’s complete attention.
Over the next six years he wrote twenty-two novels in longhand and spent £12,000 on photocopying and sending them out to publishers and agents. He collected over six hundred rejection letters and decided to let the matter rest. He was £40,000 in debt and needed to recoup his losses.
The day after the 9/11 terrorist attack on New York, Roger remembered a conversation with his grandmother. She told him, “Don’t live a ‘what if?’ life.” Looking back, he realised the time he felt most happy and creative was whilst he was writing. He began again and wrote three books in seven months. He sent the second manuscript out to thirty six publishers.
Thirty five manuscripts were returned with rejection slips. The remaining publisher was Bloomsbury. Having not heard from them for three months, Roger rang them to ask for the return of his manuscript so he could start sending it out again. The person he spoke to had read the novel and liked it, but he needed to get twelve other people within the company to read it and agree to accept it for publication. This took a further two months before a contract was signed.
Roger received £5,000 in advance. The manuscript was taken to the Frankfurt book fair where three translation rights were arranged. This paid for the advance.
Roger doesn’t think anyone can write full-time. A writer has to get out and “do stuff”. He also told us to “Write about your passions, don’t fall into the trap of writing about what you know – if you stick to that you’ll find yourself limited. You have to write the book you want to read, not the one you think other people would like.”
Roger works very quickly. He currently writes 2,500-3,000 words a day whilst researching simultaneously. Most of his novels are crime thrillers set in the US, so his attention to time and details has to be meticulous. He can produce a 120,000 word novel in 6-8 weeks.
He believes there are three types of novel.
(i) A page-turning pot-boiler where the reader is hooked in the first paragraph or page. The plot twists and turns. Afterwards, a little like a Chinese meal which leaves you feeling hungry, you can’t actually remember what happened in the book.
(ii) Literary fiction – a triumph of style over substance.
(iii) Books found on Desert Island Discs – compelling narrative tells the story in a way that can’t be put down. You read the book again and again, buying copies as gifts for friends and acquaintances. It is challenging, human emotionally engaging and changes your perspective on life. Talking about the book will always include a narrative by the reader on, “This is how it made me feel”.
Non-fiction books convey information. The primary purpose of fiction is to evoke an emotion, not to educate people, so too much information or detail is not helpful. A story can be organic and grow.
Roger recommended two books for the aspiring novelist.
• On Writing by Stephen King
• Paris Literary Review Anthology No 1 published by Picador
When asked how to go about getting an agent, Roger directed us to his website. He thoroughly recommended getting an agent because publishers will not consider unsolicited manuscripts any more. They can also be successful in negotiating substantially larger contracts than an author on their own. An agent will take 10% of earnings but will be concerned with the author’s best interests and leave them to do the important job of writing.
The importance of dialogue in a novel was discussed. When using dialogue, you can achieve the same result in three lines where it might take six pages of description. A fast pace novel has a scene or dialogue of significance which is pivotal to the plot every 1,000 words.
The easiest way to edit writing is to read your own work as a reader. Print it out and read it aloud. A writer becomes a writer by writing. If you read something you have written six months ago and can’t see how it could be made better, you are not improving as a writer.
To compost or not to compost? – that is the question.
This is another snippet written to a given theme.
I have to confess a crime. It weighs heavily on my conscience. It goes against my beliefs and the current exhortation to save our planet.
On Tuesday, November 6 2008 , I burnt a pile of leaves. I did not put them in a black plastic bag and soak them with cold water and leave them for eighteen months to rot down into leaf mould. I also failed to place them in the green recycling bin given to me for that specific purpose by Solihull Metropolitan Borough Council. My compost heap was nearby but I did not place them amongst the grass cuttings.
My green credentials have been dinted. I can no longer consider myself a true friend of the earth. I hang my head in shame.
It was so much easier when I was a child. All vegetable matter went over the wall into the neighbouring field. Anything edible was eaten by passing badgers, foxes, stoats, weasels or fieldmice. It was not a concern. It did not smell. It disappeared over time. The same spot has been used for the past 48 years and is indiscernible amongst the wonderful crop of nettles, grass and horseradish growing on the other side of the wall.
All waste food goes to the hens. They adore potato peelings, meat, vegetables and the regular supply of mice and shrews caught in traps in the house or shed which holds the two deep freezes. They used to be pernickety about carrots, but since my father took over their feeding, they now show no distain.
There’s nothing to consume my waste food, it has to go into the bin to be removed by the rubbish men. I can’t even place vegetable peelings on the compost heap because of the rats. We know about rats. They really like our garden shed and our garage. My eldest son got to the stage where he recognised signs of rat infestation and would ring Environmental Services off his own bat. Even though he now lives elsewhere, he still rings up to check nothing has set up home in his bass drum or chewed through any of the other drum heads.
We can’t do as my father does and sit in the barn with a 12-bore until the rats emerge. It’s a slightly cleaner death than getting caught in a rat trap. Of course they’re illegal and the one hanging up in the barn is just an antique.
I understand we must recycle, re-use and compost our waste. Raw materials are scarce and there is no point in creating something new when we have the means to turn car tyres into place mats and juice cartons into the covers of notebooks. The new Eden Project teaching centre is filled with such examples from all over the world. It is very impressive.
Even at work I must wash out my milk cartons and the plastic bowls which held my lunchtime salad and place them in the recycling bin. Corporate clients expect their lawyers to now have green credentials alongside their legal practice certificates.
What should I do? Autumn stalks us and winter will not be far behind. As trees slumber more leaves are going to appear on the grass. I could leave them for the winds to transport elsewhere and forget them. This has been a very successful strategy over the years but I doubt wins me neighbours as good friends.
There will be trees to fell and hedges to trim this winter. Some of the wood will go for turning, but no wood turner wants hawthorn sticks and laurel leaves along with rose and blackberry brambles. The green wheelie bin may well be filled, but I suspect the fire pit will also play its part in garden management. The ash will add phosphorus to the compost heap and everything will come full circle once again.
I have to confess a crime. It weighs heavily on my conscience. It goes against my beliefs and the current exhortation to save our planet.
On Tuesday, November 6 2008 , I burnt a pile of leaves. I did not put them in a black plastic bag and soak them with cold water and leave them for eighteen months to rot down into leaf mould. I also failed to place them in the green recycling bin given to me for that specific purpose by Solihull Metropolitan Borough Council. My compost heap was nearby but I did not place them amongst the grass cuttings.
My green credentials have been dinted. I can no longer consider myself a true friend of the earth. I hang my head in shame.
It was so much easier when I was a child. All vegetable matter went over the wall into the neighbouring field. Anything edible was eaten by passing badgers, foxes, stoats, weasels or fieldmice. It was not a concern. It did not smell. It disappeared over time. The same spot has been used for the past 48 years and is indiscernible amongst the wonderful crop of nettles, grass and horseradish growing on the other side of the wall.
All waste food goes to the hens. They adore potato peelings, meat, vegetables and the regular supply of mice and shrews caught in traps in the house or shed which holds the two deep freezes. They used to be pernickety about carrots, but since my father took over their feeding, they now show no distain.
There’s nothing to consume my waste food, it has to go into the bin to be removed by the rubbish men. I can’t even place vegetable peelings on the compost heap because of the rats. We know about rats. They really like our garden shed and our garage. My eldest son got to the stage where he recognised signs of rat infestation and would ring Environmental Services off his own bat. Even though he now lives elsewhere, he still rings up to check nothing has set up home in his bass drum or chewed through any of the other drum heads.
We can’t do as my father does and sit in the barn with a 12-bore until the rats emerge. It’s a slightly cleaner death than getting caught in a rat trap. Of course they’re illegal and the one hanging up in the barn is just an antique.
I understand we must recycle, re-use and compost our waste. Raw materials are scarce and there is no point in creating something new when we have the means to turn car tyres into place mats and juice cartons into the covers of notebooks. The new Eden Project teaching centre is filled with such examples from all over the world. It is very impressive.
Even at work I must wash out my milk cartons and the plastic bowls which held my lunchtime salad and place them in the recycling bin. Corporate clients expect their lawyers to now have green credentials alongside their legal practice certificates.
What should I do? Autumn stalks us and winter will not be far behind. As trees slumber more leaves are going to appear on the grass. I could leave them for the winds to transport elsewhere and forget them. This has been a very successful strategy over the years but I doubt wins me neighbours as good friends.
There will be trees to fell and hedges to trim this winter. Some of the wood will go for turning, but no wood turner wants hawthorn sticks and laurel leaves along with rose and blackberry brambles. The green wheelie bin may well be filled, but I suspect the fire pit will also play its part in garden management. The ash will add phosphorus to the compost heap and everything will come full circle once again.
Friday, 30 October 2009
Coals to Newcastle
The past few months have been filled with herbs and needlecraft - both knitting and sewing - leaving little time or inspiration for writing. Here is a little tale composed last Monday for Solihull Writers Workshop on Wednesday evening. - enjoy!
I love my mother-in-law. Really, I do. She produced my husband thirty six years ago and brought him up to be the wonderful human being I adore. She is good with the kids, although sometimes she seems perplexed by them. It doesn’t help we live half way across the country so she doesn’t get to see them as often as everyone would like.
She is scrupulously fair when it comes to Christmas and birthday presents.
I appreciate that, having suffered as a child from being the recipient of second class presents compared with my more popular cousins. I’ll never forget the Christmas when we both were given a dolls cradle. My cousin’s was new with a beautiful canopy made from rose-covered material which draped down over the crib.
Mine was just a plain crib, obviously second hand with scuffed wooden legs and no covers. I couldn’t help but be disappointed, but there was nothing I could do about it except wistfully yearn for something I couldn’t have.
“I know you don’t have time to make jam, so I bought you some from Asda.” Janet fished around in the bottom of her carrier bag and brought out a huge jar of strawberry jam.
“That’s very kind of you, Mum,” I mumbled, but she wasn’t finished.
“Reg and I had a glut of strawberries this year and I was going to make jam but somehow we ate them all and when I thought about it, all the Pick Your Own strawberries were finished. I was so disappointed. I know how much Martin likes his home made strawberry jam. He went through a phase when he was eight when he wouldn’t eat anything else for his tea except my home made strawberry jam.
“It didn’t matter what other jam I made – gooseberry, raspberry, damson, plum, apricot, he wouldn’t touch them. He only liked strawberry.” She smiled fondly at the memory. “You know, I have a picture of him eating strawberry jam at the Sunday School tea party. He wouldn’t have eaten anything if I hadn’t sent a jar of my jam along with him. I must remember to show it to you next time you come down.”
“Cup of tea?” I smiled weakly, holding up the teapot.
“Yes please, dear. Nothing like a cup of tea after a long journey.” She searched in the bag again. “I’ve brought you some scones too. I know you’re too busy to bake now you’ve got this little job.”
I poured the tea and went to find a plate for the scones. Janet pulled out her apron from the bag and sat at the kitchen table happily halving scones and buttering them, before smothering them with shop bought strawberry jam - the superior kind with at least thirty per cent fruit and only half the sugar.
Martin came into the kitchen with his Dad. He’d been showing him the new car. My new car. Part of the deal when I started work as Chief Executive for a small commercial company. True, it was a job share, because I wanted to be at home when the kids returned from school, but it was still a sizable salary and a considerable responsibility. I’d tried to tell Janet about my new job during their previous visit, but she fell asleep half way through my explanation. No matter what either of us said to her, she was convinced I was working part time in one of the local shops.
“Scones for tea?” Martin’s face lit up.
“Yes,” I said quickly, “Your mum very kindly brought us some scones and strawberry jam from Asda. She said it was the only jam you liked.”
Martin frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head at him. He knew as well as I did the larder was packed with home made jams and jellies I’d been making throughout the year. He’d helped devise a system for hanging the jelly bag when I’d made crabapple jelly the previous week and he had picked the huge yellow quinces which lay in a basket in the scullery waiting to be turned into jelly and cheese.
Martin loved all my preserves and boasted to his friends we never bought anything that wasn’t home made.
He bent down and kissed his mother on her soft cheek.
“Thanks, Mum.”
I love my mother-in-law. Really, I do. She produced my husband thirty six years ago and brought him up to be the wonderful human being I adore. She is good with the kids, although sometimes she seems perplexed by them. It doesn’t help we live half way across the country so she doesn’t get to see them as often as everyone would like.
She is scrupulously fair when it comes to Christmas and birthday presents.
I appreciate that, having suffered as a child from being the recipient of second class presents compared with my more popular cousins. I’ll never forget the Christmas when we both were given a dolls cradle. My cousin’s was new with a beautiful canopy made from rose-covered material which draped down over the crib.
Mine was just a plain crib, obviously second hand with scuffed wooden legs and no covers. I couldn’t help but be disappointed, but there was nothing I could do about it except wistfully yearn for something I couldn’t have.
“I know you don’t have time to make jam, so I bought you some from Asda.” Janet fished around in the bottom of her carrier bag and brought out a huge jar of strawberry jam.
“That’s very kind of you, Mum,” I mumbled, but she wasn’t finished.
“Reg and I had a glut of strawberries this year and I was going to make jam but somehow we ate them all and when I thought about it, all the Pick Your Own strawberries were finished. I was so disappointed. I know how much Martin likes his home made strawberry jam. He went through a phase when he was eight when he wouldn’t eat anything else for his tea except my home made strawberry jam.
“It didn’t matter what other jam I made – gooseberry, raspberry, damson, plum, apricot, he wouldn’t touch them. He only liked strawberry.” She smiled fondly at the memory. “You know, I have a picture of him eating strawberry jam at the Sunday School tea party. He wouldn’t have eaten anything if I hadn’t sent a jar of my jam along with him. I must remember to show it to you next time you come down.”
“Cup of tea?” I smiled weakly, holding up the teapot.
“Yes please, dear. Nothing like a cup of tea after a long journey.” She searched in the bag again. “I’ve brought you some scones too. I know you’re too busy to bake now you’ve got this little job.”
I poured the tea and went to find a plate for the scones. Janet pulled out her apron from the bag and sat at the kitchen table happily halving scones and buttering them, before smothering them with shop bought strawberry jam - the superior kind with at least thirty per cent fruit and only half the sugar.
Martin came into the kitchen with his Dad. He’d been showing him the new car. My new car. Part of the deal when I started work as Chief Executive for a small commercial company. True, it was a job share, because I wanted to be at home when the kids returned from school, but it was still a sizable salary and a considerable responsibility. I’d tried to tell Janet about my new job during their previous visit, but she fell asleep half way through my explanation. No matter what either of us said to her, she was convinced I was working part time in one of the local shops.
“Scones for tea?” Martin’s face lit up.
“Yes,” I said quickly, “Your mum very kindly brought us some scones and strawberry jam from Asda. She said it was the only jam you liked.”
Martin frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head at him. He knew as well as I did the larder was packed with home made jams and jellies I’d been making throughout the year. He’d helped devise a system for hanging the jelly bag when I’d made crabapple jelly the previous week and he had picked the huge yellow quinces which lay in a basket in the scullery waiting to be turned into jelly and cheese.
Martin loved all my preserves and boasted to his friends we never bought anything that wasn’t home made.
He bent down and kissed his mother on her soft cheek.
“Thanks, Mum.”
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Poems of Place
Poems are such personal forms of literature.
Last Night there was a programme on BBC4 about the lavicious lifestyle of Lord Byron. I knew very little of his life story, not surprising when you think I studied his poems whilst attending an all girl's school where such things were never discussed. I loved his Prisoner of Chillon, not realising how Byron associated himself with the ancient stories of an imprisoned freedom fighter.
Rupert Everret rowed over to the Isle where both Byron and Shelley left their names carved into the dungeon rocks as grafitti. It brought a sense of being able to touch the past by visiting the present.
Sometimes I feel the same way about places I visit. Our recent trip to Northumberland inspired me record a memory of one of the Caravan Club Certified locations. There wasn't time for me to write such a beautiful and carefully crafted ode as Lord Byron, but it was enough to win me second place in the Solihull Writer's workshop annual poetry competition judged by the Birmingham poet laureat, Chris Morgan. Brenda Langmead won first prize, with her poignant memorial to her great aunt.
Last Night there was a programme on BBC4 about the lavicious lifestyle of Lord Byron. I knew very little of his life story, not surprising when you think I studied his poems whilst attending an all girl's school where such things were never discussed. I loved his Prisoner of Chillon, not realising how Byron associated himself with the ancient stories of an imprisoned freedom fighter.
Rupert Everret rowed over to the Isle where both Byron and Shelley left their names carved into the dungeon rocks as grafitti. It brought a sense of being able to touch the past by visiting the present.
Sometimes I feel the same way about places I visit. Our recent trip to Northumberland inspired me record a memory of one of the Caravan Club Certified locations. There wasn't time for me to write such a beautiful and carefully crafted ode as Lord Byron, but it was enough to win me second place in the Solihull Writer's workshop annual poetry competition judged by the Birmingham poet laureat, Chris Morgan. Brenda Langmead won first prize, with her poignant memorial to her great aunt.
Monday, 13 July 2009
Making wishes come true!
What gives you inspiration to write? This is a question I am often asked. My usual reply includes the sage thought, “Writers write about what they know”. We all do this. We use experiences, phrases, stories told by others and pictures we see in our minds to weave a web of words to create something new, but which is based firmly in our own reality.
The opportunity for stories comes in many different guises. Take last week. I was sitting on New Street station in Birmingham waiting for a train to take me to Sheffield for a regular meeting with my line manager. The train was late and the man sitting next to me became very agitated. He was travelling to Leeds for a meeting with a different law firm from mine and was worried he would be very late.
“Why are you going to Sheffield?” he asked.
“My boss likes to make sure I’m alive and being nice to people.”
“That’s good,” he said. “I’m still alive yet 15 years ago a man was charged with my manslaughter. The police weren’t so nice then as they are today.”
It seemed such a strange fact to be sharing with a total stranger on a railway station. In one way I could wish there had been opportunity to discuss his life story further, but even so, he offered me the perfect beginning to a murder mystery or thriller – if I wrote those genres!
So where did The Lady and the Bull come from?
In 1999, Cornwall saw a total eclipse of the sun. It was also the year I decided to start visiting ancient sites all over the county. While my family enjoyed themselves at Shires adventure park, I went in search of some standing stones on the moor and Pawton Quoit. As I walked along a farm track, I was accosted by two traveller’s dogs. The owner came out of their landrover and quietened them so I could pass.
The following week, a fellow camper and I spent a day hunting stone circles, quoits and holy wells. When we reached Madron Well, a family were already inside the chapel. The mother was breastfeeding her baby while their two older children sat quietly on the stone seats by the alter. One of the two men with her asked me if I wanted to taste the water inside the baptistery and gave me instructions how to step on the middle stone.
I refused, feeling nervous and worried I would slip into the water. It was something I always regretted. When I returned the following year, the baptistery was dry – the local farmer had diverted the water supply from the sacred well. It was ten years before the water flowed again, thanks finally to the work of Andy Norfolk and others who love the site.
Even when I did collect water flowing into the stone baptistery, having gone to the chapel again with some German friends of ours, I was accosted by a local busybody who told me it was contaminated and shouldn’t be drunk!
But what of The Lady and the Bull? The story began as an account of our original day in West Penwith, which was eventually published in Circle magazine a year later. Then I took the first 500 words and decided to see what would happen if the woman who refused the water went back. The man who told me how to collect the water fascinated me. What would happen if he were still around? What was his history? What would she learn from being associated with him?
It was a difficult story to write. I had a vague idea of the outline, but in the end, the story decided what it wished to portray. When writing dialogue became a challenge, I was grateful to a friend of mine for helping to role play some of the scenes online so I could use the saved script as a basis for parts of the story.
For me, creating The Lady and the Bull was a profound teaching experience, helping me to understand a spiritual concept in greater detail. My readers may enjoy it for the developing romance and descriptions of wonderful Cornish countryside.
My only sadness is the fate of Altarnun bowsenning pool. I wish it were the clear, bathing pool it once was and could be again. Unfortunately, the farmer who owns the land appears to have no wish to conserve it and has not co-operated with local Cornish Archaeologists. The Parish Council at Altarnun is similarly uninterested in saving their unique heritage for future generations despite approaches by myself and others from the Wells and Spas community.
The Roman remains lie hidden and inaccessible under fallen trees and undergrowth. Maybe, the strength of the story will somehow reach out and touch the future in a way we cannot perceive today.
The opportunity for stories comes in many different guises. Take last week. I was sitting on New Street station in Birmingham waiting for a train to take me to Sheffield for a regular meeting with my line manager. The train was late and the man sitting next to me became very agitated. He was travelling to Leeds for a meeting with a different law firm from mine and was worried he would be very late.
“Why are you going to Sheffield?” he asked.
“My boss likes to make sure I’m alive and being nice to people.”
“That’s good,” he said. “I’m still alive yet 15 years ago a man was charged with my manslaughter. The police weren’t so nice then as they are today.”
It seemed such a strange fact to be sharing with a total stranger on a railway station. In one way I could wish there had been opportunity to discuss his life story further, but even so, he offered me the perfect beginning to a murder mystery or thriller – if I wrote those genres!
So where did The Lady and the Bull come from?
In 1999, Cornwall saw a total eclipse of the sun. It was also the year I decided to start visiting ancient sites all over the county. While my family enjoyed themselves at Shires adventure park, I went in search of some standing stones on the moor and Pawton Quoit. As I walked along a farm track, I was accosted by two traveller’s dogs. The owner came out of their landrover and quietened them so I could pass.
The following week, a fellow camper and I spent a day hunting stone circles, quoits and holy wells. When we reached Madron Well, a family were already inside the chapel. The mother was breastfeeding her baby while their two older children sat quietly on the stone seats by the alter. One of the two men with her asked me if I wanted to taste the water inside the baptistery and gave me instructions how to step on the middle stone.
I refused, feeling nervous and worried I would slip into the water. It was something I always regretted. When I returned the following year, the baptistery was dry – the local farmer had diverted the water supply from the sacred well. It was ten years before the water flowed again, thanks finally to the work of Andy Norfolk and others who love the site.
Even when I did collect water flowing into the stone baptistery, having gone to the chapel again with some German friends of ours, I was accosted by a local busybody who told me it was contaminated and shouldn’t be drunk!
But what of The Lady and the Bull? The story began as an account of our original day in West Penwith, which was eventually published in Circle magazine a year later. Then I took the first 500 words and decided to see what would happen if the woman who refused the water went back. The man who told me how to collect the water fascinated me. What would happen if he were still around? What was his history? What would she learn from being associated with him?
It was a difficult story to write. I had a vague idea of the outline, but in the end, the story decided what it wished to portray. When writing dialogue became a challenge, I was grateful to a friend of mine for helping to role play some of the scenes online so I could use the saved script as a basis for parts of the story.
For me, creating The Lady and the Bull was a profound teaching experience, helping me to understand a spiritual concept in greater detail. My readers may enjoy it for the developing romance and descriptions of wonderful Cornish countryside.
My only sadness is the fate of Altarnun bowsenning pool. I wish it were the clear, bathing pool it once was and could be again. Unfortunately, the farmer who owns the land appears to have no wish to conserve it and has not co-operated with local Cornish Archaeologists. The Parish Council at Altarnun is similarly uninterested in saving their unique heritage for future generations despite approaches by myself and others from the Wells and Spas community.
The Roman remains lie hidden and inaccessible under fallen trees and undergrowth. Maybe, the strength of the story will somehow reach out and touch the future in a way we cannot perceive today.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Writing articles
Most people who call themselves writers refer to their ability to create fiction, but many careers rest on the art of article writing. Ask any academic what keeps them in post and considered the leading light in a particular field and they will reel off a list of articles published in academic and popular journals. Indeed, you cannot apply for any research or lecturing university post unless you have published copious amounts of academic articles. Even junior pre-registration doctors start their careers with their name at the very end of a list of collaborators of a piece of published research.
While writers struggle to place short stories in a dwindling number of popular magazines, the market for article writing is much broader. As well as professional journals which require each article to be peer reviewed before they publish, there are also niche market publications and most charities and societies will have their own in-house publications which are usually desperate for copy.
Unfortunately the potential for payment for writing articles is probably just as limited as it is for stories. Most special interest commercial magazines will pay for one or two page articles and will provide their own illustrations. This is true of some professional magazines as well, although the dilemma then is - did you write them in your own time or in work time? If you claim the fee for yourself, you have to declare it for tax purposes, which then upsets your PAYE arrangements and brings you the delights of a fully fledged tax return.
Most special interest magazines and some professional journals will not pay for articles, even though they are commercial ventures with a cost per copy to their reading public. They claim they don’t have the resources to pay their feature writers. Instead you receive two copies of the magazine, so you can keep all your articles in a folder to impress new editors or lend them to friends to dazzle them with your achievements in the big wide world.
To write a good article, the process is the same as for stories. You need a title which will catch the eye of your reader. (This may be your own or may be provided by the magazine editor of a newspaper sub-editor.) Your first sentence must be dynamic and engage the reader before they turn the page and move on to something else.
Every article has an introduction, a middle and a conclusion. You tell the reader what you’re going to tell them, tell them and then describe what you’ve told them. Short articles need short, interesting sentences which move the information forward, trying not to drown the reader in whatever technical jargon might be involved. A designated word length helps to keep the writer focused, making sure each word helps to improve the article’s “story”.
I am not a prolific article writer, but I am successful in getting my articles published in both professional and niche market publications based both in the UK and the US. I write about the health service, mainly using stories told to me during my time supporting complainants. I also write about herbs and esoteric matters, depending on what subject matter tickles my fancy.
Article writing has been on my mind recently because I’ve had another complaints article published in Health Care Risk Report this week. The article argues the moral case to investigate a complaint after the statutory time limit has passed because sometimes people are too traumatised by an event to complain earlier.
I’ve also been writing two articles for the Solihull Writers Workshop annual non-fiction writing competition, adjudicated and sponsored by a former member, Mike Megano. Both articles are about subjects I’m interested in and hopefully, after the competition I shall send them out somewhere for possible publication.
While writers struggle to place short stories in a dwindling number of popular magazines, the market for article writing is much broader. As well as professional journals which require each article to be peer reviewed before they publish, there are also niche market publications and most charities and societies will have their own in-house publications which are usually desperate for copy.
Unfortunately the potential for payment for writing articles is probably just as limited as it is for stories. Most special interest commercial magazines will pay for one or two page articles and will provide their own illustrations. This is true of some professional magazines as well, although the dilemma then is - did you write them in your own time or in work time? If you claim the fee for yourself, you have to declare it for tax purposes, which then upsets your PAYE arrangements and brings you the delights of a fully fledged tax return.
Most special interest magazines and some professional journals will not pay for articles, even though they are commercial ventures with a cost per copy to their reading public. They claim they don’t have the resources to pay their feature writers. Instead you receive two copies of the magazine, so you can keep all your articles in a folder to impress new editors or lend them to friends to dazzle them with your achievements in the big wide world.
To write a good article, the process is the same as for stories. You need a title which will catch the eye of your reader. (This may be your own or may be provided by the magazine editor of a newspaper sub-editor.) Your first sentence must be dynamic and engage the reader before they turn the page and move on to something else.
Every article has an introduction, a middle and a conclusion. You tell the reader what you’re going to tell them, tell them and then describe what you’ve told them. Short articles need short, interesting sentences which move the information forward, trying not to drown the reader in whatever technical jargon might be involved. A designated word length helps to keep the writer focused, making sure each word helps to improve the article’s “story”.
I am not a prolific article writer, but I am successful in getting my articles published in both professional and niche market publications based both in the UK and the US. I write about the health service, mainly using stories told to me during my time supporting complainants. I also write about herbs and esoteric matters, depending on what subject matter tickles my fancy.
Article writing has been on my mind recently because I’ve had another complaints article published in Health Care Risk Report this week. The article argues the moral case to investigate a complaint after the statutory time limit has passed because sometimes people are too traumatised by an event to complain earlier.
I’ve also been writing two articles for the Solihull Writers Workshop annual non-fiction writing competition, adjudicated and sponsored by a former member, Mike Megano. Both articles are about subjects I’m interested in and hopefully, after the competition I shall send them out somewhere for possible publication.
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