TWO DAYS OF PANIC

On By Annika PerryIn Scrivener, Writing49 Comments

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Sometimes things are just going too well. A few days ago my work was in full flow, Scrivener now an integrated part of my writing life and the proud bearer of my WIP.  

So, there I was happily working away one morning. I took a lunchtime break and since the sun had decided to take a peek at our part of the world I popped out for a walk with a friend. Once home I had a couple of hours before end of school so I happily returned to the computer. I was in such good spirits I might even have been humming a little tune.

With the screen up I double clicked on Scrivener and waited. And waited and waited. Nothing! Just a spinning of the rainbow coloured wheel. 

I didn’t panic  – as yet. Sometimes programmes won’t load the first time and I force quit and tried again. And again and again.

By now I was grinding my teeth and I felt the pressure increase with the onset of a stress headache.

Why is it we will not accept the inevitable?  After two hours of all different attempts I gave up. I was thoroughly dispirited by now. My cheerful songs of before replaced by a melancholic resignation. If I had to look at that ‘scrivener not responding’ comment once more I fear I might scream…or worse. I restrained myself and left my computer for a while.

Calmer, determined I returned and started the Google step – there is always Google involved, don’t you find? I hadn’t realised how vitriolic some people became on the process. There were some quite nasty (and at times personal) attacks as one person blamed computers, others the programme. Deflated I left the sites and went back to the manufacturer and easily found the email address to the tech team.

I  sent them quick note of my problem and operating system and I sat back pleased. Help would soon be on the way!

In my dreams!  An automatic reply said they were experiencing an unprecedented high number of problems and would reply in two days!! 

I closed everything down and turned off the computer.

The next day I of course couldn’t stop myself attempting to open the programme. Again and again. No luck.  

Over 80,000+ words of my WIP now seemed lost. As well as all my other projects and collections of work. To say I was by now feeling low would be an understatement.

At certain stages I had saved my whole draft in pages (Apple word processing programme) and even emailed an extra one to a friend for safe keeping. However all my latest changes were not included not.  More importantly all my ideas on cork board and side-notes on each chapter, plus notes and ideas for book two were inaccessible. 

Furthermore Scrivener had been so perfect for my working method, so automatic and exceptionally useful I couldn’t imagine starting over with a new programme.

By the afternoon my mood had dipped lower than ever. I do what I always do in such circumstances. Placing my documents in a large pile I started to clean. Always therapeutic. The house got cleaner, my mind became more cluttered and stressed.

Then late last night amongst the mass of emails was one unknown entity. I almost trashed it as spam until I spotted  a kind apology for my long wait and then a positive and calm ‘let’s get started’ sentence.

Still miffed I could not help but be reassured by the friendly professional tone of the email, the promise to get this sorted.

Three clear steps were listed for me to attempt first of all. Despite the late hour I just had to try and my Mac sang out as usual upon start. The steps included the magic of finding a ‘package software’ for my file and within that deleting two files. 

Surely it couldn’t be that simple?

The next step said to try to open my project. With little expectation I double clicked. Waited. Yeah!!!! It started to load, then said it was ‘retrieving’ data…at last the project was up – but the pages were blank, my long side bar of chapters empty, nothing down the left column!!

This was even worse, now there was nothing left to rescue. I plunged into darkness but then recalled the strong self-assured email. I could not imagine they would let this happen. With a few more clicks on the side bar, my long list of chapters and the full WIP loaded fully.  

I held my breath. Everything seemed in order. Up to date with all my latest amendments and additions.

Not quite believing it would work, I closed Scrivener and then opened my folder again. A satisfying brr from my computer and up it popped on the screen. Perfect.

With shutdown complete I headed to my family to deliver the good news, dancing downstairs en route and entering the living room with a slight leap of joy.

It has been an emotional two days. I’m relieved everything works now but still bemused what actually happened. I’ve asked scrivener to explain what could have gone wrong and if this could happen again. In the meantime I have finally found out how to set automatic back up from Scrivener although I doubt this would have helped anyway since that whole file was corrupted.

My ease and enjoyment of using the system will in the end override any long term concerns I have and I will continue now to work away on my first draft with renewed confidence.

HAPPY 1st ADVENT

On By Annika PerryIn Advent, Writing52 Comments

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However much we moan about it, most of us cherish our routines, need that steady rhythm in our life for peace, stability and joy. An extension to routine is tradition, the bells of the festivities / seasons that cement us to life’s path, that unite families and friends, that bring together our loved ones for celebrations. Traditions at times of life and death. Together being the keyword.

One such tradition is celebrated by many today and I want to wish everyone a very Happy 1st  Advent.

As young we would gather on each Sunday staring at the unlit candles, the four red lights signifying to me an unquantifiable long run until Christmas. The patience needed for those four weeks was not within my grasp as in my excitement I would physically become sick. Older and maybe even a little bit wiser I now treasure the whole peace of December, the calm Sundays, the significance of that first light.

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Another tradition is the star in the window, a beacon of hope and belief in life itself I feel. A sparkle of joy from our window to passers by walking their dogs in the grey drizzle, to the school children walking through the early frosty morning.

imageFinally, but not least – Advent Calendars! The big kid in me is still as excited by these as when young. My son has his already – it is one we made many years ago together when he was very young. One of those projects you embark upon, thinking this will be easy and quick. Two days later we had ransacked our house for little boxes, the dining room turned into an art studio of paint and glue, I’d explored art shops for gold paint. The advent box is now slightly worn and tired but lives on gloriously, bright with the wonderful memories it shares, solid with tradition, the embellishment of love and family.

‘SURELY THE POETRY IS IN THE PLOTTING.’

On By Annika PerryIn short story, Writing36 Comments

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They say you should never arrive too early. We thought fifteen minutes before the start was safe, but apparently not as the photographer seemed to have become welded to his position in front of us with the lens aimed directly at my friend and I. We tried to seem busy. Talked. Scribbled in my notebook a little. I felt as if I’d returned to my university days. Finally I lifted out my phone and took some photos! That seemed to do the trick as the photographer moved and at last I could concentrate on my surroundings watching the rest of the audience gradually enter in twos or threes.

When nearly full with three hundred eager writers and their friends a hush fell on the lecture room as the three ‘stars’ of the evening entered. Three highly distinguished authors with many worldwide successful books between and with an intimate knowledge of the UK and US markets.

As an entrant to the V. S. Pritchett Memorial Prize short story competition  I had been invited to the awards evening at the Royal Society of Literature (RSL). The society was founded nearly 200 years ago by King George IV to ‘reward literary merit and excite literary talent’. New fellows use Byron’s pen or Dickens’s quill to sign in and the sense of history was palpable from the surroundings alone, set near Somerset House at the Royal Institute of Art, London. 

V. S. Pritchett  is regarded by the RSL as one of the country’s finest short story writers and the society set up this prize in 2000 to commemorate his birth. 

The judges for this year’s competition were Philip Hensher, Adam Mars-Jones and Rose Tremain and before the prize -giving there was a discussion between the three of them about the short story. Here are a few snippets of what they had to say. 

As author of 16 books, including award-winning ‘Restoration’  and numerous short stories Rose Tremain has been published in over 27 countries. She believes that writing short stories is the closest a fiction writer is to being a poet. She thinks that short stories can be considered a form of poetry in themselves. Philip Hensher, the chair of the discussion, disagreed strongly with her comment, asking how stories such as the Sherlock Holmes ones could ever be considered poetry? At this Adam Mars-Jones interrupted quietly and said, ‘surely the poetry is in the plotting’. 

Rose Tremain considers it essential on not knowing yourself where the story is going and that this is part of the journey, telling your reader to come along and find out. Endings can vary and some be such as Mark Twain’s ‘snapper’ tales which have with a real bite at the end.

‘The fictional becomes real, the real becomes fictional,’ said Rose Tremain.

Her stories often start with an image or as a result of overheard conversation. Once during a particularly bad  winter storm in America she heard one man say to another that it ‘is really good for roofters’ and from this one sentence she wrote a short story.

As for the fictional becoming real, Rose Tremain read from her short story ‘The Housekeeper’, where the Daphne du Maurier’s fictional Mandeville Hall is recreated as reality with Daphne du Maurier becoming a character in the story who visits the hall one summer.

Adam Mars-Jones, a novelist and also book, film and theatre critic, has just released his memoir ‘Kid Gloves’, admitted he has not written short stories for decades although he considered them a good tool for learning. His co-authored collection of short stories on people living and dying with AIDS was published in 1987.

He mentioned his dilemma of wanting to write one particular story about AIDS but was stuck as he did not want to use the word AIDS – even then, before the world of texting and emailing, he felt it was too shouty, too powerful and would dominate the story. In an epiphany one day he realised he could just substitute that word with another, in this case ‘slim’ and after that he could write the story. It was imbued with a a sense of humour which worked very well.  

Philip Hensher, who has written numerous books including his semi-autobiographical novel ‘The Northern Clemency’, which was shortlisted for the Man Booker prize, has recently edited the two rather large  tomb-like volumes of ‘Penguin Book of the British Short Story’, considers the short story as a ‘witness’ on topical current events surrounding us, such as the World War II short stories. He reiterated the ‘immediate topicality’ of short stories and their ability to address urgent social issues. However he did recognise that the best short stories could also be totally irrelevant to current affairs.

Markets for short stories were discussed at length and I never knew how vibrant and well-paid the short story market was at the beginning of the twentieth century. Between 1890 and WWI there were at least 34 magazines in Britain printing short fiction. One of those mentioned was the ‘Strand’ magazine which had a huge circulation and could as a result pay handsomely for stories. In 1914 when the average  annual salary was £ 400:- a year the ‘Strand’ paid £ 350:- per story. Imagine selling a short story for £ 27,000:-!!  As Philip Hensher says ‘No wonder there was eager competition among writers; no wonder the best writers of the day, including Rudyard Kipling, DH Lawrence, Bennett, Joseph Conrad and HG Wells, placed the form at the very centre of their creative practice’.

There was disagreement about the expose these magazines offered to ‘experimental short fiction’ with Adam Mars-Jones believing the magazines did not afford many opportunities early on for this kind of fiction whereas Philip Hensher felt strongly that they did, although they would lead with a ‘safe story’ and often put the unusual experimental ones on the back pages of the magazine.

Although the short story market in the UK is languishing it is still vibrant in the US, the ‘New Yorker’ being a prime example of excellent literary short fiction, the writers agreed.

Another issue quickly discussed by the judges is the seeming unpopularity of the short story by the general public. Rose Tremain feels that the short story requires more effort from the reader as it is often full of original thinking and written in a tight structure which results in the reader having to peruse the work critically. This can be considered exhausting and as a result puts off potential readers. Novels by contrast she says resembles ‘a bouquet’, far easier to read with less expectation on the reader. 

After an evening of interesting discussion and readings the winner and runner-up to the £1,000 Royal Society of Literature V.S.Pritchett Memorial Prize 2015 was announced. Following on Philip Hensher’s earlier point about topicality both stories were strong on current issues, one based in China, the other in Ukraine. 

The sponsor’s of the prize, Christopher and Jennie Bland, announced the winner– Jonathan Tel with ‘The Seduction of a Provincial Accountant’. Unfortunately he was in San Fransisco writing a story about the current crisis in Syria so his agent picked up the £ 1000:- award. The runner-up was Nick Sweeney with ‘Traffic’. 

All in all, my friend and I had an exciting inspirational and enlightening  evening surrounded by so many like-minded people and listening to ideas from successful writers about the short story. Wine and refreshment afterwards were most welcome! 

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A BLESSING IN DISGUISE

On By Annika PerryIn Writing58 Comments

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The house was in full flow! 

In my study I was busy answering emails, next door my son was again multi-tasking – this time playing on his XBox, talking to a friend via the game as well as talking to another friend on Skype and relaying the conversation. The mind boggles! Downstairs hubby took a few moments for himself, catching up on the football. A normal modern evening.

Ablaze with light our house was a beacon of busyness. Then CLICK!

Darkness. Utter and total darkness, the darkness of our fears, the darkness of our fore-fathers, the darkness of old. 

Silence. I’d forgotten how the two went hand in hand as the total shocked silence fell on us all. As one I imagined us staring, or rather not staring, at our black blank and silent screens.

I reached for my phone and its torch app when another click heralded light. I sighed with disappointment as the bright glare once again invaded our home. The manic whirring of the external drive irritatingly loud.

CLICK!

We were plunged into darkness. Again! My heart leapt for joy and I took a moment to savour the peace and quiet. Downstairs I heard the mutter of ‘where’s the torch?’ followed by the crashing of objects in the cupboards. Of course I knew exactly where the torch was but this moment was too precious to rush. 

With further mutterings of ‘I’ve found it’, I headed to my son’s room, led by the thin ray of my phone light. Unmoved he sat on his bed, a bemused expression on his face, lit by the bleak light of his phone, a light attempting but failing to penetrate the blackness.

I went to find another torch, one of those Science Museum ones and by pumping the bar a stronger beam shines the way.

In hushed tones we started to become organised. With candles in nearly every room anyway (I’m Swedish – enough said) I started to light the ones upstairs. Downstairs there was the habitual mumblings of ‘where are the matches?’. I know they’ll be discovered soon enough and remain quiet.

The house started to glow. It was if the crazy pace of the evening had hit a brick wall and now the real us was allowed to step forth and take its place. The spiritual peace weaved itself around the rooms, a mystical gossamer veil descended upon us.

I placed three candles in my son’s room. Two large church-style candles were lit in the bathroom standing on the windowsill altar.

Soon we gathered in the living room, the soft gentle candle light casting its own original display of shadows. For a while this was just perfect. We sat and watched the flickering candles, the flowing hues of darkness interrupted by the wisps of light. This was just enough. There was a spiritual silence and almost reverentially we fell upon it, absorbed it into our being. Gradually conversation ensued; quiet and calm with our minds stilled by the ethereal aura.

Even though the house was warm we switched on the fire and I slid onto the floor like the child that lives within me and beside me my son stretched full out on the carpet. This was good. Doing nothing together.

After all, those emails could wait until tomorrow. My son texted his friends of the events and said he’d see them in school and as for the football, well, that could wait.

For that evening nothing seemed more vital and fulfilling than being. Being together without distractions, our faces lit by the warmth of candles, the soft-focus of life returning.

I blessed the blackout – I just hoped it didn’t last too long!

‘Silence is sometimes the best answer.’

Dalai Lama

My First Non-NaNowriMo Week

On By Annika PerryIn NaNoWriMo, Writing39 Comments

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At the beginning of October I felt the buzz from the build-up of writers preparing for this months challenge. Come the middle of October the intensity of preparations was increasing and as I read more and more about the NaNoWriMo I was sorely tempted to join.

However, my writing needs did not suit the criteria for the actual challenge, but knowing so many of you were beavering away on your creative projects I was inspired to set and try to complete my own challenge.

I have already completed 70,000 words of my first draft. My challenge is now to finish this by the end of the month!

My initial task was to familiarise myself with what I have written – this alone filled me with fear.

One day in mid October I set the printer going and looked on in quiet awe as it shook under the stress of the workload. I’ve never printed so many pages in one go! Over 400 and that is double-paged. Finally a large block of paper sat on my desk.

What if I didn’t like it? Or even hated it? What if it wasn’t any good? I’m a lousy liar, even more so to myself. The moment of truth had arrived.

I started early one morning and as per Stephen King’s suggestion in ‘On Writing’ I decided to read what I had written in one day. By my side was a new A4 notebook and three pencils, all sharpened, ready for use. At this stage I was looking for major errors – particularly wrong names or places etc – as well as major plot faults or omissions.

To my relief I enjoyed what I read and I was carried away by the work it involved. After scribbling pages of notes and scrawling corrections across most of the text pages I took a rest. Over the next two weeks I edited on screen according and then planned for the first week of NaNoWriMo.

There was one major problem with the book and this struck me the day I read the whole text. I also realised this is what had caused me to let the whole project slide to a halt earlier in the year.

As I read the last two chapters I found them to be jarringly rushed and rough. As I had headed towards 70,000 words I had started to panic about the length of the novel. Whilst there were technically only about 30,000 words left until the end of the novel (a typical novel length being 80,000 – 100,00 words), I had a vast amount of ideas and plot that I wanted to incorporate into it. I had begun to take short cuts to try to achieve this.

This was a mistake and reading all my ideas for the rest of the book it became obvious that I must split it into at least two books or perhaps even aim for a trilogy. I will decide that in the future. For now I have put those ideas and chapters in a separate folder in Scrivener marked ‘Book Two’. Nothing like optimism! At the moment I need to complete my first draft.

As some of my draft was written out of sequence there were certain places that needed an extra ‘connecting’ chapter and at the start of this week I wrote two such new chapters. Once started, I revelled in writing away on my book, happy to be reunited with my characters. My writing flowed easier than ever and I believe writing my blog over the months has helped improve and hone my skill.

Within a few days I had completed over five and a half thousand words on the two new chapters. Furthermore I rewrote two previous chapters. These were initially written from the first person viewpoint as I was at that stage exploring various viewpoints before settling on a close third person viewpoint for the book.

I am satisfied with the work achieved this week and have decided to split the first draft into three sections. After reprinting the first third I reread this carefully making editing adjustments as necessary. I also feel two further chapters are required to enhance the continuity of the story. These I will write next week. After that I believe the first third of my book will be complete. By then I expect the word count to be approximately 80,000. Altogether I estimate the book will be around 100,00 words long.

Being so close to completing my book I truly appreciate the work, effort and resilience it takes to finalise such a project and I am filled with respect for all writers out there who have completed a book, be it published or not.

As I once again enter my fictional world I want to wish everyone best of luck with NaNoWriMo, whether taking part officially or ‘unofficially’. Remember to enjoy.

“Just set one day’s work in front of the last day’s work. That’s the way it comes out. And that’s the only way it does.” John Steinbeck

Photo: Courtesy of The Magazine of the National Endowment for the Humanities

PATIENCE & PASSION

On By Annika PerryIn NaNoWriMo, Writing45 Comments
Photo I took in October 2015 and which was printed in local paper on Friday.
Photo I took in October 2015 and which was printed in local paper on Friday.

Patience is not my strongest virtue and this is particularly true when it comes to gardening. In Spring I planted a passion flower in a pot and placed it on the sunny deck.

Full of hope and expectation I was soon checking the intermingled star-shaped leaves for buds, tucked away behind the foliage. No luck. During the warm summer days I sat swinging gently on the wooden swing seat and cast surreptitious glances at the Passion flower. No luck. I waited and waited before finally this Autumn giving up all hope of blooms.

Whilst washing up one morning last week I spied something most unusual dangling above the fence by the seat. Could it be? Surely not? I dashed out in the gentle rain – at last, one glorious passion flower. I’m sure I danced on the spot, then paused at various angles to examine this wonder of intricate design. Sheer perfection. Such colourful flamboyancy. 

Returning indoors my mind spun on this one lone flower. There was a lesson to be learnt here. Patience and perseverance. Words that I realised should be every writer’s keystone.

Patience in the task at hand. Patience to trust yourself, follow your path, your writing path. To believe that your goal will be achieved but perhaps not in the way or time frame your mind has set itself. 

Intrinsically linked to patience is perseverance. To continue with your project, not to lose hope and to believe with all your heart that perseverance will reap the rewards.

As so many are now entering this month’s NaNoWriMo I feel patience and  perseverance are required more than ever. May they give you strength and energy and don’t forget to have some fun along the way. I wish you all success with your endeavours. 

Although I am not officially entering NaNoWriMo I will take this opportunity of what I imagine will be a quieter month on WordPress to concentrate and finalise a couple of writing projects.  However, I’ll check in now and then on everyone;  a whole month away would give me withdrawal symptoms!

‘Your soul knows the geography of your destiny. Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side your self. If you do, it will take you where you need to go, but more importantly it will teach you a kindness of rhythm in your journey.’ 

John O’Donohue

CHILIES IN MY HANDBAG

On By Annika PerryIn short story, Writing29 Comments

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 Chilies in My Handbag

It’s one of those days – again. A day of forgetfulness in a world that has forgotten me.

Just as I pull up at the house the purple skies of the morning finally erupt. The cascade of rain thunders on my car roof and water gushes down the windscreen. The radio is effectively silenced and with satisfaction I pop the button off. I wasn’t listening anyway.

On the far side of the garden I spot John, our gardener. Rather a grand word for the young chap who comes over once a week to mow and strim. To chop and trim, I think. Rather like a hairdresser, but much cheaper. John’s  bouncy brown hair is now plastered unflatteringly on his scalp, streaked to one side, his T-shirt a sodden luminescent white. Polyester.

At last the downpour eases to a thin drizzle and opening the car door the pungent heady fragrance of our lilac trees floats around me; so intense as if the trees themselves are vibrating with life. How I envy them and their strength. 

The dark brick mansion looms before me; a mock Tudor monstrosity, its mahogany door more a deterrent than a welcome with the only redeeming feature of a small lead window. Quickly I head indoors, droplets of water gliding smoothly onto the cream woollen carpet in an arc around me.

“I’m home,” I call to the house. Silence greets my hoarse high pitched tones and my ensuing self-conscious laughter is strangled quickly in my throat by the lump. A lump that periodically reaches down and yanks at my stomach, twisting and churning it into spikes of agony.

I double over in pain and with a whimpering moan stagger into the drawing room and pitch deflated onto the floral sofa.

Two hours later and I’m still here with Friday afternoon slipping unnervingly away from me. I look over my shoulder as I feel a nudge and spot my red cashmere coat draped carelessly across the back of the sofa.

“Red,” my friend Charlotte had insisted. “Roberta, you must wear red. Bold colours give you courage.”

Red! Courage! What poppycock, I think as I lean back and give the coat a vigorous shove onto the floor. Even so, I imagine it landing in a graceful and elegant swoop on the oak boards.

“Poppycock!” Such an inane, ridiculous word, so outdated it is heading into the realms of ancient history. Of course, it is George’s favourite expletive. He cannot even swear with passion.

By my right leg I feel the reassuring caress of soft leather – my red Hermes handbag. Subconsciously I bend over and stroke it gently, with a final pat on the side. My surrogate pet.

Fool me, graciously I had accepted it from George last Christmas. Safe, stable George, handsome to boot in those university years. Who knew he’d become such a tyrannical fuddy-duddy.

“I’ve got a job. At the bank,” I’d proudly, naively, declared one day soon after our marriage. “Starting Monday. Let’s celebrate!”

“Let’s not,” my husband had replied in his monotone voice. “You’re not taking the job.”

“What? Why?!” I had asked in shocked disbelief.

“We’re starting a family. You stay, you do as I say.”

Despite my anger I couldn’t hold back a giggle at his unintentional rhyming. Still, it was fait d’accompli.

Somehow, impossibly, I was living in the 21st century but trapped in the 19th. At least then the women weren’t alone, there were others to share their incarceration. With no family, few friends, George knew I dared not broker any resistance. 

Here I reside. Bellingwood Manor. George, myself and Hermes. I lift its red leather catch and reach inside for a hankie. The rustle of plastic stirs me to my senses and out I pull two red chilies, neatly wrapped and tied in a little bag. For dinner tonight. I’d forgotten all about them. Ripping open the plastic I roll the glossy, smooth chilies between my fingers. 

Anthony loves chilies. 

I recall the first time he tried them in my beef curry. His little face scrunched in surprise, eyes glistening and with a squeak of a four-year old he sagely stated, “Hot,” then added in a panic, “water, please!”

Thereafter, many days whilst I was cooking, all I would hear was, “Mummy, what are you making for dinner tonight?” His childish voice lifting in pitch, pleading. “Beef curry with lots of chilies?” 

The dish was now legendary; in our house at least. Cooking slowly the flavours permeated throughout the ingredients until finally the beef fell gingerly apart on our plates. 

“I want it hotter, Mummy. The hotter the better,” Anthony challenged and together we’d researched them. 

“Let’s try those over 300,000 strong,” he’d begged, reading about Scotch Bonnet chilies.

“Perhaps better not,” I’d laughed in mock horror. “Let’s stick to 1,000 strong chipotle ones.” 

Snuggled closely on the sofa, the laptop heavy on my thighs, I remained still, not wanting to move Anthony who burrowed closer to me, seeking comfort and warmth.

He was silent for a moment.

“It’s a silly word, isn’t it, Mummy? Chilly?  Freezing. But they’re so hot. Burning.” I nodded. Like everyone else, I’d always thought the same. “We can call them hottie instead,” he stated confidently.

At this I involuntarily trembled. Hottie. Hot Tottie. Shivering, I was now the one seeking warmth and love from my son. George had had a few of those. Totties. He’d not even deigned to hide the fact. Nor denied it when I faced him with the accusation. There was just a slight imperious wave of his hand, as if swatting away an annoying mosquito. I have a lot of empathy with those poor insects.

“Hottie? What do you think, Mummy?” Anthony repeated innocently.

I turned to him. “Not the best idea. Though chilies…”

“Come from Chile, everyone knows THAT!” He was now exasperated with me.

“Well, not really, they came from Mexico first but they are really called capsicum and …”

Here Anthony flew out of the sofa and onto the floor, his imaginary sword in front of him, slashing back and forth at the morning’s golden rays, streaking in through the window.

“Caspian! Prince Caspian! No wonder I like chilies, they have the same name as the Prince! Look at me. Prince Caspian saving Narnia. Look, there’s Lucy. Peter.”

I smiled and clapped my hands.

“Go, Prince Caspian. Go!” He battled along, my little prince, unaware he too was the son of a despot, fighting invisible oppression. How I’d wondered then, at that moment, if he would conquer the darkness within our family? Whether light and freedom would be our salvation? Victorious he waved his arms and paraded around the room. His radiant eyes shone into my treacherous ones. 

Only seven and we’d sent him away.

“I don’t want to go, I don’t, I don’t!” he cried night after night. Alone, I tried to settle my blond-haired treasure, his piercing blue eyes shimmering with tears at the thought of boarding school.

“Such tantrums,” George brusquely snapped one night. “That won’t last long.” 

He was wrong. Throughout that summer Anthony’s questions and pleas were as relentless as the suffocating heat.

“Why? Why do I have to go? What have I done?”  Questions for which there were no real answers.

“Nothing, my prince,” I replied quietly, rocking him tightly on my lap, his small skinny arms clinging to my neck. “Mummy and Daddy think this is best for you.”

“Poppycock!” I shout to myself, now seven years later. It was for the best! Who was I fooling and squeezing my hands hard, the chili peppers crack open and ooze soft squishy sap and seeds, which slink around my fingers, onto the palm of my hand. 

“Tradition. It’s tradition,” George had ranted. “It’s where I went to school, your grandfather and great-grandfather too. Did me the world of good.”

Really? I thought bitterly, fearing for Anthony and his future. With a punch I wondered how I could have been that weak, that blind?

My iPhone vibrates and from the insides of Hermes screech the excited tones of  ‘What Does the Fox Say’.  Anthony was raving on about the song on his last visit a few weeks ago. As soon as he’d left, I’d put it immediately on my mobile as a ringtone. My pathetic attempt to be closer to him. I glance down at my phone. It’s a text. From Anthony.

How he’d grown, that last visit. Fourteen, taller than me and the same shoe size as his dad. The two of them had talked and ribbed each other all evening,  sharing stories about masters still at the school,  sports clubs and  past and present memories. Excluded I fell to the wayside.

“Thanks, Mum. This tastes good,” Anthony briefly acknowledged me, his eyes never quite meeting mine. His arms were now muscular and strong but never reached out to touch me and as I moved cautiously towards him for a quick hug his body arched, cowered away.

“Bye Mum,” he’d said and left, chatting amicably to George on their way back down to school. Another tradition. After the first two years of tears, it was declared best I never accompanied them. Yes, I’m sure that was for the best.

It will be different this time. I’m sure it will. I’m cooking Anthony’s favourite dish. Yes, the beef curry. The squashed chilies will still taste spicy and with a spring I get up and head to the kitchen. My phone sings again and this time I hum along.

“What does the fox say?…” 

Picking up my phone, I sit down and read.

“Sorry, Mum. Hope it’s okay but going to Mathew’s this weekend instead. Saves you the trouble of cooking – lol!”

So, that’s what the fox says.

It’s dark now and the slam of the front door shudders me awake. George. Without fail, he always flamboyantly opens the front door before sending it shut with a short sharp shot of “BOOM”.

It must be eight. The gloom of the house envelops me and I notice I’m freezing cold. The chill of the evening penetrates through my coat which is wrapped around me as I huddled and slept behind the sofa. Red. Courage. I stretch, my legs  numb from the hardness of the floor, knees locked stiff. Slowly I lift my head from my pillow, Hermes. Red. Courage. I trace the perforated ‘H’ lightly with my fingertips, leaving the odd dried chilli seed in my wake on the immaculate taurillion leather. The stinging scent of shrivelled chilies galvanises me into action.

“Roberta. Bertie…Where are you? What’s up?”

At the call of Bertie, his pet name for me, his pet, I unravel my mane of long brown hair and shake my head to loosen the locks. 

“Great about the weekend, eh?” Does he never stop? “We’re not troubled with Anthony.”

My hand locates Hermes and standing I see George framed by the hall light, blinking into the dusky room.

Walking up, I take hold of his shoulders and roughly swipe my hands across his tweed Savile Row suit. Shocked he stands stock still and sniffs. Finally, from his blazer pocket I at last get a handkerchief. Perfectly ironed yesterday. Was it only yesterday? With it I wipe away the residual chili sap from my hands  before replacing it with aplomb. Without a word I head upstairs. To pack. To stay with Charlotte.

First though, I really do need to buy a new handbag. After all, keeping chilies in ones handbag is far from ideal, even if it is a Hermes.

The End

© Annika Perry

THE AUTUMN BOOK TAG

On By Annika PerryIn Autumn, Books, Fall, Tag17 Comments

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I was recently nominated by Charley at the wonderful booksandbakes1 for The Autumn Book Tag. How could I refuse! As always a delight and matter of indulgence!

  1. What’s your favourite thing about Autumn?    

I  love the feeling of promise that Autumn brings with it as the cold cracks the morning awake and the summer finally slips away. As with New Year,  Autumn comes with the tension and excitement of new beginnings, where anything is possible.

Also in Autumn the big kid in me is unleashed and I’m incapable of walking past a pile of russet leaves on the ground. Instead I will rush in and kick them around with abandon. The sound, the scent, the scrunchy feeling underfoot – what is there not to like?  

2. What Book reminds you of your school days?

copper

In my last year of primary school we read a book that resulted in a large display of copper items in the reading area. I nagged my mother until all her precious copper pots and pans made up most of the display. It took me years to find the book that so inspired me and this wonderful coppery show. It was the ’The King of Copper Mountain’ by Paul Biegel and I reread it recently, this time falling for the warmth of my childhood memories stored within the tale. 

3. What book cover reminds you of Autumn?

queenieThe hues of deep russet to light orange brilliantly reflect the colours of Autumn as the leaves dazzle us with their extravaganza. The lighter yellow is the cooler sunlight that shines through the leaves, the shell a hint of beach walks in the crisp chilly winds, the deeper orange a reminder of the warmth of the fire in front of which one sits, nursing a hot chocolate and marshmallows. Subtle, striking cover and perfect for Autumn beauty.

4. What is your favourite horror or Halloween book? 

cujoI’m not into horror books, frightened easily by the ‘Hound of the Baskervilles’.  However, many years ago I read Stephen King’s ‘Cujo’. Once started, I was incapable of stopping but I remember reading it in terror followed by sleepless nights. It was simply one of those books I had to finish. Relentless.

5. Which is your favourite horror or Halloween film?

weeping:jpgI have managed to go through life without watching a single horror film and intend to keep it that way. The weeping angles in Doctor Who are scary enough and have me hiding behind a cushion! I know, I’m a real wimp!

6. What Fall book are you most looking forward to?

shopholicYou can’t go wrong this time of year with a feel-good book and not many do this better than Sophie Kinsella and her shopaholic series. The latest one is released next Thursday 22nd  October so I’m look forward to curling up on a sofa and reading ‘Shopaholic to the Rescue’.

7. What Autumn movie release are you most looking forward to?

It’s strange isn’t it? As a student I seemed to live in the cinema, then with a young child, we all adored the children films. Now with a teenager I feel the film years returning as my son is busy with his friends. I saw great reviews for Suffragette (a topic I wrote a thesis on) with Meryl Streep and Helen Bonham Carter and I’m tempted to go on a ‘date’ with my husband to see this.

8.  What are three books you are planning to read this Autumn?

On top of the one mentioned, I have three kindle books I bought with my birthday money and look forward to reading in the coming weeks.

I hope you enjoyed reading these and are also planning your Autumn reading. If you have a chance I would enjoy to read some of your own Autumn Book tags. 

For now, have that blanket at the ready, book handy, candles alight. Right,  time to snuggle and read…see you soon…

‘Draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice and I’ll tell you a story.’

F. Scott Fitzgerald

FIRST SENTENCES…

On By Annika PerryIn Books, First Sentences, Man Booker Prize31 Comments

booker

The usual furore over the Man Booker Prize is now diminishing but as always I could not help but be intrigued. 

It’s one of world’s largest monetary literary prize awards giving £ 50,000 to the winner. On top of this international success and world-wide renown is guaranteed for the winner and a sure-bet for the short-listed books. 

So, what are the winning and short-listed books like? 

Here is a taster with the first sentence of each of them…enjoy!

sevenkillings

‘Listen. Dead people never stop talking. Maybe because death is not death at all, just a detention after school.’

satin

‘Turin is where the famous shroud is from, the one showing Christ’s body supine after crucifixion: hands folded over genitals, eyes closed, head crowned with thorns.’

fishermen

‘We were fishermen: My brothers and I became fishermen in January of 1996 after our father moved out of Akure, a town in the west of Nigeria, where we had lived together all our lives.’

runaway

‘Randeep Sanghera stood in front of the green-and-blue map tacked to the wall.’

blue

‘Late one July evening in 1994, Red and Abby Whitshank had a phone call from their son Denny.’

little life

‘The eleventh apartment had only one closet, but it did have a sliding glass door that opened onto a small balcony, from which he could see a man sitting across the way, outdoors in only a T-shirt and shorts, even though it was October, smoking.’

Source: BBC online news.

Did any tempt? Do you now want to buy any of the books and read on?  

Also, for all writers out there take comfort in the fact that Marlon James at one stage deleted his first novel following numerous rejections, only to revive it later when he discovered it in an email!

Happy Sunday

On By Annika PerryIn Writing23 Comments

Walking along on the beach last Sunday I spotted amongst the myriad of names scraped out across the expanse this sweet heart-warming message. So I bid you all a ‘Happy Sunday’ be it on the beach, in the woods, at home, at work. Wherever. May peace and joy rest in your souls. Warmest wishes to you all.

“If you will practice being fictional for a while, you will understand that fictional character are sometimes more real than people with bodies and heartbeats.’
Richard Bach