Gothic Enlightenment

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Self-consciously I traced my way around the grassy labyrinth. Glancing up I caught the eye of a fellow pilgrim and sheepishly we exchanged wry smiles as I wondered, “Does he think I look ridiculous? Do I?”. The answer was an emphatic no, as I took a deep breath and continued on my way.

100_6682Arriving earlier at Whitby Abbey the cement bunker where we bought our tickets had been gloomy and disappointing, however on walking around the corner and up we were transported in time as chanting Benedict monks beckoned us forward across the sunny plain. Clad in long sweeping brown or white habits, heads adorned with flat round hat, their presence brought alive the ethereal spirituality of centuries ago as with heavenly voice their hymns awed the visitors into silence.

Quietly a monk explained the concept of the Path to Paradise, a circular interloping path cut from the grass, a time for inner reflection and meditation. There was only one way round, leading to the centre and here upon the granite altar we were requested to place a blessed stone from his basket and with it make a wish or prayer.

Soon thoughts drift from myself to the abbey, looming ahead, bathed in sunlight, the gothic ruins vibrating with life. Time slows, my son runs on ahead, diligently following the path and I enter a new dimension of total serenity and I immersed myself in contemplation. Here views of the long harbour wall, tiny dots of people meandering along, their children scampering between the fallen pillars of the abbey, some clambering on them.

Stillness.

100_6679Shattered as a clear voice breaks through and a monk recites a story; there he is, sitting in the middle of the circle, surrounded by fellow pilgrims. Just then my son places his stone upon the granite rock and without a pause dashes away to find his friends. The End

 

With only a week until our holiday in North Yorkshire I recalled this piece I wrote as my first assignment for a creative writing course. Gothic Enlightenment describes our fortuitous visit to Whitby Abbey during their Path to Paradise celebrations.

“A good part of the business of fiction is performed half-consciously, even sub-consciously. So I’ll do a little scene and then another little scene and try not to think of the extent of the task ahead.”

Hilary Mantel

BACK TWO WEEKS & BACK IN THE GROOVE

Play in Blues

How does a holiday break affect your writing?

That was one of my concerns when I left for Sweden in Easter. There I faced two weeks without writing on my novel. Two weeks with my thoughts drifting further away from my fictional friends.

On my return I approached my desk that first Monday morning with trepidation. A sprawling mess of papers lay scattered across its surface and on these were our passports, tickets,my jewellery. With a nudge I cleared a space for my Ipad and keyboard.

stone in seaI felt unprepared to start; my memory hazy and mentally timings were out of kilter. Baby steps, I told myself. Baby steps. I therefore picked up my tablet and started to read the last chapters of my first draft, familiarising myself with the story and its characters.

Until now I’ve tried not to reread too often what I’ve written, concerned that I  would become excessively critical and too keen to do a major rewrite early on. I feared my flow would be be halted.

My fears were groundless.

After happily reacquainting myself with the story, I studied my notes on Scrivener’s Corkboard and noted which section I intended to tackle next. I was  glad for the side notes I’d made previously, they proved very helpful.

To revisit my friends in the book I read through the character notes I have made in my notebook, once again thankful that they were so complete and detailed.

By now my mind was once again buzzing with the book, the characters started to whisper their words, the story painted in my mind.

benchStill, I was not quite ready. I decided to wait until the following day. Tuesday morning, with all travel paraphernalia cleared away, I read the notations I had made during my holiday. Yes, I know, I lied! Strictly speaking I wrote a few pages of notes now and then.

Finally with the tablet and keyboard up, I was set. I had to laugh at my own ridiculous state. My nerves jingled as I faced the blank screen. I flexed my fingers, relaxed my neck back and forth. Then I took the plunge. And typed.

A few sentences in I was thoroughly enjoying revisiting my book and letting my creative spirit flow.

Often you read about writers being worried about taking a break.

Does it really cause such difficulties?

Don’t writers, as people in every profession, need a holiday?

An opportunity to recharge their creative energies?

I really would like to read your opinions about this; whatever your profession.

Until then, hope you enjoy the video – writing the title of the post brought it to mind. This song and many other ‘80s pop songs got me through all my school exams:-)

“If I were a medical man, I should prescribe a holiday to any patient who considered his work important.”

Bertrand Russell

Current Word Count on first draft of my novel: 62,358

ESCAPE TO AN EASTER OASIS

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Imagine a place far out in the Swedish forest.  It’s half a mile to the nearest neighbour whilst other houses are scattered miles apart. The road is a dirt track with deep ditches on either side. Just there, to the right is the property, two houses set upon a land twice the size of a football pitch. This is my haven for the next two weeks over Easter.

100_6333Pure tranquility – as pure as the air from the hundred, nay, thousands of trees around.  Pure tranquility – as pure as the water which pumps from 80 m below the ground. No television, telephone or wifi. Peace and quiet. Don’t worry though, there is electricity and all the mod cons, so we’re living in warmth and comfort.

It takes a while to tune into the silence, to hear the individual birds, to become aware of the different tones of the breeze. The tempo of our days slow until time itself seems to slacken and the days stretch appealingly in front of us. No rushing. No staring at screens.

In lieu of television an afternoon is happily spent sitting inside with a cup of tea watching the thunderstorm wreak havoc upon the land as puddles are turned into mini-lakes and the fir trees enter into a ferocious frenzied dance. We take time to listen to the hail crashing outside. The force of nature overwhelming and once again I am reminded about my small place on this planet.

In the morning I wander the land, clutching my orange juice in frigid fingers, negotiating the uneven ground in my clumsy wellies, my dressing gown flapping round my legs. I stop and raise my face to the dappled morning sunlight falling through the birch trees, whilst in the distance I spy the mist hovering above a field, drifting, floating wistfully away as the sun’s rays strike them.

In the shade I study the intricate cobwebs which lay frozen stiff, their delicate threads an intriguing puzzle of designs. Glistening in the morning frost they are small sample last night’s wondrous creations. Nature’s own art gallery, free to browse. I just have to make sure I am up early enough!

Silence. Quiet. Did I mention that? No cars. No machinery. Just the peace.

This is where I will be this Easter, relaxing, being with my family and I look forward to coming home refreshed and with renewed energy.

Although I might not be able to post until my return I do have access to my neighbours’ iPad and hope to pop across now and then and see what you’ve all been up to.

IMG_0538I look forward to sharing more with you upon my return after the Easter holiday.

Have a very happy Easter break everyone.

 

“Some old-fashioned things like fresh air and sunshine are hard to beat.”

Laura Ingalls Wilder

My Desk – A Reflection of My Life

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As I approach my desk for round two of my writing session this morning I smile at the disarray of objects upon its surface.

A white feather quill pen is in the furtherest corner, a birthday present from my son a few years ago ‘to help with your writing Mamma’. Five pencils are lined up, ready to be sharpened. They have lain there for three weeks, dull and useless, with pens and a fountain pen tipped over them. In this heap are my ubiquitous Hals throat lozenges; these are littered wherever I sit down to work or read and if none are in the house I feel bereft and unable to concentrate.

Near the quill pen is a 16 inch tall cardboard cut-out of Heisenberg from ‘Breaking Bad’ complete with yellow suit and gas mask. I am a total fan of the series and am currently going through cold turkey after viewing the final episode.

Next to him are two postcards; one from Vietnam showing a typical floating market in the Mekong Delta. This is from a friend travelling there as I write. The other card is one I bought at The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge after seeing  the Claude Monet’s  ‘Springtime’ (1886) there. Next to them stands a thank you card from another friend. Its brightly coloured flowers in equally decorative pots brighten this grey March day and shows how well she knows pot-mad me.

Bored yet? I hope not. Luckily this is a rather large wooden desk, with lots of room for knickknacks and every morning my iPad and I fight the same battle to make space for my keyboard and cup of tea. Yes, this was the reason for my break and with the fiercest of ginger tea – the one in the red packaging – I am sipping it from the mug bought for me by my son for my last birthday. On it are the words ‘Go away I’m writing’. I love it so. My only regret, I wish I was bothered by more visitors so I could swing the cup and its message at them.

For some quick music I lean over and switch on my pink iPod and to tell the time I look at my pink Beetle car ornament with clock in its door. There is more as a cuddly bear (from my son) cradles the sign 40 – so you know my age or so now! Then a sweet ornament of a boy lays on his side, engrossed in a book (from my mother).

A giant black Helix lamp is adorned with my costume jewellery, dangling down in shades of white, grey and gold. On either side of my iPad are various notebooks, A4 writing pads and files. Upon some are doodles I draw whilst thinking or talking on the phone. My reading glasses lay unused to one side as my eyes are still undecided if with or without is better for working on the computer.

To my right the beginning of my packing pile for the Easter holiday is growing with a shower cap perched precariously on my pink Blott writing pad and a turquoise nail varnish balanced on the edge of the desk. By my side rests my iPhone, an item, which for better or worse, has become an extension of my arm. Last but not least, my two coasters, a tile one made by son as young in primary school, the other one a heart shape bead one made many years ago by my niece.

I never realised how my family and friends surround me on a typical writing day, that one glance up is rewarded with a a sparkle  of love and warmth. And yes, fun too.

I would love to hear about your working space / desks. What surrounds you? Or do you prefer a clean tidy area in which to work? What precious items are there for you to look up at?

“To bring your attention to a stone, a tree or an animal does not mean to think about it, but simply to perceive it, to hold it in your awareness.”

By Eckhart Tolle

THE POWER OF THE CREATIVE SPIRIT

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Welcome to you all and to the first of a new month. Spring floats on the breeze and sitting out on a weather-worn bench in the garden I rise my face to the dazzling sunlight. As the daffodils tilt and twist to capture its warmth, so do I.

On such a morning I find myself pondering the nature of the creative spirit and at times its unimaginable strength in the face of insurmountable agonies.

These musings follow in the wake of reading about Frida Kahlo. She was not an artist for which I hold any particular affection although I know of her work. What I did not know was of the life of pain she endured until her untimely passing aged only 47.

Firstly as a child she suffered from polio but made a recovery to normal life. Then aged 18 she was severely injured when the bus she was travelling on collided with a trolley car.

As a result of these injuries she was never free from pain again. In the following years she had over 35 operations and many episodes of agonising pain that resulted in her being bed-ridden for many months at a time.  Among other sorrows the physical damages rendered her unable to have children.

Where this life would fell many, Frida instead discovered, with her parents help, her love of painting and throughout her life she painted over 150 paintings. Furthermore she travelled in Central America, the USA and Europe. On a personal level she married the famous painter Diego Rivera – twice!  Throughout their tempestuous mutually adulterous relationship she never stopped painting.

The indomitable spirit of the creative being within us is alive and waiting to be tapped. It takes courage, persistence and passion to continue to work through pain and illness of any sorts. Its rewards are unquantifiable.

Reading about Frida’s life and knowing so many who continue their creative work in spite of (or perhaps as a result of) their hardships is a true inspiration – to myself and  hopefully to you all.

‘Our existence is not an accident but a mystery…We can entrust ourselves to this mystery, for we are part of it. Indeed we are it.’

By  Jean-Pierre Weil, ‘The Well of Being’

A Break and Biographies.

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It’s amazing what wonders a break can make.

Last week was half term and I had therefore decided to give my first draft a welcome rest – we needed to give each other some breathing space. Instead I had a restful and fun time with the family. On Monday out came my iPad, my Keyboard and once clipped into place I was set to go.

I found I was writing with renewed vigour and energy as well as a greater sense of enjoyment and satisfaction. My fingers struggled to keep up with my thoughts, stumbling over each other on the keys. One downside of this extra vitality is that my poor brain never seems to stop buzzing and even half asleep I will find myself trying to recall sentences to write down in the morning. The world of my characters are becoming such a large part of my real world that even in my sub-conscious the border between real and imagined is blurring.

When I started this project I knew many of the ‘rules’ of writing a novel and realised from the beginning that I had committed a cardinal sin in my approach. My error – never starting,  no matter keeping up to date, a biography of my characters. Week after week I have winged it, just writing away, everything held in my head. It seemed to work well enough although I was forgetting names of smaller character. After the weeks holiday my memory had lapsed even further so yesterday I finally started my biographies.

First there is the obligatory visit to a good stationary shop for  a new notebook. As all writers know, you can never own too many of these. After throwing away a small fortune on a blue striped ‘Pukka Pad Project Book’ I returned home and set to work.

On a separate page I wrote the name of a character featured in the story and then added detail.  As I need to reinforce my time-line I have given birth dates to everyone as well as surnames, siblings, school names, type of work. I finally got round to writing a clear description of each character, including any particular features, eg. a lop-sided walk, nervous habit of fidgeting, their speech manner. etc. Furthermore I have added their likes and dislikes as well as their fears. Also I like to describe the characters’  clothing, the feel of the material, the look.

Below are a couple of character biographies I completed last year for another book idea which as yet has not been developed further. They should  give you an idea of what is involved.

My Fictional Biographies Examples.

Christine Brazier.

Christine was born on 12th May 1978 in North Yorkshire and lived in a small village called Bellingham. She later attended the highly prestigious Harrogate Ladies College and later studied medicine and in 2002 graduated from Durham University.  She is currently a paediatrician at Leeds General Infirmary. Christine did not have an easy childhood, losing her mother to cancer aged ten and thereafter, although her father cared for her, she lacked love and warmth in a normal family setting. Her older brother was largely disinterested in her. As a result Christine has become a very uptight and controlling person, almost a perfectionist. Although she will listen to others she has often already made up her own mind. This flawed character trait is crucial to the story. She is a keen health fanatic and enjoys spinning at the local gym, road running and races and is addicted to tweeting.  Her guilty pleasure for relaxation is on-line bingo – but always within limits. To start with she has no sense of humour. As the story progresses and she loses control of her life we see her change to a more easy-going, relaxed person, willing to accept help from others as well as learning to laugh in adversity. Christine is divorced with two children who mean the world to her. Christine is very skinny, tall and has green eyes and dark red hair cut short and  straight. She has a habit of tilting her head to one side when listening to others. When talking she tends to talk in short clipped sentences at work and her frustration with people she considers working too slowly is palpable.

Owen Boyd. Journalist, later Christine’s friend.

Owen was born on 23rd March 1968 in a poor suburb of Bradford. He is a disillusioned reporter on the Yorkshire Post, which is based in Leeds, and he has become bitter over the years about his lack of career advancement. His dreams of working for the nationals has never materialised. He left school at 16 to work at the local paper and attended college part time to gain his national certificate in journalism. Boyd, as he is referred to at work and outside, has scruffy blond hair with blue eyes and does not have a keen sense of style. This shows up more than usually as he is tall and has a solid build.  His comfortable style of clothes for work does not sit well with the modern sleek expectations of the office.He never walks or saunters, rather strides purposefully forth as if on a mission.  Following his years of experience in the print press he feels this gives him unique knowledge of how to work and he resents taking orders from younger more senior but inexperienced managers. This often leads to confrontation. However he is often right and his dogged obsession with the smallest detail and meticulous research skills have stood him in good stead.  Following a bitter divorce and estrangement from his teenage daughter Boyd has  became addicted to prescription drugs and started smoking again. His love for the outdoors hasn’t dulled with time and he is still a keen cyclist and gardener. In his childhood he had a passion of keeping tropical fish and this interest has been revived since living on his own and he now has one room at home filled with fish tanks.

“The spirit of man is nomad, his blood bedouin, and love is the aboriginal tracker on the faded dessert spoor of his lost self; and so I came to live my life not by conscious plan or prearranged design but as someone following the flight of a bird.”

Laurens Van Der Post

Word count of first draft:35,108 words

Colourful Collective Nouns

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I love the colourful collective nouns I discovered recently and feel ashamed they’d passed me by all my life until now. There are so many to choose from but below are a few I want to share with you. Hope you enjoy them: whether collective noun pro or a novice. Enjoy.

Whilst trekking through the jungle (or sailing in a small boat across the ocean) there is the  risk of being assaulted by an ambush of tigers.  Creches around the world entertain the young children by a storytelling of ravens The floral display of flowers will never seem the same again after witnessing a bloom of jellyfish and continuing on the herbaceous theme, those poor Jellyfishplucked game birds; not bad enough being shot, now they risk becoming a bouquet of pheasants. Maybe the sight of them caused the gaze of racoons or resulted in a bellowing of bullfinches. What about those majestic circus performing African mammals, clambering precariously on top of one another until you have a tower of giraffes. After witnessing all their strenuous effort the sleepiest of animals slowly dash for their pillows and duvets and as their eyelids battle with drowsiness there is soon a bed of sloths. Not all animals are so lethargic bullfinchesas the magnificent nocturnal birds of prey swoop to create a parliament of owls. Imagine them holding court over the country, power of the land in their stately talons – and who knows, perhaps much wiser lawmakers than their human counterparts. The most appropriately collective noun must surely be a flamboyance of flamingos as they gather in their thousands (or at times over a million) on the African lakes. One of our busiest rodents are a scurry of squirrels as they dart about the land, collecting nuts and seeds, stopping occasionally for a swift glance around before leaping away, up the tree, over the fence, down the alleyway.  Finally, let the past be safely stowed away within a memory of elephants.

 “in every landscape the point of astonishment is the meeting of the sky and the earth.”

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

In Print

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I want to share some good news with you all.

This morning I sat in bed having a leisurely breakfast. How decadent I know, but since it’s half term at the moment, I happily grab a few moments of relaxation whenever possible.

Having read the back few pages first of Writers’ Forum (March 2015) I turned to the front pages. A few seconds later I squealed with delight as I found my piece on The 17th Century Kindle printed in the ‘NewsFront’ section of the magazine.

I had sent this to Writers’ Forum a couple of weeks ago and since I hadn’t heard anything from the magazine I had forgotten about my submission.  Again, a real boost and I am happy to share this interesting story to a much wider audience. The piece submitted to Writers’ Forum was much briefer than my blog post on The 17th Century Kindle as the guidelines clearly stated that items should not be more than 200 words.

We are awakened through poetry;
we are affirmed through ritual,
we are fulfilled through music.

by Confucius

Hearts

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The last few weeks we have been bombarded with hearts – Valentine heart cards, heart decorated wrapping paper, teddy bears cuddling huge red hearts. Hearts swaying from shop ceiling as they join in the extravaganza called Valentines.  How could I fail but to recall a piece of flash fiction I wrote last year and is aptly named ‘The Little Heart’. Romantics be warned – this is not a love story.

The Little Heart

In my bubble I bump against life, insulated from its joys and sorrows. My child gesticulates wildly, his face alight with excitement and there must be words. Such sweet words from that gentlest of voices, but for me inaudible. The fog within me wraps around my nerves, slowly strangling all the senses.

“They’re here to help you,” my husband promised.

“You’re the one who needs the help,” I screamed.

In those days I could shout, argue, feel, love, rage.

“Take it!” The man in white orders. Glancing down in my hand, I obey. The beguiling beauty of the hollowed heart of the blue tablet pulsates reassuringly. I glimpse closer. It’s not a heart, rather a soft-scooped “V”. V for victory to the zombie that in the ensuing days commandeers my body. It overwhelms me and all that remains is a modicum of myself, a spectator to this tragedy.

“She’s much calmer. Happier even.” The words drift painfully to my brain.

My son appears, hugs me and his sad wild eyes penetrate my soul. He leaves – his ghostly presence imprinted on my mind. I was tricked into this hell. Trapped. I’ll fight my way out. For my life and child.

The End

“His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”

From Dubliners by James Joyce

The Journey So Far…

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I thought it was time I wrote an update about this amazing Novel Writing Journey I embarked upon at the start of the year and which spiralled into this blog.

For the past six weeks I have managed to retain a respectable weekly word count and am now up to  30,000 on the first draft.

I thought it might be tough, but had not foreseen the depths of the lows and the heights of the highs. Ironically enough, none of these were caused by the actual physical writing itself – once I sat down and wrote, the words flowed easily and quickly.

One of the highs involved finding my name long listed for the Inktears Short Story Competition! A whoop of surprise followed by yes, all the effort is worth it. For the opportunity to be able to share ones writing with others and for it to be recognised. As always I am fully aware of the fun, enjoyment and satisfaction of writing itself.

The high of finishing a chapter and realising that is good, although recognising the improvements I can make and noting down new ideas to add later.

The writing highs are a gem. When upon re-reading a particular paragraph I tingle with delight in the way that it works; perfect.

The lows are the why bother moments? These surely engulf every writer. What is the point? This is going nowhere?  Sound familiar? Of course. Most of the time I booted these thoughts out of my brain with a ‘don’t you dare come into my head and hibernate’. Most of the times these reprimands were successful. The negatives fled my head, leaving room for constructive thoughts and ideas; off I set on writing.

However, there were days – and now I realise there will be many days – when no amount of arguments or walks would ease the bad away. It was as if a physical sticky cud of earth had infested itself in my brain and commandeered it.

At first I fought. Valiantly, I tell myself. To no avail. In the end I felt as if I were under the orders of the Daleks –  ‘resistance is useless’ – and so succumbed to their control. My prison however was writing inactivity and when the house was cleaned, the car washed (yes, even in winter!) and the fish fed, I retreated for an hour or two for down time. My vice? Netflix and an episode or two of ‘Breaking Bad’ or ‘The Good Wife’. One day of such R&R was usually enough to break the bleak cycle and the next morning my fingers would be flying over the keys again.

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o’er my head!

By John Keats