SOLVITUR AMBULANDO – IT IS SOLVED BY WALKING

On July 8, 2015July 8, 2015 By Annika PerryIn walking, Writing14 Comments

My brain is ensnared. My eyes dart to the bright sunlight and soon my toes tap the floor restlessly, itching to move. Now my body is begging for the the outside, the fresh air, the sun.

Inwardly I simultaneously groan and cheer. The battle is over – work can wait, it’s time for a walk!

Do you ever suffer from the same turmoil? Do you need a walking break now and then? If so, put down your pens, push your keyboards aside and join me as I stride out on a local walk – I’d love your company.

Luckily this is a walk from my doorstep and after a quick stroll past the pretty gardens of the neighbouring houses, I cross the main road. Soon the peace of the countryside surrounds me.

Deftly (I wish!) climbing over the wooden stile, I avoid a rotten board. My sudden squeal of pain surprises even myself as nettles spike my bare legs and I stamp about in a ridiculous fashion as if this would soothe the stinging.

(Please click on the photos to enlarge them.)

Ahead stretches a vast wheat field. A lush sea of colour, from burnished bronze to light yellow to green of fresh new growth languidly rustle in the breeze. The myriad of golden shades sway back and forth in great swathes, the soft shimmering ripples creating soft music as the full ears of corn move together.

In one place two light green parallel lines of wheat stretch far into the distance, as if lighting a runway for planes above. Where did they come from? The mystery buzzes around my mind as I try to spot the crop circles which usually appear as if by magic amongst the golden mass. No such wonder today. They’re always fascinating. Nature’s art. Or is it a small alien landing craft? I smile to myself at my mind’s musings.

In front of me looms my marker; a lone oak tree perfectly outlined against the golden field and the sheer blue sky. On a warm day as today the fully grown tree offers welcome cooling shade.

Years ago, when my son was young it was a fun obstacle as we chased each other round and round the thick trunk. At first, when I could easily have caught him, I’d ‘stumble’ and let his tiny hands grab my legs. Then when he was older I ran for all my worth until dizziness overtook me. I’d stumble and after letting me think I’m winning my son would catch me, save me. Life’s full circle.

A right turn in the path and as I traverse the bone dry ground, carefully stepping between the deep cracks I glimpse the church ahead. Standing alone in its dignity and history. The Medieval and later Tudor addition creating a beautiful serene building. I approach it through the lych gate, the church to my right, the cemetery to my left. Built in 1435, the church is much as it was, with the original Nave, East Window and main heavy wooden double doors all intact.

The lych gate was built in 1919 and was originally the place where corpses lay before being brought into the church, hence the engraving above of ‘Mors Annua Vitae’ – ‘Death is the gateway to life’.

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(Please click on photos to enlarge and to see them in a slideshow.)

I wander around the cemetery, deep in thought, seeking solace for my own losses. Stopping I read an inscription or two. There lies William Beck ‘Gamekeeper to Basil Sparrow Esq’, the gravestone put up by the latter in January 1860 to his ‘courageous and faithful servant who died from wounds caused by the accidental discharge of his gun…’

As I stop at a grave here and there I’ll say out the name out aloud, hoping to honour the person, hoping to revive meaning behind the utterance.

Writing is never far from me and I scan the names for inspiration for stories or perhaps to find a name to fit in a piece of fiction writing. This was the case with my winning short story, where my main female character’s name was discovered at a cemetery. (By the way, that particular story will soon be featured on my blog.)

I pause at one particular grave. For a baby girl who fleetingly visited this earth for a day. She was born healthy and strong but died seventeen hours later from cot death. I knew her mother well as our sons were best friends and the tragedy shook us all.

So I continue my walk, thoughts drifting on life and death, as always the two intermingled, inevitable.

Walks and thoughts. As I stride across another field I lose my conscious self as an internal discussion rages in my head, this is distilled into peaceful reflections and new ideas swirl into being. As if in a transcendental meditation I wander on and in a shock I discover myself far from my last conscious position. The inner concentration of brain storming so powerful the ‘real’ world takes second place to the inner world. With my brain cleansed, with ideas stored safely for my return, I continue feeling clearer, lighter, brighter. My feelings echo Bill Bryson’s words on walking ‘…you exist in a kind of mobile Zen mode, your brain like a balloon tethered with string, accompanying but not actually part of the body below…’

To my left now is the regal Elizabethan hall with its stunning Georgian front. Now a country home hosting grand weddings it formerly saw Elizabeth I and her retinue as its regular visitors. Built in 1544 with major reconstructions in 1691 and 1715 its features include a spectacular central courtyard.

I remember the lovely afternoon one Sunday when it opened for visitors and it felt a wonder to be served scones and tea in such special surroundings. One Christmas the local primary school children walked up to the hall and enjoyed lunch in the ornate wooden banqueting hall. Overawed the pupils were silenced – for a moment. Imagine, eating in the former residence of King Louis VXII and his wife and their 350 courtiers!

By now sweltering from the heat I welcome the shade from the avenue of trees heading back to the village centre. The wind sweeps along the straight and gently caresses my tired legs. Treading on the road I am still astonished at its surface, the one originally laid by American troops during World War Two, as it led to the local airfield. It must have endured so much heavy traffic in those few years alone but is still going strong.

It was many years before the USA Airforce left the area I’m reminded as I halt by the memorial plaque of an American pilot killed as his plane crashed into the village playing field in 1963. As the F100 Super Saber jet developed an engine fault Col Wendell Kelly heroically chose to stay with the plane to ensure it avoided the local school. When certain the plane would crash away from civilians he did eject, but too late to save his own life. Recently a 50th commemoration service in his honour was held in the village and it was lovely that his daughter and other family members from America could attend.

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The very same playing field in use today by children and adults, for football matches, cricket matches, fetes. For years I watched my son and his friends charge across the sun-scorched grass, heading full pelt towards the playground. More sedately I walk towards the shop, the field quiet and empty as I recall the yelps of joy as the children were let out of class.

I’m here now. At the local shop, which is run by a team of dedicated volunteers. Time for a break. What will you have? Tea? Coffee? Ice-cream? Yes, I’ll take one of those thank you. Let’s sit out on the table. Yes, just that one there, the one with the red geranium precariously standing on it.

Village pavillion with local shop tucked next to it

Now silence, peace. Time to be thankful. Time to reflect. Tired my legs ache for a rest. Refreshed my fingers itch to write. Alert my brain is brimming with new ideas and plans. I’m off home and back to my writing.

The final stretch of the walk takes me through the dappled shade of the Nature Reserve. Once a gravel quarry it has been developed since the 1960s into a local area of beauty with three large lakes and rich woodland. A bench beckons by the water’s edge but determined I go on my way, greeting the ducks who are paddling near by. I’ll be back later with some bread later, I promise them. At last I spy the house located only a few metres from the Nature Reserve and again marvel at the ideal location.

Well, the walk is over and I want to thank you for joining me. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have.

‘Solvitur and ambulando – it is solved by walking.’

By St. Augustine

SACKS AND NOTEBOOKS

On June 26, 2015June 26, 2015 By Annika PerryIn Writing37 Comments

No doubt we’ve all set ourselves deadlines in our writing goals. Some may even come attached with a mental forfeit. Not many can be as extreme as the one Oliver Sacks set himself over fifty years ago when writing his first book.

To complete it within ten days or failing that kill himself.

Spurred into action he wrote at times twenty hours a day and on the tenth day he handed in ‘Migraine’ to Fabers in London. The writing turned to joy and the threat dissipated by a sense of elation.

Writing has been an integral part of his life and besides his numerous books, amongst them the famous ‘Awakenings’ which was made into a film starring the brilliant late Robin Willaims, he also uses notebooks compulsively.

Oliver Sacks writes non-stop, taking note-books with him wherever he goes, often pausing to jot down notes. There he is, resting his notepad on a car-roof, scribbling away. Over there, standing still at a train station, pen and paper in hand, oblivious to the huge swirl of the crowds parting around him and his briefcase which stands abandoned for his feet.

Altogether Sacks reckons he has filled over a thousand notebooks. He calls these an ‘indispensable form of talking to myself’ and that they were not written to be read by others, nor does he read them himself.

‘The act of writing is itself enough; it serves to clarify thoughts and feelings.’

Reading these words it was as if a long-lingering dark cloud has lifted from me and in a few single puffs of words my intermittent anxiety regarding my own collection of notebooks has faded.

Stashed safely in two bed boxes, their weight alone threatening the thin chip board base, the notebooks have rarely seen daylight since the day they were filled. On a few nostalgic moments I’ve retrieved the odd one and snuggled in bed, relived a few days of my youth, dipped into past loves, sorrows, tragedies, read a few words of innocent dramatic musings written in my childish scrawl.

Otherwise they lay there, untouched. By no means reaching Oliver Sacks’s thousand, but near a hundred notebooks and I had wondered, why? Why did I bother? What should I do with them?

Now I am reassured. I can face a contented security that this is normal, whatever normal means. To scribble away, to put away. These inner thoughts, emotions, a creative conversation within myself, an outpouring of energy that helped in the moment and helped to form myself. To create and re-create myself. At times two hours would disappear in frenzied writing and as I emerged with aching fingers and blurred vision my soul and mind felt purged, as thoughts and ideas became vivid and crystal clear.

Each notebook is precious, from the smallest, earliest one at 2 x 4 cm in a golden hardback flip case, to the largest, latest lurid pink ‘blott’ notebook. From misspelt words, feelings, lists, to ideas on life, friends, boyfriends and politics, I scribbled away. Not forgetting the dreams…those dream entries still freak me out. Once for two weeks I kept a dream diary and as early morning writing turned into the next morning, the dreams seemed so ominous and fantastic, too real. My sleep suffered and finally I had to stop.

Nowadays I find one notebook alone does not suffice and so I work around four different journals, each assigned a specific topic.

My traditional black hardboard notebook is full of observations of life around me, conversations overheard in shops, description of particularly striking people spotted whilst out shopping, of interesting signposts, newspaper articles.
Another hardback journal is white with the loud and proud words of ‘Hold on People I’m having an Idea’ plastered across the whole front cover. In here I write down story ideas, some are merely a sentence long, whilst others stretch over pages.
The blue one with a blue elastic band serves as my book journal; in here I jot down notes on books I’m reviewing as well as books I have read and ones I intend to buy.
Finally I write in a smaller beautiful multicoloured notebook with a magnetic flip front fastening. Unusually this was not a gift as most of my journals have been (I’m easy to buy presents for!) but I acquired this myself in Cambridge years ago and for a while it was left unattended as I felt it was too special to write in. Finally I decided to use it for the funny wise sayings of my son. Keen observations of the world that were uttered with startling clarity, seeing things anew only as they young can, and in the process reigniting the novelty of life for weary adults.

How could I resist this kind offer made by my son when he still very young! Reckon I didn’t take the money!

‘You should be a home-author. You can write stories for me whilst I’m at school. You don’t have to publish them. If they’re good I’ll give you 10p.’

I must not forget my mslexia dairy, full of blog notes, story ideas, competitions, quotes (plus of course school trips, doctor visits, birthdays…)

I approach each new notebook with the same eager anticipation I experienced in my childhood. The blank pages bursting with promise and expectation, so empty and free. With almost religious zeal I will flip through the pages, imaging the outpourings that might fill their bleak space. A feeling felt as keenly now as when a child and many a notebook will start with very similar feelings to these written seven years ago in a new gold-leaf edged notebook given to me by a life-long friend.

‘Monday 12th October 2008 Always such a great responsibility – marking that very first page. All pristine, empty of thoughts and emotions, now to be scarred forever, must be something special methinks, of particular value. … Once again I trust I will keep with it, once again I say for my sanity, once again I say, let’s see where it leads.’

Recently Oliver Sacks seems to have been everywhere I’ve turned; his latest autobiography reviewed in papers and online and convinced I bought ‘On the Move: A Life’ for my Dad for Father’s Day (hint to Dad: Please hurry up and read quickly – I want to borrow it!)

Then reading about the life of Oliver Sacks I discovered his addiction to notebooks and its absolute and phenomenal impact on his life This face reassured me about the sanity of writing these, holding on to them, for no particular reason but for their very being. I hope you too might find this of consolation.

I am sure many of you write and keep notebooks. I would love to hear from you about them. What topics are covered? Are they gifts or self-bought? Do you reread them often or let them rest in peace?

Finally, of course it does not just have to be notebooks. As Oliver Sacks said, ‘The need to think on paper is not confined to notebooks. It spreads onto the backs of envelopes, menus, whatever scraps of paper are at hand.’

5 DAYS PHOTO CHALLENGE IRON MEN AND WOODEN BOATS

On June 15, 2015 By Annika PerryIn Photography, Writing30 Comments

I am currently taking part in the 5 Photos – 5 days challenge after being nominated by Dorne at https://dorneawhale.wordpress.com.

Welcome to my final (slightly delayed) photographs for this challenge. Yes, you read correctly, for this post one photograph was just not enough to tell the story, so you’re in for a treat of six or so, some of which are over seventy years old so please forgive the quality.

Firstly, the rules are as follows:

‘Post a photo each day for five consecutive days, and tell a story about each photo. The story can be truth or fiction, poetry or prose. Each day one must also nominate a fellow blogger to participate in the challenge.’

Day 5. Iron Men and Wooden Boats

I tell my son his roots go back to the island where my mother was born, to the island where his great-grandparents were born and lived all their lives. I tell him that the he is as strong as the granite rocks that their house was built on. Then, looking at these photos today I think I need to add an addendum to this statement. His soul is part of the sea fished by his fore-fathers all their lives.

My grandfather went out fishing at the age of 14, before than he regularly helped out on the boats.

This was the time when fishing was brutal and dangerous. A time when you had to be tough physically and mentally. My cousins, a few who are professional fishermen today, readily concede they work in relative comfort and safety, with their warm spacious cabins, kitchen and dining area and a bridge worthy of a Nasa spacecraft.

No such luxury for my grandfather. No heavy duty machinery to help with the lifting, just a basic winch. The physical work was unbelievably hard and raw, for days out fishing in the cold winters of the North Sea only to return to cramped conditions below deck.

And yet, these were some of the happiest days for my grandfather. Isn’t that wonderful? Life at its simplest, most basic, living every moment to the full, every second counting and the whole experience creating close camaraderie between the fishermen.

A museum on one island displays the history of the local fishing over the past two centuries and they have recreated the inside of one such typical boat which my grandfather owned. Talking to his great-grandchildren whilst going around the museum I saw my grandfather’s eyes shine with happiness and then glaze over with memories of time passed, people passed. His words intense, burning their vitality onto our brain.

He spoke of days spent out at sea and once, landing with a catch in Aberdeen, only to send a telegram to his wife, no, he would not be back just yet. The fishing was again so good the following week, that there was another telegram advising of a delay in returning home and then out they sailed from Aberdeen, heading to the sea and to the herring. Four weeks later he returned home to face a few seconds of scolding from my grandmother, followed by her and the children’s joyous love and hugs.

÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷

I would like to nominate Jo at https://restlessjo.wordpress.com to carry on this challenge. I hope she enjoys the challenge as much as I am and look forward to seeing her photographs / writing posts!

I want to thank you all for following me on this 5 day photo challenge, which has been inspiring and led me down writing and memory paths I would not have taken otherwise.

Finally, I would like to give special thanks to my mother for the title of this post. Stuck for ideas I gave her a call and she immediately gave me this title; something she thought of many years ago to describe her father and his fellow fishermen.

5 days – 5 photos Challenge Nana’s Web

On June 10, 2015June 10, 2015 By Annika PerryIn Photography, Writing20 Comments

I am currently taking part in the 5 Photos – 5 days challenge after being nominated by Dorne from https://dorneawhale.wordpress.com. Below is my photo and writing for Day 4, inspired by this photo of a frost-coated spider’s web.

Firstly, the rules are as follows:

‘Post a photo each day for five consecutive days, and tell a story about each photo. The story can be truth or fiction, poetry or prose. Each day one must also nominate a fellow blogger to participate in the challenge.’

Day 4. Nana’s Web

‘Are you sure, Alicia?’ asks Nana dubiously, maintaining the steady rhythm of her crochet needle, then pausing for a moment as she studies my childish conviction.

‘Yes, Nana, please, let me try,’ I plead, leaning over her handiwork and studying the fine web design.

‘It’s just you’ve never shown any inclination to crochet before.’

Even I realise the truth of her observation, as the eight-year-old me is either deep into a book, playing football outside or creating adventures for my barbie dolls inside. My bike is my freedom and I think I know the little French village we now live better than anyone in my family.

‘I do want to learn though,’ I say, smiling my toothless grin which never fails!

‘Fetch my handicraft case then.’

Happily I scuttle to the spare room where my grandparents are sleeping during their visit to us. Like a leech I have stuck to their sides since their arrival. With them in the house they are making the strange and frightening all the more familiar, I just don’t want them to go, for the strangeness to return.

Back on the sofa I snuggle next to Nana, hip to hip, the two of us, legs tucked up and to the side. She hands me the unfamiliar tool and picking up another I hold them at the end and I start tapping them together as if they were toy drumsticks. I feel a shudder of frustration by my side and calmly Nana replaces the needle in my left hand to her case, her frown transforming into a smile.

‘Here, like this,’ she says, taking my right hand in hers and placing my finger towards the curved end of the needle. Next she loops the fine thread onto my fingers of my other hand and then she guides me to crochet! I am actually crocheting and with her hands now patiently showing mine what to do I manage a few patterns. Her spoken instructions drift like feathers upon my skin, soft, gentle, ticklish but unfathomable as I am awed by the magic I’m creating.

I settle down next to Nana and crochet. She’s always so at peace and content when crocheting, even though she works at lightening speed. I want to be like that and I try very hard, but it’s a slow arduous task. Raising the thread to her mouth Nana nips it off and with a swift twist round her finger she has finished. One more table cloth with its delicate beautiful design is put onto the table with the others. Crocheting was something I wanted to do so badly, honestly. I thought I could do it, but it will take weeks, months, years. I will not concede…too quickly.

So I crochet; all the time looking at Nana’s wondrous creations, the finest threads looped into amazing patterns. All from her mind. That is magic to me. I look at my rough work, then at her art. My head drops a few more angles and quiet sigh follows quiet sigh.

Suddenly the door-bell rings and my friend enters, calling out my name.

‘Nana…’ I start to say.

‘Alicia, you go and have fun with your friend,’ she replies, placing my handiwork onto her lap.

‘Thanks, see you later and I’ll finish it later,’ I promise. A promise I know and Nana knows I will never fulfil. She won’t mind and knowing Nana she will have rescued my first attempt and completed it by the time I’m home. That’s just who she is!

I would like to nominate Esther at https://esthernewtonblog.wordpress.com to carry on this challenge. I realise this is not her usual type of posts but if she has the time I know we would all enjoy reading her writings and seeing her photos. If she decides to go ahead, I hope she enjoys the challenge as much as I am and look forward to seeing her photographs / writing posts!

5 photos – 5 days The White Wonder

On June 9, 2015June 9, 2015 By Annika PerryIn Photography, Writing8 Comments

I am currently taking part in the 5 Photos – 5 days challenge after being nominated by Dorne from https://dorneawhale.wordpress.com. Below is my photo and writing for Day 3.

Firstly, the rules are as follows:

‘Post a photo each day for five consecutive days, and tell a story about each photo. The story can be truth or fiction, poetry or prose. Each day one must also nominate a fellow blogger to participate in the challenge.’

Day 3. The White Wonder

On their dainty stalks a generation of white poppies stood proud amongst the roses. Whilst some crumpled with age, their white petals curling into brown ragged decay, this pristine poppy shone in its peaceful perfect serenity.

As it quivered, almost whimsically in the breeze, I studied the petals further, furtively stroking one between my thumb and fore-finger. Art classes at Primary School came to mind and the oft used crepe-paper with its ruffled texture. Each petal over-lapped with its neighbour and in such symmetry they formed the exquisite bowl. A bold splotch marked each petal, a gentle bruise which was as if dabbed on by a child’s hand and the aqueous paint seeped unevenly upwards.

The burnished bronze stamen hovered in the centre with its almost comically bald top. Just then a bee in lumbering lethargic flight landed in the poppy and frantically, manically it bustled its way round and round the stamen. At such an awkward side-ways angle the bee at times tipped backwards before it recovered on its single-minded task.

What a gift from nature! Sublime artistry which touched my soul and that white poppy has well and truly nudged its way into my heart.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

I would like to nominate Sue at http://scvincent.com who regularly posts such stunning photos and beautiful lyrical writing to carry on this challenge. I hope she enjoys the challenge as much as I am and look forward to seeing her photographs / writing posts!

5 PHOTOS – 5 DAYS CHALLENGE THE HAMMOCK

On June 8, 2015June 8, 2015 By Annika PerryIn Photograhpy, Writing13 Comments

I am currently taking part in the 5 Photos – 5 days challenge after being nominated by Dorne from https://dorneawhale.wordpress.com. Here is my photo and writing for Day 2.

Firstly, the rules are as follows:

‘Post a photo each day for five consecutive days, and tell a story about each photo. The story can be truth or fiction, poetry or prose. Each day one must also nominate a fellow blogger to participate in the challenge.’

Day 2. The Hammock

She’d been on the bench for a long time, not long enough. Toby kicked his trainers back and forth against the steaming tarmac leaving black scuff marks on the blue fabric and with every kick barely missed the up-turned ice-cream cone on the ground. He’d dropped it an hour ago, just after she’d given it to him. You’d think her eight-year-old brother could hang onto a goddam cone, she thought. Obviously not, with the viscous chocolate spreading further apart, the rainbow sprinkles the only sparkle of brightness in the glum debris.

‘Here,Toby. You should be able to keep hold of this,’ she’d said, handing him his second ice-cream in a white and red plastic pot. Even her brother, the wimp, should be able to keep this in order. He had although she noticed his fingers were now a fount of stickiness, leaving strawberry coloured fingerprints on the green painted bench.

Out of rhythm Toby suddenly swung both legs forcefully into the air sending a flock of seagulls flapping away. They flew low to just a few metres away before landing and with their black-eyed scavenger look they viewed their prey, the cone, beside Toby’s feet. Gloomily Amelia and Toby both shook their heads.

‘Amelia, take your brother out for a while,’ her mother had whispered to her in the morning. ‘Look at the boats. Here’s some money.’ As if that would help. Money. Boats. Didn’t her mother understand at all? ‘It might cheer you up,’ she called as they left the rented house.

Cheer me up, muttered Amelia, kicking the ground and immediately scrunching her foot and face in pain. She’d forgotten she was wearing her stupid flip-flops.

So they sat and watched the boats. The bloody boats on this bloody perfect day. A steady slow elegant parade of them, so peaceful and content in their venture. A whispering silence broken by the odd screeches of delight from the children on board or the sudden burst of a outboard motor as it was turned to full throttle. Further away white sails from the sailing boats skimmed the sky-line resembling a eloquent a dance on the water.

Like a good girl Amelia sat and watched. For fractions of time she was even enthralled, for a moment her heart mingled with the cheerful people around her. But only for a second or so.

How could she enjoy it? Be happy? Didn’t her parents understand?

This was their last holiday. Dad’s last holiday. Dad who ‘needs rest’. No kidding. He was being eaten alive, the illness engulfing him from the inside, his gaunt frame both old and young.

And she’s told; ‘Watch the boats!’

Abruptly Toby ceased to move and he looked right. Amelia followed his gaze and smiled. Looking at her Toby laughed. At home a hammock was strung between two oak trees in the garden and since forever they would lay in it together, playing, reading, napping. Often battling to throw each other out.

Whoever would have thought of hanging hammock on a boat? Now all eyes along the harbour front followed the boat’s graceful procession, the people on board oblivious to the quiet commotion on land. In the hammock Amelia thought she spied two children. By the boat wheel a man stared contently out to sea.

Standing up Amelia took Toby’s hand, its stickiness and all and leisurely walked alongside the boat as it slipped languidly past.

‘Come on Toby, let’s just follow it a while.’

So they strolled. Hand in hand. Watching a boat. And she felt better. She realised now that the better feeling would disintegrate in a flash, but for this second it was encased in her soul and Amelia guarded this fragile joy.

Her father was dying. He was alive today. Now. And for the next moment. This she could give him.

‘Stop for a mo, Toby. Let me take a photo. Now one without you. We’ll show Dad when we get back. He’ll love it. You’ll see,’ she said and separating they turned and sprinted towards the house, to Mum, to Dad.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

To carry on this challenge I would like to nominate Marjma at https://kyrosmagica.wordpress.com. I hope she enjoys it as much as I am and look forward to seeing her photographs / writing posts!

5 photos – 5 days challenge GRANITE HEART

On June 7, 2015 By Annika PerryIn 5 photos - 5 days, Photography, Writing10 Comments

I have been kindly nominated by Dorne from https://dorneawhale.wordpress.com to take part in the 5-Photos – 5 – Days Challenge.

The rules are as follows:

‘Post a photo each day for five consecutive days, and tell a story about each photo. The story can be truth or fiction, poetry or prose. Each day one must also nominate a fellow blogger to participate in the challenge.’

Day One. GRANITE HEART

Is this nature’s greeting to us all?

Chiselled by wind and rain into a perfect granite heart? Whilst dry its form lays invisible, latent even, then soon the tempest rages across the islands, the darkness presses to the ground. Torrents of rain water streams down the rocks, filling the small rock pools and crevices alike. As the deluge continues thunder cracks in the sky and its bellows reverberate ferociously around the stone caverns.

Dawn glistens over the sea, peace restored and the rowan trees drip with refreshing delight as the sun scorches the ground dry. Warm to the touch the granite hums with life, as if to say, ‘Look, this is what I feel. This. Look. My Heart. My Love’.

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Many thanks to Dorne for suggesting me for this challenge. I would like to nominate Jacqui Murray at https://worddreams.wordpress.com if she would like to carry on this challenge. I hope she enjoys it as much as I am and look forward to seeing her photographs / writing posts!

Thank you for visiting.

TURNING POINT

On May 20, 2015 By Annika PerryIn Writing15 Comments

It wasn’t so much hitting a wall, rather a slow drift into silence. The voices gradually lost their clarity and what had previously flowed as if by magic became steeped in effort.

For days I didn’t write. Was this the infamous writer’s block? It felt less a block, rather a stillness. Time to take a break from my friends; with two thirds of the book written, we need a rest from each other.

Then the past few nights new ideas have pushed their way into my imagination; characters previously sketched out for another novel are now clamouring for attention – shouting to tell their story.

During the past few months I have learnt so much and my approach this time will be different.

I will…

Be more patient and considered.
Prepare full character profiles before I start writing.
Prepare a rough plan of the book, with the highs and low as well as the points of conflict clearly indicated, although allow space for unexpected creative diversions.
Try out various POVs before I start to write to see which works best.
Sketch out a time-line in order to avoid confusion whilst writing.

For a few days an emptiness filled my spirit as I bleakly faced the silence. My friends departed – for now, but not forever I’m sure. Then suddenly an excited flutter, a surge of adrenaline as new characters were formed sub-consciously, their strong dialect reverberating in my head. As with the previous novel, I already have the end clear in my mind for this new project. I believe I will get there this time. I also believe the first novel will find its natural completion in due course.

“True intelligence operates silently. Stillness is where

creativity and solutions to problems are found.”

Eckhardt Tolle

LET’S TALK ABOUT BLOGGING

On May 5, 2015May 5, 2015 By Annika PerryIn Writing8 Comments

Once again I sat curled up in bed, my iPad resting on a pillow and with lightening speed I clicked through the blogs. A post idea ignited in my brain and I switched to my own page and my fingers tapped away frantically. Beneath the pillow I felt the heat of the iPad burning and my fingers became scorched as I touched the keys. Repeatedly I tried to stop but my compulsion to finish my post was relentless. Just then I saw it – the top right corner of my iPad smouldering into searing molten plastic. I tugged at it gently and part of my tablet peeled away between my fingers.

With a scream I woke myself and in panic looked for my disintegrated iPad. Quickly realising it was all a nightmare I lay back on my pillow and wondered. Might I be enjoying this blogging experience a little too much?

No way!

I started this blog as a way to share my novel writing journey. Quickly it became much more; providing a chance not only to share the ups and downs of my writing but also an opportunity to relate my own private musings as well as exchanging interesting information, book reviews and anecdotes as well as inspirational ideas.

The writing of the posts is invigorating – such a welcome relief from my novel as well as being so versatile and variable. However, writing and posting my own blogs is only a small part of the blogging experience.

Reading, liking and commenting on other blogs has become an integral and important part of my day. Not only is my isolation as a writer eradicated, the wide range of other posts are often not only informative but often stimulating. Many are accompanied with stunning photographs that cannot fail to brighten the greyest of days.

From around the world come uplifting stories, spiritual ones, funny humorous blogs accompanied with hilarious images and captions. In contrast there are highly interesting literary ‘essays’ as well as educational posts. I read the numerous book reviews with relish, enjoying their diverse styles and learning so much more about new books available.

Whilst I am following a wide range of bloggers my main cohort is drawn from the writing community and I am eager to learn from my fellow writers.

Self-publishing is an extremely popular topic and I devour and often save the advice and hints offered. Who knows, one day I might need to brush up on these skills! Furthermore there are many posts on practical writing issues such as editing and grammar; always a useful nudge to pay attention. On the creative front I value the many and varied writing prompts posted, at times a phrase or image kick-starting a sentence or idea.

It’s always a joy to read about other people’s success; to see their books, to read the interviews of their writing ventures, as well as learning about their woes and difficulties with self-promotion. New phrases are bounded around with cult enthusiasm and I am now proud to understand what ‘Thunderclap’ and the like are all about.

Finally there are many profound thoughtful blogs created which focus on difficulties of life, illness and loss. What gains my attention and admiration is that they all eschew victimhood and rather take a positive control of their lives in an artistically inspirational manner.

What all the posts have in common is the ability to touch people intellectually, emotionally and/or spiritually. This is something I strive to achieve through my blog – for my words to truly touch my readers. To raise a smile on someone’s face, to teach someone something new and interesting that day, to reaffirm someone’s idea or belief.

As I reached for my iPad today it is in the safe knowledge it will not burn out, melt apart in my hands. Rather it is, as always, a most useful tool for sharing and communicating. With a satisfactory safe click I will join you all out there. Look forward to hearing from you soon.

Until then; Thank you for reading my blog. Thank you for sharing your posts.

‘In a gentle way, you can shake the world.’

Mahatma Ghandi

Current Word Count of First Draft: 68,363

BACK TWO WEEKS & BACK IN THE GROOVE

On April 25, 2015 By Annika PerryIn Writing13 Comments

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.

I 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.

Still, 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

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