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Three Word Wednesday

The three words for this weeks prompt are Early, Jingle and Quality.  This is the poem they inspired.

Early        Jingle        Quality


She was up far too early.
Her flushed face child now back to sleep.
The new day was taunting her,
Reminding her that time moved forward,
There was no pause to recover.

Her eyes stung in protest.
The body ached and groaned,
Dry, rough hands rubbed her tired face.
Outside the milk bottles jingled on the float,
The street light flickered.

Packed lunches, school bags, washing,
All called to her.
Perfect eyelashes on rosy cheeks,
Skin unblemished yet by life.
Kept her still, listening to the breath.

Tornado

This month, my writers group's prompt was a picture of a small tornado.  So this is my memory of a tornado relationship!



 Tornado


You. You were my tornado.
Appearing suddenly, you sucked me in,
Pulling me into your centre,
Where in the quiet I thought I could see your heart, your soul.
In this artificial world I dallied, the centre of your eye.
Surrounded by you, blinded to the edge of destruction.

Your mouth brushed my neck as you whispered to me.
My ears, hearing only you, not the world around being torn apart.
I surrendered to you, tip-toeing within my confined space,
Distracted as thoughts spiralled.
But I wanted more, my fingers trail along your sides,
Feeling your power.

Then I'm flying, swept up
Amongst all the flotsam and jetsam of your life,
I'm not the only baggage you carry.
My eyes finally opened to the chaos around me.
But it's too late, this is survival,
My tangled heart, the price for dalliance.

Dandelion Girl

This poem is dedicated to my middle child. Who looks at the world through different eyes and is my endless inspiration.  I write under her nickname to show her that anything can be overcome if you put your mind to it.

Dandelion Girl

A halo of hair, caught in the sunlight.
Every fibre defiant to the end.
Whiskers, helping her to find her way.
To keep her safe.
An inspiration to me.
This is my dandelion girl.

Her gaze pauses, a moment of stillness,
In her otherwise flowing movement.
Green eyes flick to me.
The smile spreads outwards,
Engulfing me in fire and love.
This is my dandelion girl.

Then she is gone.
Sure footed, mind soaring.
The world vibrating a little round her.
A spinning planet, drawing others closer. 
Her golden soul sparkles and glitters.
This is my dandelion girl.

The Goodbye

Cloud watching in the rain,
Somewhere near I hear my name.
It's just an echo from the past
Ripples spreading after stone was cast.
I nestle deep amongst the leaves,
Guarded by the nearby trees.

A quiet chance to say goodbye
Tears glistening, blurring in my eye.
Your name so close, is on my lips,
I caress them slowly with fingertips.
For you, my love, wished me strong,
But how can I be when you are gone?

Wedding Petals

This month, my writers group had to write an autobiography of 'anything'.  The idea being that everyday objects/ things have a story hidden in them. We then had to write a life story of one of those "things". 

This is the poem it inspired:

 Wedding Petals


 The bud emerges shielded in green.

Slowly layers slip down her shoulders,

Until she stands proud in all her glory.

Ripples of elegant white,

Perfumed for her her grand entrance.


A hand reaches, deft in touch,

Separating her with a single stroke.

She didn't feel it coming.

Her sisters are nestled beside her,

As daylight is slowly smothered.


Heat and dark.

Moisture leaches from her being,

Until only a fragrant ghost remains.

Then more hands, tearing her asunder,

Placing the delicate remains in a box.


A sweaty hand, swoops her fragments,

Releasing her for one last flurry.

Her curtain call of waxy grace.

Normal Service Will Resume Shortly

An emotional week, then a phone call from one of my oldest and best friends.  I have so many words at the end of my finger tips and yet I don't think I managed a single one when that storm hit.  Suddenly the world felt a little larger.  Instead of being able to hold her, I was holding my phone, one finger in the ear surrounded by screaming children. 

I'm sorry my darling.

We spoke the next day and this time it was her, finding all the right words for me. Showing me in the mirror what I could be, that there really is no excuse for not putting myself forward for things; take chances.  To stop looking for support and validation in what I do from those around me.  She is so strong, so much stronger then she thinks and such an inspiration to me.

Stone Promises

This month our writers group had to write something inspired by a picture of a net and pearls on a pebbled beach.  So if the picture is of a beach, then I should write about the North Yorkshire moors, right?  It's funny how your mind can take a tiny element from a prompt and go off in a totally different direction. 

Stone Promises

Above me is August blue, broken by the odd bleached, white patch, sedately sailing by.  Beyond the blue, out of sight, is midnight, littered with stars and planets.  And beyond that?  The heather scratches my skin, digging in, protesting at my crushing weight.  Their scent a reminder of half forgotten memories as the wind laps over me. A lone curlew's pewit cry echoes across the moor.  This is where we came, your hand wrapped round mine.  Now my hands are alone in my pockets, rubbing the smooth pebbles, each a promise given to me. 

A trail of salt water creeps, cold against the skin.  The clouds continue past, made up of rivers, sea, lakes and tears.  Tiny molecules which when combined could easily drown me.  Do memories live on in the water?  I shake my head as I would an etch o scketch, to wipe the stupid thought away.  I wish I could rid my mind of all unwelcome thoughts that easily. 

A rogue branch takes its chance to harpoon me. 

In my heather tomb, I try to empty my mind of bilge, listening to my shallow breath and waves of surging blood.  Piercing the quiet a shrill whistle scares the curlew into flight taking it's laments with it.  I rise, looking to my left and right as people emerge from the thick heather, a stretched-out line, young and old squinting against the glare and all facing the same rolling moorland.  A nod passes down the line, unsmiling as it flies along, then we set off, slowly, methodically in our measured steps.  A line of waving white, plastic flags, creating a sharp crack.  Beating.  The grouse in front of us fly up in fear, the smarter ones doubling back with cries of alarm.  Over a rise, hidden from view, we can hear the lead shot.  Hunters camouflaged behind the moss-covered, craggy stone butts, their barrels resting on the shaggy, grass tops. 

Rolling a stone in my fingers, a worry bead of smoothness against my dry, rough skin.  This was a promise to watch me grow old.  It drops from my hand, soundless as stone returns to earth.  Another pebble, hard against my fingers.  A promise to love me forever, now released from my grip. The trail of pebbles disappear in my wake until only sand remains.

I concentrate on putting one foot in front of another, trying not to twist my ankle.  Our line pinches in as we reach the butts, and I stumble in a hidden fire ditch.   Shooters are handing over their guns to be cleaned, dogs are being called to heel and we are being herded to the land rovers.  I'm watched - covertly - but watched, so I keep my eyes down, my face neutral, automatically reaching for my pebbles, grains slipping through my fingers.

Piling into the back of the transport home, we sit, exhausted two rows facing each other, bouncing on old springs along the dirt track, the tyres kicking up dust as we fly along.  The twins laugh and joke, youth on their side while we sit in silence, smiling at their silliness.  This is their backyard, their playground and today they are getting paid for it.  Catching the eye of the eldest beater, his weathered face turns, the smile reaching through the heavy lines to his eyes.  I smile back, my muscles rusty and sore.

Track turns to tarmac as we descend into the village.  The other vehicles are already there, the guns being unloaded into the store room, ready to be locked away until tomorrow.  With a creak of brakes we stop, the back door is opened and we start to climb out.  I wait my turn snuggled in his jacket, taking comfort in the familiar smell of wax and aftershave.  A hand is extended to help me down, tanned, firm.  I don't need to follow the line of the shirt up to the neck to know whose it is.  I drop carefully to the floor, hands by my side.  His voice is low, near my ear.  "Want to help me feed the pheasants?"  I stare deep into the forget-me-not blue eyes, not giving me any clues, so familiar yet so foreign.  His hair has grown longer, a slight curl against the tanned neck.

"Sure, why not." 

"Meet here at five?"

"OK."

He disappears into the throng.

Walking down the steep path to my house, I smile.  This time it's easier and without the pebbles in my pockets, I feel lighter.  Slipping my boots off in the porch, I carefully hang the wax coat on it's usual peg then move into the kitchen calling out as I go -

"Dad I'm home!"

Then I remember.

Thoughts on Slutwalk

Slutwalk.  Yes means yes and no means no.  Simple and to the point, just in case you got muddled.  This is people who have no power, no voice, trying to make themselves heard.  To take back some control of their lives.

A New Zealand lawyer friend told me that in New Zealand, by law, it's assumed that if the woman is drunk, then she is in no position to give her consent.  Here, if the woman is drunk, then the court assumes that she must have been up for it.  A simple shift in prospective and suddenly you can understand why the police have such a hard job putting a case together to go before a jury and why there is an only 7% conviction rate.

I consider myself lucky, I've never actually been raped.  I've been physically assaulted and threatened with rape, but when you ask around, open up, you suddenly find that it's not just you.  I even had a male friend at university who was stalked, but because he was male, the police didn't take it seriously.

Three men, although I hesitate at calling them men, walked behind me discussing how they were going to rape me as I walked along a canal path in broad daylight.  I never reported it, and part of me feels very guilty about that.  What if this was the start of a pattern for them, that their actions slowly escalated until a woman/ girl was actually raped.  I could have stopped them.  Or could I?  I never actually saw them.  I could never pick them out of a line-up and who would believe me?  It was most probably a bad joke.  Three guys who thought it would be funny to wind up a single lone girl.

I still can't walk along a canal by myself or with the children.

A Simple Reminder

An Act of Love by Alan Gibbons

This week has been all about catching up with friends.  We've moved around a lot over the years, which has meant that some friendships have slipped down the cracks of the sofa, so any chance I get, I do try to make an effort to see friends.   Exhausting as it can be, when you are trundling up and down the motorway, carsick children in tow, it is the understanding and love you get from these people that makes it worth the effort.  These are people who have been through the difficult periods of your life.  People you don't have to explain yourself to, or be on best behaviour for.  They are tried and tested and you know even though you may go years without seeing each other, you can still pick-up where you left off.

Tuesday we returned to the area two of my children spent their early years.  Driving through I'd point out where they had played, where they first learnt to ride a bike and restaurants we would go to for special occasions.

Over there is where I imagined my children, (when older) would be hanging out with their friends.  This is the route I'd pictured them making their first trips to the shops by themselves.  Now it's all changed, but the same.  People we knew have also moved on, chasing jobs or wanting better schools.  Maybe some are still here, but you can't knock on doors on the off chance.

It made me sad, much to my husband's confusion.  "Aren't you happy were we are now and the friends you now have?"  The answer is a big yes.  I love my life.  What makes me sad, is that this part of my life is over and there isn't much to show for it.  Is there?  Shouldn't I be looking to the future?

I recently read a book called An Act of Love by Alan Gibbons (thank you Nina Douglas for letting me have the chance to review it).  It's reminded me that friendship is important, especially the bonds we have as children.  These are the friends who see us for who we really are.  Cherish these friendships.

Also, although it's good to look to the future, look and learn from the past as well, so that history doesn't repeat itself.

An Act of Love was released yesterday by Orion Books. 


An Act Of Love By Alan Gibbons


Waiting to collect his medal at a high profile military ceremony, Chris receives a text message from his childhood best friend. A bomb is about to go off. The only problem is that the last time Chris saw Imran, Imran told him he was a kuffar, pressed his fingers to his head and pretended to shoot him. They chose very different paths in life, Chris joined the army and returned injured from Afghanistan; Imran, having lost his best friend and older brother, drifted angrily through life until he found what he thought was his cause, a radical Islamic group, wanting to bring war to infidels. The type of group who spawned the 7/7 bombers.  Chris has to decide if he can really trust his old blood brother, or have ten years and life choices driven them too far apart?  Using flashbacks and changing viewpoints between the two main protagonists, Gibbons creates a pressure cooker of tension.

Having grown up in the Middle East, I was interested to see how this delicate subject would be broached, and I can't fault the research that has obviously been put into this book. Gibbons captures the anger, frustration and sense of isolation that a teenager of any faith or colour feels. "You think you're in control of your life but you're not. Not really. It's like you stumble through the years with a hood over your head.  Nobody knows where they're going."  We all make mistakes growing up, sometimes we choose the wrong path but, with knowledge, sometimes you can get back on track.

An Act of Love is about friendship, growing up in a multi-racial country and looking at everyday people as well as the extremists. I remember the riots and unrest of the 1980's, and had to double check the dates in the book, with the depressing conclusion that history is repeating itself. All these events happened in the last ten years, not thirty years ago, which is a sobering thought about society. Maybe if more people read this book, understanding differences can help break cycles.

This is an enormous and heavy topic to cover, but An Act of Love is not just boy meets girl, Muslims vs the West, it's about a love that fights and conquers hate. A sometimes uncomfortable, but intuitively written and compelling read.  Gibbons gives the invisible a voice.

If you are interested in seeing the review and the questions that the author very kindly answered for me:  thefadedbookmark.blogspot.com/2011/06/act-of…

Eminent Gurdjieffians Lord Pentland by James Moore

I would like to wave a flag of vested interest.  James Moore was a neighbour for a several years and I would often bump into him in the street, his tall, straight stance belying his age, head closeted in a Russian furry hat, as he cut a dashing figure in the grey, London street. 

So it was with great excitement I finally got my hands on this book and it hasn't disappointed.  Moore's turn of phrase, his sharp wit is refreshing.  We start with Captain John Sinclair, father to Henry John (later to become Lord Pentland), as Moore shows us the upbringing that shaped and influenced his early years.  It's an interesting book in that it misses out as much as it includes.  We know that as a boy he would have carefully removed his spearmint gum after the school run before going in for food, but the veil is drawn over his possible dalliances in later life.  Moore carefully pulls all the strands of Lord Portland's life, weaving them together to produce a three-dimensional man; flick enticing ears and all.

As a writer, this is master-class in the craft and we can see why Moore is successful.  As an autobiography, with strong influences from Lytton Strachey's Eminent Victorians, Lord Pentland comes across as a man who managed, to Moore's obvious bewilderment, to rise through the Gurdjieff hierarchy.  If you are reading this book, in the hope of an in-depth, voyeuristic look into the world of Gurdjieff, you will be disappointed.  Like looking down a kaleidoscope, Moore, twists the lens to show dazzling images, each arresting in themselves, but hiding as much as they show.

I highly recommend reading this book, not only for the history lesson, or for the deft touches of humour, but for the brilliant, observational imagery. 

You also get to see a master at work.

My Family and other Camels

A friend recently asked me to write about my childhood.  My argument was, who would want to read it?  Mine was incredibly normal to me.  You had a camel that lived next door to your nursery didn't you (maybe yours wasn't called Humphrey)?  And your next door neighbour kept a cheetah, who would get stuck on the dividing wall, because although it was very good at getting up, it was too scared to jump down.

No?

OK, well maybe I've been very lucky with my childhood.  Having children of my own, I can see the advantages my brothers and I had.  Living in the Middle East, the weather meant that we'd be outside most of the time.  Even when the rains came, we would rush to the top of the flat roof to feel the fat, warm raindrops soak us, then madly brush the excess water off so that it didn't leak through to our parents bedroom.  We were totally feral children, living within the confines of our house and garden, climbing the high walls, daring each other to run fast along them, before the adjoining neighbours spotted us and told our Mum.  I only fell off once, luckily onto the top of a tree, while my friends and brother laughed, then tried to pull me up before the owner (the one we were particularly trying to avoid) came out.  Then there was the junk-yard on one side that we were strictly forbidden to play in, but spent hours exploring.  I was a total tom-boy and mainly played with my brothers and their friends.  Yes I had barbies and dolls, but I was more inclined to build a house from lego or bricks (my Dad is an architect).  My younger brother was highly competitive, so we were always trying to out-do each other.  Who could run the fastest, climb the highest, jump the longest and it would be fair to say we did some crazy things.  When we weren't at home or school, we were usually at the beach.  One of my earliest memories is being in the sea with bright orange armbands on, and it must have been early on, because I'm sure I was swimming around the same time I learnt to walk.

Umm Bab

Like Ratty and Mole, we messed about on boats, windsurfed and swam.  Then on Friday's we'd pack up the car and head off as a family on some adventure through the desert to camp by the sea, look for prehistoric sharks teeth, desert roses, or just to climb and play on the sand-dunes.  When you slide down a sand-dune, it hums.  A low, long, haunting hum.  Unfortunately you would then have to climb back up, sand slipping under foot, in the boiling sun, but it was worth it.  We'd experiment sliding down in groups or at different times to make the sand sing.

This is Khalid and me playing on a sand dune. What you can't tell is it's about the size of a 3 storey house.

Sometimes we would meet bedouin and be invited to join them for a drink and a meal.  Most of these families now lived permanently in the city, but would return to their roots at the weekends or when the rains came.  Both my parents can speak Arabic (they took lessons when they first moved there, feeling it's important to be able to speak the language of the country you live in), so they would sit and chat round the camp-fire (well, my mother mainly listened and translated for us if we were interested. Women weren't supposed to sit with the men, but as she was a foreign guest, this was allowed).  We would play with the kids, a large pack of us running wild outside the camp, not being able to understand a word, but grinning like mad, making hand gestures and showing off doing cartwheels and other childish things.  Children there are seen as a blessing and are lavished in attention and love by the adults, and it showed on their faces.

I recently showed a picture of my school playing field to my children.  They were shocked that we played on a big pitch of rough sand and stones.  Maybe that's why I love living in the country, I'm still constantly amazed by the greenery.  To me, it's magical.

My two brothers playing in the desert

We moved back when I sixteen and I think it was for the best (although the sense of homesickness took a long time to dissipate and maybe why I took Middle Eastern Studies as a degree).  As a female, the Arab world is hard and limiting.  My oldest and best friends still live there, but I don't have any contact with them.  They are half Australian, half Arab.  As Muslims, it would not be considered proper for me to contact my male friend.  He's a married man and the last time they came over to London and we all met up, his wife was obviously put out that I knew so much about his past and that we were talking in English (she can't).  His sister, who I'd spent years playing with and sharing secrets with, has married into a very strict family.  I'd have to go back to see her and I definitely couldn't take my husband to visit her.  I also have the feeling that it would also put her in an awkward position within her new family to have a western woman come to see her.  Maybe that's me making assumptions.

Would I go back?  I'm not sure.  It's changed and modernised beyond anything I remember.

This is the link to my Dad's website, so you can look at the country I remember.
http://catnaps.org/photo/qatar/qatpages/qatpage09.html

Dizzy, Dizzy Lexia

I'm coming out the cupboard (so to speak). I'm a writer and I'm dyslexic.  In the second year of university, at the age of 20, my tutor recommended that I should be tested as "my handwriting looked dyslexic".  With great trepidation (I thought I had very neat handwriting), I went off to be tested.

A woman, her eyes sad behind the glasses, told me that I was definitely dyslexic and had the spelling age of a fourteen year old.  She couldn't believe that I'd got so far through the education system without anyone noticing.  I could.  My teachers thought I was average (maybe even lower then average) and I'd quickly learnt to make myself invisible in the class.  My short term memory is shocking, so I assumed the low exam results were more to do with my habit of leaving it all to the last minute and cramming, rather then being thick.   I had to fight to be allowed to take A'level English, because I knew I could do it.

She asked me if I had read much as a child.  Well, I grew up in the Middle East, and my world was our house and the surrounding garden.  There wasn't really any television, and my brothers were very annoying, so I read.  I read everything I could get my hands on.  I remember the day I realised that I'd systematically read every book in the school library and begging my mum to take me to the British Library.  I was lucky, it was something that my parents encouraged and when I wasn't reading, I was making up my own stories.  Apparently that's what helped me. 

My vocabulary is extensive, although it might take me several attempts to spell a word correctly and who needs a thesaurus?!  I've had to learn synonyms for when I'm really stuck and can't work out the beginning of a word to look it up in a dictionary, or the spellcheck just can't work out what I'm trying to say.

I used to be ashamed of my label; my dirty secret.  However I've come to realise that it just means I see and hear the world slightly differently.  My brain records snap shots and stores them away neatly, ready to be recalled years later.  Flash-back twenty years ago, and one of my first times on the London Underground.  A large, heavy man shuffled onto our carriage, wearing a grubby, royal blue tracksuit bottoms, a grey tee-shirt and a knitted beige cardigan. His cardigan pockets were stuffed with coins, causing them to hang low, lower then the bottom of the garment, the woollen cable knit having been stretched far beyond its original shape.  As the tube sped and swayed between stations, the man would start arguments with his reflection, his voice rising higher and more heated,  beads of sweat starting to form on his forehead, just below the hairline, until we reached the next brightly lit stop, where he would return to placid, relative normality.  He was totally mesmerising, although in hindsight, it might have been wiser to change carriages as most of the other passengers did. 

That was twenty years ago, but I can't tell you how a pen materialised in my fridge yesterday.

When I'm not tired, usually with a glance, I can spot a spelling mistake.  The shape of the word causes discord on the page, but I do make mistakes with my own work.  You get too close.  So I have to write things, leave them a day and then go back to them with a new eye, but I don't think I'm unique in that.  When I'm really tired, my speech deteriorates as well.  Today at the post office I couldn't tell the man behind the counter that I wanted a book of six stamps.  It left me totally tongue-tied!  Luckily he knew what I meant and we had a laugh about it, but that's why I write.  To take my time and choose the exact words.

Now it turns out, my middle child might well be dyslexic.  Part of me hesitates to label and she can't be tested officially for another two years.  She'd struggled with reading, until her teacher gave her a coloured reading ruler.  Now she says she can see the words (instead of them floating around the paper).  Her older sister will read happily for hours and I'd always hoped all of them would do that, but maybe it's not for her.  All three are strong individuals and have their own strong points. 

The middle child can create art out of anything, and very much lives in her own, very creative world.  I took her on a walk in the woods once and we ended up following Aslan, holding Lucy's hand, and she rode on his back when tiredness set in.  My dandelion girl has yet another view of the world, she still sees possibilities and it's inspiring.

I suddenly noticed this one day. She didn't say anything, just did it.

So if that's dyslexia, I love it.

Azelea

This was inspired by Road to Shamballa Teahouse: For the people of Japan: Azalea - "Take care of yo...: "The azalea is the symbol of passion and fragility. It also bears the message: 'Take care of yourself'"


Leaves unfurl themselves,
Green against the slumbering brown.
Tight buds, hug their colour,
Shyly blossoming.
Light streams,
Through pink, paper thin petals.
Scent hangs in the air.

Sat in a terracotta pot,
Roots in acidic soil.
My precious cargo,
Carried from city to town,
A token of love
A reminder of home.
This is my azalea.

Run Run As Fast As You Can

I must admit to hesitating about writing this post.  I've unfollowed people on twitter because they constantly write about how much exercise they do. "Just off for a 10K run!"  I felt exhausted just reading about it and when I found myself wondering if I too should be out there doing the same thing, it easier to switch off the stream of conscience.

So why would I hesitate about writing that?  It's no big deal, just personal preference.  Well, I do run and I can see why people so many people (running perkily past my house) would do it.  It's just for me, every step hurts, my lungs want to explode, most of the time my shins feel like they are being stabbed with glass and today, by the end, there was a sharp pain in my left shoulder (what was that about?!).  But that's just the physical side!  On the mental side, there is the consent worry that someone you know will see you staggering down the road, parts of your anatomy wobbling with a life of their own, your face bright red, huffing and puffing like a buffalo.

By the end of my circuit, instead of looking off into the distance, setting myself goals to reach before walking for a short period, wondering if I'll ever get round without the walking parts, I'm looking down, watching with detached interest every rise and fall of my feet.  I don't know if it's because I'm nearly home, or if I've gone through "the wall" but this bit I can do, I morph into a running machine.  Everything is in harmony, my legs feel powerful and I could run for ever.  My brain registers new pains, accepts them and thinks, well if you think that hurts, Ha! you should have felt the back pain when we reached the allotments and she's still going!  Then I'm home and suddenly that's the last memory I have of my hideous exercise.  Until I set off on my next attempt, and run about 100 meters down the road.  Then it hits me like a sledge hammer, this isn't fun and it hurts and I sweat and it's really undignified.

So today, as I was staggering round and not quite meeting the targets I've met on previous runs, I did wonder why I do this.  I'm still (relatively) young and fit, what am I trying to prove to myself?  Watching my foot as it moves through the air to strike the road, feeling the impact absorbed by my leg before the muscles tensed in my thigh, as they pushed down, propelling me forward, it suddenly struck me. I tackle running as I tackle writing.  I've set my self goals and I'll push myself.  Sometimes I fall short of the goal, but I limp on until I've finished.  The words and ideas often bound like a gazelle, elegantly flowing onto the page, but mostly it's a careful, deliberate word by word effort, which with practice becomes easier and less laboured.  Running also gives me the space to think, to leave my everyday world and move into a different head space.

I'd just like it to be less painful and less wobbly!

Never Judge A Book By It's Cover

Recently I was lucky enough to review the début novel Dead Beautiful by Yvonne Woon for the Faded Bookmark's blog.  If you are interested in YA, supernatural and romance, or just interested in reading what I thought of the book, here's the link:-

The Faded Bookmark: Dead Beautiful by Yvonne Woon: "The Faded Bookmark's recommended read for May is Dead Beautiful by Yvonne Woon.

There Are Accents In The Eye

I read an interesting blog yesterday by Claire King http://bit.ly/gEahWv .  It was a timely reminder to pull back and  look at the bigger picture when writing, to look at things from a different prospective.  Or even picking up your character and putting them in a different setting to see what happens. 

The book I'm writing at the moment, is all planned out, researched and has been bubbling away in my head for over a year.  So why am I struggling to write it?  Reading someone else's words, so obvious when you think about it, re-inspired me.  My book was no longer the comfortable pair of old shoes, sitting in the back of my wardrobe, instead I pulled back and looked at it again with fresh eyes.  The plot is good, it's exciting and even if no-one wants to publish it, I will be proud when it's finished.  So in my mind, I was a giant, picking up my protagonist between thumb and finger, before releasing her into a new setting, and sitting back to see what would happen.  It certainly broke my writers block.

So now the next dilemma, accents.  Do you write in local dialect (obviously if the plot/ character dictates it)?  I've read books, where the writer had got it wrong, and like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins, it really grates, detracting from the flow and jarring you out of the story.  Get it right, and you pull the reader in deeper adding a new dimension and giving the words creditability.

It's a fine line, a really thick accent, as in the original Uncle Remus stories can be hard work to read.  I was lucky that my Granny spent many hours reading them to me, easily coping with the words and bringing the characters to life.  No accent, and will the reader really see the book they way you see it in your head?  Will the characters loose their realism?

You have to have an ear for it, to capture the exactness of it.  Personally I love the sound of French, Italian and Yorkshire accents, and to put them in the story, it's all about the words and the phrasing you use to carry it across. 

But remember, to quote Thomas Hardy in Far From the Madding Crowd, "There are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue.." How the people act and look are just as important as the words that come from their mouths.  Drawing back and looking at your protagonist in new ways, helps you see these.

Another excellent writer (and blog I follow), Nicola Morgan also has some interesting (and far more articulate) pointers on how to make a book more believable.  http://bit.ly/fmC6cf

A Life By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet

One of the writers I follow on twitter (@rebeccaebrown) recently ran a competition on her blog (www.mylittlenotepad.com) where you had to answer a simple question to win a copy of her book:

What would your ideal alternative life be? 

Easy I thought! I love creating and breathing life into my characters and this had the added bonus of self-indulgence.  Me, me, me, me, me.  So I sat down to think about what I enjoyed, what I was passionate about and what I'd want to take with me into my alternative life.  Like desert island discs.  My fingers hovered over the keyboard.  What would I take with me and what would I leave behind?

Childhood dreams popped straight to the surface....writer (doing that), dancer (too much like hard work at my age), princess (please don't judge I was about age 5 when I went through that phase)....well this wasn't getting me anywhere. 

How about a character in one of the many books I lost myself in as a child?  Wendy?  I longed to live in Never Neverland, no parents telling you what to do, being able to fly.  Or Lucy in Narnia (I still carefully inspect the back of interesting looking wardrobes), but then you'd have to put up with the White Witch.

Hmm I was beginning to suspect that I spend too much time immersed in a children's world and if I did take on this new life, what would I do with my own children and family?  I know they often drive me insane, and I would be happier if they didn't answer back so much and had better bladder control (just the toddler I hasten to add).  But I would really miss them.

So Russian spy? No I'm too cowardly. Astronaut? No, too claustrophobic.  How about a rich woman in the 1920's-1930's?  (Blame Agatha Christie for that one).  No, I love my freedom too much.

I kept going round in circles until I finally decided that life is pretty good at the moment.  I'd want my life but with more sleep.  All the rest of things I'd change are really down to me.  To work harder at my writing and relationships, to take more chances, put myself forward more and to do something with my degree (Middle Eastern Studies).  Oh and I wish I'd started it all a lot sooner!

So the competition is now closed and I didn't submit anything, but thank you Rebecca for such an interesting question.  It certainly was food for thought.

Feel free to let me know what you would have put!

It's A Dog's Life

Recently I was told a story about Tibetan terriers, which captured my imagination.  Well actually the story I heard has two different view points about same subject.  If you don't know anything about this breed, they are furry, intelligent, individual dogs with a real zest for life.  Originally bred by Tibetan monks up in the remote mountains of Tibet, they were used by the monks to guard and herd their animals. 

An owner and breeder of these dogs, would tell her friends that the monks believed if you lived a good and honourable life, you would be reincarnated as a Tibetan terrier.  In this incarnation you would enjoy the rewards of your previous life by lying in front of the fire or at your masters feet, relaxing and having your tummy scratched.  One person they told this to, didn't believe her, so went straight to the horses mouth, so to speak.  She tracked down a Tibetan Buddhist monk, living in monastery near where she lived in the States and asked them about this story.  The monk smiled and said that the story is almost right.  They believe that if you work very hard at keeping your vows, but lapse every so often (although you are really trying your hardest), when you come back in the next life, you will come back as a Tibetan terrier.  This is so that you can finally learn to obey.

The monks realised that dogs spend their lives watching people and picking up on subtle messages that everyone gives off.  So dogs were often aware of people who needed help, before the monks were. 

Personally if there is such thing as reincarnation, I want to come back as my cat and sleep for most of the day in the sunshine.

Dead Men Tell No Tales

Having just read and reviewed Revolver by Marcus Sedgwick (http://thefadedbookmark.blogspot.com/2011/03/revolver-by-marcus-sedgwick-review.html ) , I heard that my best friends mother had died.  So setting off, yesterday morning on a round trip of 300 miles to attend the scattering of the ashes, I found myself thinking about one of the main themes of this book; even in death, a persons story continues, impacting on their family and friends.  You would think that after 65 years, a line could be neatly drawn under that chapter and people, especially my friend, could move on.  Yet they can't.  Ripples continue to spread outwards, causing upset.  Life is imitating art and maybe that is why Revolver is so grippingly realistic.

As I was listening to the eulogies by her best friend and cousin, her brother and her daughter (my friend) about the woman they remembered, I finally saw the woman underneath.  The strengths and beauty that she had, the interests we had in common.  It turns out that all the things I love and admire in my oldest and closest friend were passed down from her mother and suddenly I wasn't angry with her any more.  She was a woman who had made choices, some of them awful, but she was always larger then life and in the end, the small, important parts that made her amazing have been passed on to the next generation.  And if my friend has any say in the matter, it will pass down to the following generations.

So Marky, we might not have always seen eye to eye, but I raised a glass of wine to you last night and said a thank you for the gift of your daughter. 

Amongst the Pigeons

Descending into the bowels of the pub, a black room unfolds itself before me.  Tubes of lights swirl on the walls round painted cartoon characters.  At one end of the room, opposite the bar, there is a small corner lined with books, tempting you to sit and indulge. If it wasn't trapped behind a table of mixers, laptop and other foreign looking music equipment.  Two black speakers stand to attention at each end, their large round O's vibrating with the music. An eerie glow from the computer screen lights a man's face.  His hair is hidden under a large cat hat, it's glass eyes unblinking as they stare across the dance floor.  Cat man's hands move in slow motion, plucking sounds seemingly from the ether.  Aware of my stare, his black eyes glance up and catch mine, his smile lit by the electronic glow, before they fall back to chase and catch the music.

On the dance-floor, the people move in time, their jerky movements remind me of something that I can't quite put my finger on.  Turning back to the bar, a small bartender just about clears the high surface. I'm the only one ordering but it still takes me some time to catch her attention.  That glass really needs cleaning.

All fades as I am consumed by her ear,  the lobe stretched round a large black O, a miniature of the centre of the speakers.  As her head jerks round, the lobe moves slowly, a pendulum on the side of her head.  The absence of flesh mesmerising.   Eventually the glass is clean and she leans towards me, eyebrow raised, chin jerks up.  Do her lips move?  On tiptoe, I lean as close as I can, the top of the bar biting into my sternum, I shout my order over the music.  She nods and quickly produces the glass, complete with straw.  After I've paid, I make my way back to the dancers.

Standing on the edge amongst all the black, the music pounds through the air, resonating through my body.  They are all wearing pigeon masks with black eye-holes and have co-ordinated their dance movements to mimic the distinctive bird.  Cat man is leading them, the music coos and calls to them.  Slowly they all stop and turn to stare, their heads cocked to one side.  The music changes, Cat Man talks to his pigeon army.  The edge of the masks are harder to define.  Were does the paper stop and the person start? 

They advance slowly.

Turning, I move quickly, clutching my glass and straw, taking the stairs two at a time.  With each step, pigeon music fades and the jazz music upstairs grows stronger, at one point in clashing balance.  Emerging from the depths,  I'm among glaring lights, buzzing conversation and people laughing.  Below me I can hear the patter of feet and fluttering of wings?  Pulling my coat tighter round me, I abandon my drink and plunge out into the night.  The bouncer holds the door open and pulls a grey fluffy feather off my shoulder.  Examining it between his fingers, he laughs "You been playing with birds?"

"If only you knew" I mutter before hurrying away.

Drip Drip of my Conscience

The boiler drips in time to my heart,
Each drop a hammer on my conscience.
The water splashes and ripples outwards
Mirrored by the bile in my stomach.

Waiting for someone to fix it,
To remove the worry from my shoulders.
To fix me.
Wanting. Waiting.  Worrying.

I move from room to room,
Fleeing the guilty noise.
But nothing can drown out,
The beating heart under the floorboards.

Sand Dunes and Soul Food

I sit propped against a sand dune on the beach, the sand moulded to my body, cradling me.  It's night time and a small fire flickers at my feet, keeping me warm and lighting the small area around me.  I can hear the popping noise of the wood as it burns, hear the sea lapping gently at the shore and smell the salty, bonfire air.  Usually I'm the only one, but occasionally a person will emerge from the shadows and we'll talk.

This is my safe place.  The internal world I went to when I needed to escape.

I'd forgotten about it until I read a friends blog fernenland: When I am feeling bruised So why don't I go there any more?  Is my life so much better that I don't need to hide inside myself?

Then I realised the difference is my writing.  When I have a problem, a worry, something niggling away at the back of my mind, I write about it.  Sometimes it's obvious (see White Van Man),  sometimes it gets worked into a story, my characters working through the issue, saying what I'd like to say and what I'd like to hear.  Plus I put my muse through far worse things then I ever have to deal with in real life.

When Fernenland goes out with her camera, she finds herself in a different space, seeing things she wouldn't normally have noticed and that's how I feel about my writing.  When walking down the road, I'm looking at everyday things and searching for the beauty in them.  Or catching snippets of conversation and letting my imagination fill in the missing parts.  A man walking down the road...he's actually just  murdered his wife and is now off to plant the evidence in her lovers house.  Or that strange looking knot on the tree trunk is really the door to a fairies house, you might just catch her peeping out from the corner of your eye.  It does lift your spirits and energise you.

People find this space through different mediums such as meditation, exercise, photography, art, music, words. So go out and explore, feed your soul.

(Thank you Fernenland for letting me link to your blog and inspiring me again.)

Or Are You Just Pleased To See Me...

Many years ago, I used to work in a wine shop.  Late one night, a regular customer came in to tell us that he'd just seen a man nick one of our blackboards.  These were big, heavy boards that we propped up outside the shop, advertising the latest deals. 

Now I've seen all kinds of things shoplifted in my time, by the hopeless off-their-face druggies taking a can of strong beer to the highly professional gangs taking champagne and the expensive wine, but no-one had every stolen a blackboard before.  I mean they are big, bulky and of no practical use (even as advertising they were highly suspect).  As the only girl in the team, it was my job to chase after the shoplifters.  OK, it wasn't my job, but the six foot plus boys I worked with were big scaredy cats, so I walked out of the shop to have a look.  Sure enough, just heading round the corner, were two men, slightly weaving, one of which had a board tucked under his arm.

Wanting to catch them before they got too far, I jogged down the road to catch up, shouting "Please may I have my board back?" as I rounded the corner.  The two guys swung round and to my horror I realised that one of them was Cider Man. 

Cider Man a totally unhinged, off-his-face man who would come into the shop and demand to know why we didn't keep cider in the fridge (any guesses as to why we didn't). The conversation would always end up with him shouting at us, then he'd stagger off across the road to the other shop that did keep their cider in the fridge and harass the staff in there.  One night, I'd had a bad run in with him and he ended up hanging around outside the shop waiting for closing time having made thinly veiled threats to kill me.  Even when the I'd stood up to a gang of six, big, guys who'd come in to nick champagne (the boys cowered behind the counter) or had a shoplifter grab my arm when I was taking down the number plate of his get-away car, I hadn't been worried.  They were sober and predictable.  This guy was totally psychopathic and it's the only time I had been scared.

By now I was mentally kicking myself and praying that he didn't remember who I was, as we stood in a dark, quiet, side street.  This is the mad thing about London.  Behind me was a busy, wealthy, Fulham road.  Down this side street, the road was quiet, badly lit and lead to really rough council estate.

"What board?"  He asked, turning to look innocently round him, the large board almost bashing his friend as he turned.

"Umm, that board.." I pointed.

"I don't see a board."

Just as I thought this was going to go on all night, and did I really want the board back that much.....Cider Man's friend had obviously had come to a similar conclusion.

"Oh for god sake, just give the girl back her board!"

Cider Man looked down and did the perfect comedy double-take.  "Well how did that get there?!"

Striking while the going was good, I grabbed the board, politely said thank you and lugged the board back to the shop and my waiting regulars and useless colleagues.

An aside

Normally I take a tiny spark of inspiration, mull it around in my mind (usually while out doing the school run in the rain), then sit down and write something.  A writer I follow on twitter described the process as being on a par of making a stew, the pot is constantly simmering away in the background and bits are added until the finished food is ready to eat, complex layers of flavour and aroma having been allowed to organically build up.

Every time I see a spark, a glimpse of something I want, it slips though my fingers.  Or if I manage to catch it and try to massage it into something more, it goes flat and limp.  So instead I read; I read everything I can get my hands on, in the hope that it will help. 

So I've pulled myself together and decided that maybe I should sidle up to it, not look it directly in the eye and just start.  It's the starting that's important and it's the starting I haven't been doing.  A synopsis looks forlornly at me and I'm still on the fifth chapter of a story.  My poor protagonists have been sitting around in a desert waiting for me to get my act together since last month.  I just hope they haven't got sunstroke.

Then there is my muse, the person who inspires me, fills me fire, whose magic no longer works.  Shouldn't I be able to do this alone?  I did before I met them.  It's been like having a lover whose left me.  I was perfectly fine and capable before they came into my life, even happy, but when they left, they left a large and gaping hole.  I know what I'm missing.

But look.  I'm writing and it feels good.