About my book 'How to Take a Lawnmower Home on the Tube....'

 My collection of flash fiction goes back many years. These little stories have been gathered together (there are more, of course) from the time I began having my work published.

Homeless had no title. As a75 word flash there was no room! In order to file it on my computer, I gave it the title of 'Rough Sleepers'. It was the first piece of 75 word flash I had published by Paragraph Planet. They gave me my first break. The piece has had a slight edit since, but is almost the same. After that I had many pieces published by Paragraph Planet.

And then I found Visual Verse, who sadly are no longer running, but the website is still there and I still have an author page there. Every month they would post up a picture and ask writers to respond to it in 50-500 words, either a poem or a piece of flash. I wrote both and had both flash and poetry published by them. I loved their prompts and still miss them.

With longer pieces, I found homes for in Aayo, Gold Dust and 121 words.

There were some pieces I couldn't include due to offering the piece to a magazine for several months etc after which I am free to publish again.

With the Visual Verse pieces, I had prompts which got my creative juices flowing. For the others it was down to me. Authenticity came from a writing conference workshop. The writer was explaining what he does to create authentic scenes, including being tied up in the boot of a car! North came to me after reading The Wall by John Lanchester about the future and climate change. Sea Sick is another climate piece.

Will You Take This Woman is a mad-cap flash about a proposal and the reaction of the girl's odd family. Strangely, I visualised this story in the back room of my mum and dad's house, though it has no bearing on the story, except my hubby did want to do the old fashioned thing of asking my dad for my hand in marriage! My parents were nothing like these two.

Rescue Remedy is a story I loved writing. I'm not sure where the idea came from, but readers have highlighted this one as a favourite. It's amusing and about an elderly woman who takes a fancy to the young man next door. She loves him popping over to help her, and she will go to great lengths to make that happen.

Bluebells went through a lot of re-writes. It started off as a longer piece and was often edited to fit word counts for submissions. It never quite made it, but I always liked it.

Marigolds is basically a true story I felt I had to write about the time after my mother died.

I realise that Sc-fi now turns up a lot in my writing. Clone was one that made it into here. I love this. There is something about robots that fascinate me. The Rules of the Game is also a robot story and involves dressing a Christmas Tree. And Grafting (one of my favourites) is another. A sort of cross species romance! I have a piece called The Companion which I'm still trying to find a home for. It's a short story and amusing. A 'what if' piece, and I love it. 

I write a lot about religion or faith. Some of it is serious, others are amusing. Wilderness is a ponder on losing ones faith and what happens then.

There are many wacky stories - including a new take on Miss Muffet  in the voice of the spider, and another story in the voices of scrimps (It's Never that Simple in the Food Chain). Another story takes place in prison - The Office, and another is about a condemned prisoner who realises his hanging it is not the end The Writing on the Wall. I know I got that idea from somewhere but I cannot remember where now.

Memory Foam came from something my son told me, and he was also helpful with his knowledge of guns (don't ask me!) in High Noon, where a burglary goes wrong.

Of the new stories, I like Electronic Curtains about a man and his love of birds. But he needs a carer to get him up in the morning, so he wishes he had electronic curtains so he could part them when he wakes. It's very light hearted.

My stories deal with war, love, refugees, climate and contrast with the fun side of life and the wacky. Another favourite of mine is Remote Viewing (published by Visual Verse) about loneliness and poverty.

This is just a quick look at some of the stories in my book and a little behind the scenes take on how I came to write them. Ideas can come as a bolt from the blue, or they nudge in slowly. The stories also span the years since being published by Paragraph Planet, and I will always be grateful to them as I pushed on with my writing. The last previously published story here is The Tomorrow Box from 2023 (Aayo), a ghostly searching for a past and future.

I hope that's whetted your appetite. You can read all the stories for yourself. The book is available through Amazon (eBook, paperback, Kindle Unlimited) and to order through all good bookshops. It is getting 5* reviews.

In between days and how music shaped my life

 I'm at that stage of not writing but thinking about what to do next. I don't write much in December usually because I have so many other things going on, like a final concert I'm singing in on Sunday and other singing events I'm attending. Music and writing are in my blood, but I've been thinking more about music lately because my background is set in music (see what I did there?).

I've just finished reading the book Bermondsey Boy by Tommy Steele. I found this copy in a charity shop recently and I dived on it. Why is this book so important to me? Well, I'll tell you. My maternal granddad was a piano tuner back in the day and he (at least once) tuned Tommy Steele's piano. They were also born in the same area, Bermondsey, if years apart. According to my nana, my granddad maintained that Tommy Steele was friendly and had no airs and graces, unlike some of his other clients who thought a lot of themselves.

My granddad played piano in pubs and the story goes that customers bought him beer and lined the glasses up on top of the piano. Everyday, my granddad would cycle out to houses to tune pianos, whatever the weather. He'd fought in both world wars (the last in the Army Catering Corps - he made lovely brandy snaps!). I was only ten years old when he died. My memories of him are building a greenhouse with my dad and the last days when his bed was brought downstairs to the front room. My dad knocked a hole through the wall to the back room, so the television could be moved in for him and the aerial work! I remember me and my brother sitting on his bed with a sketch pad and a blue box of Rowney crayons. My granddad took to drawing while in bed. He copied pictures that were hanging on the wall. He was good too, and I still have those coloured drawings.

The musical element ran through us as my mum was a good singer and won a certificate a school. Her ambition had been to become an opera singer, but the war put paid to that. She felt thwarted and when I took an interest in music she didn't encourage me due to her own disappointment. So, though my mum could read music and play the piano (though we didn't have a piano), she never taught me. To be fair, I don't think I ever asked, but I did ask why we couldn't have a piano. No room, she said. Later in life she and my dad (ex-choir boy) joined a choral choir where my dad's sister also sang. As kids, me and brother got dragged along to concerts. The only concerts I loved were the Christmas ones.

My own interest in music was a pop with a little classical that I heard at home. Except musicals. I still hate musicals after listening to my mum's Oklahoma and South Pacific LPs so often! I began writing my own lyrics before I owned a guitar. I put simple tunes to them and they stayed in my head. At about 16 or 18, I bought my first guitar and taught myself the easy chords and then taped my songs, adding harmonies (via my brother's cassette player -  the main melody playing through my music centre speakers). 

At some stage I began writing poetry and then stories. But fourteen years ago I joined a community choir and found out what it was like to perform for the first time. Although I have left that choir, I am now with another. I've always been good at memorising words to songs as I used to play my records until I got them. My head has a filing cabinet full of lyrics I learned! I tried to teach myself to read music and even tried a class, but got lost in the jumble of linking notes. But give me a melody and I can harmonise easily.

But back to the Tommy Steele book. When I was reading I found that his grandfather and father grew up on the most notorious street in London where even the police were afraid to walk, and his grandmother was bookie's runner, which was illegal. The book is full of interesting stories that takes you right up to the time he quit being the rock star he had become. His aunt and uncles lived on the Neckinger Estate in Bermondsey which replaced the hovels on the street where my great granddad grew up. I've been there to look where they lived. There's not much left  now, just an old leather factory (my great grandad was a book maker before becoming one of the first electricians!).  This is also Oliver Twist country. You can tell I've been doing my family tree!

So, that's a little of my family history and why music is so important to me. I'm not sure where the writing came from, but maybe as a spin-off from lyric writing.

Back to today, my flash piece Everything in this house is edible has been published by Banshee Press. Oh, my name is on their website! I love the cover for this issue, and enjoy the mix of fiction and poetry. So proud of this one.

Until next time, happy reading and writing.

Getting to the end of the year

Covent Garden

 This is my last my post for the year. In January I'll posting a review of this year. For now, I can say that these last two months have been a trial, mainly due to ill health. In the later stages of October I had a hacking dry cough which lasted about five weeks. As that was leaving I came down with a rotten cold, which is still with me. My hubby now has it and my son has a sore throat!

In between coughing (it's now a chesty cough and hubby and I have simultaneous coughing sessions!) and lounging on the sofa for a week, I've managed somehow to get my last submission of the month sent. It means I have completed my goal of submitting at least five pieces per month throughout 2022. Yay! Hear the popping of champers! Er...no. I'm not up to alcohol yet.

There were a couple of successes too. Visual Verse published my poem I Am Who I am, and I had a piece of flash fiction published by Foxglove Journal. I also have two pieces coming out in January, which I will tell you about next year.

These successes helped keep me going as I had to cancel all my plans for last week as I was too ill to do anything, which included two concerts I was to sing in. 

I did complete the poetry course with Julia Webb and received the critque for four poems yesterday. I always find Julia's comments very insightful, helping me to move forward with the poems. Somehow I missed the Mslexia Salon on projects. It was in my diary and I remembered it earlier in the day. I was actually on my laptop at the time! I think I was trying to do to many things, something I must learn from next year. Try not to over commit myself. Mmm!

I had my first meet up with a friend yesterday, the first in almost two weeks, and though I struggled, it was nice to have a catch up. Today, I'm feeling much improved, so maybe I'm seeing the back end of this cold at last. I still have presents to buy! 

Whatever your plans for Christmas, I do hope it is a healthy and happy one. See you in the New Year.

Christmas lights
 in the road between Charing Cross station
 and Embankment tube.

August - what a month

I was so excited when Popshot arrived this month and I saw my flash piece inside with great illustrations. I've been on a high ever since. Other things have been happening too. I was longlisted in The Poetry Kit Spring Poetry Competition, but sadly never made it to the next level. And there has been other longlisted work which I've not heard about since. In the meantime, I have had a poem accepted by Aayo magazine and am just waiting for that to be published.

During the heatwe I've been reading through my 'to read pile' and the pile has drastically reduced. I've also had a clear out of books and donated loads to Oxfam and The Princess Alice Hospice shop. Not all of these books were recently read ones. I looked through shelves where hardback books have sat for years and ruthlessly culled them. There will be more to go.

Earlier this month I offered to do some beta reading for another author who wanted to know if her latest book in a series, stood alone as it was. As I'd not read her first book I could give her a true answer to this while enjoying a free read.

I'd like to say that I have been writing loads, but sadly not. The odd poem, a little free writing with a  friend and a bit of editing. As we draw into autumn and the weather changes I expect to knuckle down and write (hmmm!).

The Apartment Below Me, my flash piece in Popshot

What have I been doing?

Blooming May by the River Thames

Sometimes I really have to think about what I have spent the last few weeks doing. A friend said to me recently that I have such wide interests. That is true, and can mean that my concentration wavers. Trying to fit in all my passions can end up with me not giving enough attention to one thing. In the past I definitely used to get waylaid by any new obsession. Those things that held my attention enough I would eventually come back to. Those things are music, reading and writing. I was also good at starting things and not finishing them. I have tried hard over the years to change this, and to a great extent I have achieved this. But I do have a 'waiting list' of things I want to do, but as yet cannot give enough time to.

One of my more recent obsessions was online courses. I would sign up for free courses on FutureLearn or OpenLearn and realise I had too many on the go at once. When it comes to writing, I have amassed rather a lot of work that needs editing. I try not to have two things on the go at once (I don't count poetry as that is a nice side distraction when I get stuck with other writing, or I just have the need to write it). I find it hard to switch between editing one document whist writing another. Too many characters and storylines to contend with. Do others have this problem?

Recently, I have been reading feedback on a novella I have written. It is out for more feedback now as an issue arose and I need to know it that's one opinion or me! I need more beta readers, that's for sure, and that should be my next priority.

Having started off well with my submitting earlier in the year, I can feel myself flagging. I have reached my goal each month, but I have to push myself. I do think having the right frame of mind helps and I seem to be having a lull in enthusiasm right now. Instead, I have been on a reading frenzy, and getting round to finishing those half read books that have been lingering on my coffee table. These are non-fiction. Last year I began reading a book on Victorian England and abandoned it for fiction. I got back into it a few weeks ago and have really enjoyed it. I bought it for reference purposes really as I have written something set in the Victorian age (it needs editing, of course!) and this book has been helpful. Another book came my way about musical history, and having read that, it sent me back to another book I abandoned on Early Music. Several years ago, I attended a course at Morley College on Early Music,  but the course was cancelled after only two lessons.There were only three of us in class. I was pretty cheesed off (for once it was not me giving up!). I particularly loved learning about how music began and the simple way of writing music. One of my great regrets is that I cannot seem to learn to read music (I have tried several times).

I have finally heard from The People's Friend that they are taking a poem of mine for their Fireside Book 2023. I'd given up on this as I was told I'd hear by March. I think this poem has been with them now for a year. Still, Visual Verse published another of my poems last month. There are 18 pieces of my work on their website, but I know there are more. One year I was published by them every month. I still enjoy the challenge of writing to a picture prompt within the hour.

My writing has taken on a darker and more weird (surrealist?) flavour in recent weeks. I've been writing a lot of flash fiction in this style. The more I write flash fiction, the more I enjoy it. It's a bit like knitting on large needles, you have a finished item quickly!

So, what keeps you motivated to write and what takes you away from it? Here is my lineup. 

Distractions/not want to write:

• Mood
• Sunshine (I don't want to be indoors when the weather is good)
• Trips out (for content for my travel blog!)
• Rejections
• Other interests

What motivates me:

• Mood
• Ideas
• Acceptances
• Writing buddies
• Certain friends
• Workshops/courses
• Trips out

As you can see a couple of things appear in both lists. What never bothers me is writer's block or lack of ideas. Sometimes I get overwhelmed by how much writing I have and how little of it has been published, and how little of it I've just not got round to editing! I love the writing process, but it takes time to edit. What do you struggle with?

To end with, here is a little challenge (no prizes, sorry!). Write a piece of flash fiction or a poem using all the following words (the order doesn't matter, unless you want to make it harder!):

clock

envelope

rhythm

sneering

slide

egg

Good luck! If you want to post your efforts into comments, do, but please be aware that anything published here would not be eligible for submission to magazines or competitions as they would consider it already published.

Into the last week

Image by Thomas Picard from freeimages.com

I have only four flash stories left to write this month for FlashNano. The prompts have certainly been challening, though in the last few days I have set out to use them as ways in to particular genres, and I have managed a sci-fi and a couple of spooky stories. One of them I would like to share with you. This will be my last share of the month. The prompt for this was to write 10 things I am grateful for and then use one to write a story. One of the things I am grateful for is music. It has been important to me in life, and I cannot imagine life without it. Like books, music is an addiction and I am so grateful for being given a decent voice and the ability to harmonize to with anything once I learn the tune. So, music formed this story. Here is something a little ghostly. Enjoy.

The apartment below me

The music woke me on my second night in the flat. At first it drifted into my dream where I was rehearsing a part for the next concert, except I kept getting stuck on the same bit and everyone else in the orchestra was staring at me. Coming out of the dream, I realised the music was coming from one of the other apartments in the building.

My clock said 3am. I turned over, trying to ignore it. I recognised the piece as Weismann’s Variations for Oboe and Piano. I had played it many times. A short haunting piece that shows the oboe’s range as it soars and falls. In my dream, I had become stuck at one of the more discordant notes. Now as I lay there, the short piece was playing on loop almost teasing me. At some point, I drifted back into sleep.

My nights became a pattern of getting to sleep, the dream and being woken around 3am to the haunting sounds of oboe and piano drifting up from the apartment below. I had by then found the source of the music because one night I had got out of bed, wrapped a coat over my PJ’s and slipped on my converse shoes to go in search of the music. Creeping around the landings of the building at night was slightly creepy, though light sensors flicked into action as I entered the hallways. I listened at my neighbour’s door before going downstairs. There were three apartments here, and the sound was more obvious. I located the door where it seemed loudest and lifted the flap of the letterbox. Yes, it was definitely coming from Flat Two. Darkness. That’s all I could see when I looked through. I caught the whiff of polished wood, smoke and that strange unwashed smell you get sometimes in charity shops. I pulled back. Satisfied I’d found the right apartment, I retreated to my own.

The next day I bumped into Susan, who lived next door to me, and I asked her about the apartment downstairs.

‘It’s been empty for six months. The owner tried letting it, but people didn’t stay. So now it’s on the market.’

I had my key in my door before I asked, ‘Who lived there?’

Susan shrugged. ‘A bit before my time, but the guy in Flat One said it was a conductor, you know, of music. Died in a fire there, apparently.’

I told her about the music at night. ‘Don’t you hear it?’

‘No.’

‘Has anyone else complained about it?’

Susan shrugged. ‘Not that I’m aware of. The only oboe I hear is when you play.’

I blushed. ‘I hope I don’t disturb you.’

‘I like it. The guy who lived in your flat before you used to play rap music at all hours. Now, I did complain to him about that. Actually, he said a funny thing, come to think of it. He said he was drowning out the noises in his head. I took it that he was on something. Always a strange weedy smell around him, if you know what I mean.’

I tried a whiskey before I went to bed in the hope I could sleep through, but I woke at the same time every night to the same piece of music playing. This was getting ridiculous. I was becoming irritable through lack of sleep. At rehearsal the following week new pieces were introduced for a coming concert and on the programme was Weismann’s Variations for Oboe and Piano. Anthony, our conductor, chose me for the solo. My heart flipped. Normally, I would be in my element. A time to show off my dexterity, but this did not sit well with me. At the first rehearsal, all was going well until I reached that part when the oboe soars into the discordant notes and I lost it. I stuttered, apologised and went back a few bars, and played again. The same thing happened. I stood up and walked out into the corridor. Anthony came to find me.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry, I think you should ask one of the others to solo.’

‘Why? You’ve played this many times before.’

I shook my head. ‘I just can’t play this piece right now.’ And I walked away from him.

That night I dreamed the same dream, getting stuck at the same point. I woke in a sweat and the same piece drifted up from the apartment below. I’d had enough. I donned my coat and shoes and marched downstairs. I was angry and didn’t care if I woke anyone. The music was louder than usual and I banged on the door of Flat Two. When there was no answer, I pushed against it. The door swung open. The anger was replaced by fear, yet I walked into the dark flat. A light flickered from the main room and I followed it.

The old man turned around as I entered. Music filled the room. The air was bitter. I shivered. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said. He lifted an oboe leaning against the side of the chair and held it out to me. ‘You just need a little practice.’

And even though I knew this wasn’t real and that he couldn’t be real, I took the oboe from him. The wood was cold in my hands. I watched the conductor light a cigarette and lean back, waiting for me to begin. A musty smell emanated from him like unwashed clothes, and then he dropped the cigarette, swore, and brushed it away. He looked at me. ‘Begin,’ he said.

As I put my lips to the mouthpiece, flames began to spark around him. He ignored them. My frozen fingers welcomed the heat of the flames and I began to play, faultlessly, and true.

 

Flash story (2)

(Photo by mark jones from FreeImages)

I promised you a new story every Friday throughout November while I take part in #FlashNano. The challenge is going well and I've managed to come up with something each day. I think the strangest prompt was to write a story with ten sentences and each sentence had ten words! Having being taught that writing needs a combination of short and long sentences, this proved a little tricky. I tackled it like a poem and gave each sentence a line of its own, and I also split it into stanzas of five lines each. So, it reads more like a poem. I've yet to put the piece together as a whole.

I thought I'd give you something a little lighter this time. The prompt was a story that takes place entirely on a commute to work. Enjoy, and please free to leave a comment.

Fixing the nightmare

He sits down with a grunt, his arse pushing against my side. The morning commute is bad enough without him taking a quarter of my seat. I turn to the window, watching houses fly by as the train hurtles towards the city. Gardens boast bare trees as the sun creeps sleepily over roof tops. I yawn. The big arsed man pulls out his newspaper, turning it to the puzzle page, hovering over the Sudoku puzzle. He puts the number 7 on the top row in the last grid to right. It isn’t right. It should be in the next row down, middle box. Keeping his thumb on the top of his ballpoint pen, he clicks it in and out at odds with the rhythm of the train. This grates against my OCD. He stops now, poised over another box before entering number 5. Well, at least that one is right. But he is going to come a cropper soon. A smile forms on my lips and I turn away to look at the luggage rack. No one ever uses them. People would rather pile their rucksacks and holdalls on the seats or block the aisles with them. I try to count how many women there are in the seats ahead of me, but that doesn’t work because I can only see the heads of some people.

A grunt from the man next to me draws my attention back to the puzzle. How is he doing? Oh, no, he’s got two 3’s in the middle grid. I open my mouth and promptly shut it again. This is his funeral. Doesn’t he know you should never write in pen? Makes a complete mess when you come to cross things out. And there he goes. He’s realised that 7 is in the wrong place, but he seems unsure where to put it. I think of telling him. Instead, I shift slightly. My shifting makes no difference as his flesh just fills in the space.

The train stops, and the already filling train pumps on more passengers. There is nowhere for them to go, so they hang on to anything there is to hold on to while listening to music on their mobiles or reading books. By the next station, they’ll have trouble even doing that. Scratching noises bring my eyes back to the Sudoku puzzle. Yes, he’s found the two 3’s in the same grid. I glance up at him. Bushy eyebrows move with the concentrated effort of this morning’s brain teaser. He is younger than I first thought, a bit of stubble (intentional?) and he is sweating in his puffer jacket. Someone should open a window. If I wasn’t pinned down, I’d do it myself, but if I move, his arse will take even more of my seat. I shouldn’t have chosen this airline seat. The forward and back type would have been better.

I turn to the window again and wish I’d remembered my book. I always take one with me, but in my rush this morning I had left it on the hall table. Very unlike me. As the train draws into Clapham Junction, the newspaper is lying on big arse man’s lap, the whole puzzle crossed through. I feel a tough of grief. Suddenly he leaps up, grabs the newspaper and pushes his way through the passengers like a bowling ball towards the doors. He is almost flattened as a crowd tries to enter before he has got off. People have no manners. Let the poor sod off, I think. He’s just been defeated by a Sudoku puzzle. Have a heart.

A lady sits down next to me. Her perfume makes me sneeze. She wears a camel wool coat and a neat black suit underneath. She fiddles with a large bag, eventually drawing out a newspaper with a half completed Sudoku puzzle. At least it’s in pencil. I lean slightly her way and she moves the paper as if she knows what I am doing. Even so, a glance tells me there’s a potential nightmare waiting in line three.

The train stalls outside Waterloo station while we wait for a platform to be freed up. The woman’s phone rings and she drops her newspaper as she answers it. I lean forward to retrieve it for her and eye up the combination of numbers in their boxes. She has tried to fix the nightmare only to cause another. I place the newspaper on her lap. She smiles distractedly at me while I itch to sort out her mess.

As we pull into Waterloo, bodies heave towards the doors. Bags are grabbed, laptops packed away. The lady next to me stands. She places the newspaper on her seat and edges out into the aisle. I grab the paper and stuff it into my bag. I can’t stand half completed puzzles. They are like lost children wearing someone else’s clothes. Don’t you worry, I tell the Sudoku, I can fix you.

 

Flash Nano 2021

 

Well, I've done various writing challenges in my time - NaNoWriMo twice, a year of writing a poem a day, stone poems and other mini challenges, but I have never tackled a flash challenge.

This one comes from Nancy Stohlman, a name that flashed (pun intended) up on Twitter this week. The challenge is to write a flash story (flash is up to 1000 words) a day throughout November. I love flash stories and I write anything from between 75 words to 1000 words usually, though somewhere around 500 words seems to be what I write most.

So, I have taken on this challenge. Every day I receive a prompt via email and I try to stick to those. Don't you just love prompts? I love visual and written ones to nudge me into writing something I would not otherwise have written. So the challenge is twofold - writing everyday and sticking to the prompts.

I get my prompts in the afternoon (the delay being that this is a US website), so I may be a day late writing my flash stories. No matter, it gives me something to look forward to.

I thought I'd share a flash story with you. Every Friday throughout the challenge I shall publish a draft flash story. This one just happens to be one I wrote this morning, so it is hot off the laptop and without any real editing. Comments welcome.

Pit

It was all knew, the sound of the hooter from the mine. It marked my days. It was the clock I lived by. My father worked the early shift, coming home as black as the coal he worked with. When I was a young child, I thought he was two men, the sooty faced one, clothes stinking of coal dust, and the fresh faced one with pink skin. Every time he bathed, he became born again, like those Baptists up on Slate Hill. Yet however much my mother cleaned and washed, coal dust seemed to settle everywhere, and especially on me.

I knew that when I left school, that’s where I would be going. There was no other work in our town. Unless you made it to the grammar school, the mine was where you went. But I had a fear of the dark and a fear of being underground. My father said, ‘You’ll get used to it, son.’ And as the day neared to my journey beneath the earth, the nightmares started. During those last days at school, my chest would tighten when I thought of what was to come. I went around town after school searching for any job I could do. Anything, but go underground. Yet, my fate was sealed the day I was conceived a boy.

I walked with heavy feet with my father that first morning. My heart thumped harder the nearer we got to the pit. There were some formalities to go through and my father answered all the questions because I couldn’t speak. My breathing became laboured and shallow. I heaved air into my lungs, but there wasn’t enough. We walked with the rest of the gang to the cage. The stench of coal crept inside of me. The cage rose from below. The door opened and the previous gang stepped out. Dirty faced and exhausted men came into the light.

‘Come on lad,’ my father said. But I couldn’t move. My father placed a hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t breathe. Taking gulps didn’t help. Tears coursed down my cheeks. I was going to die here before I even made it down. ‘Pull yourself together,’ my father shouted. I dropped my lunch box, pulled off the helmet that seemed to drum me into the earth, and ran. 

I ran and ran until I came to the hills, where I could breathe again. I stood looking down on the town of my birth. The soot covered houses, a town with no colour, a town where washing smelt of air and coal. Thoughts dug through the fug of my brain. I had shamed my father, my family. I was not the son to be proud of. So I kept walking. Out of the parish, out of the county until I came to a green land with trees and sweet air. I felt cleansed. My heart was heavy, but I knew I could never go back. I would take my chances elsewhere. I shivered as day edged into evening. Below me stood a farm, a collection of barns set around a cottage. Smoke curled out of the chimney. The irony of it made me smile, but I kept walking towards it.

 

 

Year Review

I didn't think I would bother reviewing my output, sucesses and failures from last year, but sometimes it does help to get things into perspective.

Last year I only submitted to publications that I like/read, or felt I had something that fitted a competition/theme. It was less random. What my list shows is that I submitted far more poetry than anything else. Here is a breakdown:

Poems submitted           31 - Three have been published, one is about to be, and two I am still waiting                                                    on.

Flash submitted              7 - Three were published.

Short stories submitted  5 - One was highly commended and may appear in a future Anthology.

Pamplet submissions     2

Novel in flash                1

The poetry and flash are all (except for one) published by either Visual Verse or Paragraph Planet. I had one other poem published but the acceptance came the year before! The People's Friend work so far in advance that I forget about them once I've had the acceptance, as it can be six months or more before publication. The two waiting poems are at The People's Friend for (hopeful) publication at the end of this year!

Last year I also got three projects completed - my year of poems, and two novellas that I had been struggling to finish. I also wrote my first novel in flash, and took two online poetry courses, and a poetry prompt challenge. 

As for this year, I don't have any plans or projects in the pipeline, apart from learning about self-publishing. Also there is certainly a lot of editing I could do with the novellas. For now I am taking a break as I had a full-on December to get my Christmas based novella finally completed after about three years. Never has so few words taken so long!

Positive moves

Writing has been going quite well lately and I've been submitting again. I hadn't intended to submit in particular but I had things I felt suited various magazines and competitions, and then I seemed to be on a roll. I also completed the novel in flash and sent it to my friend for proofreading and comments. The outcome was that I added a piece I had abandoned, though I gave it a good edit. With some more adjustments I now have something that works and it completes the set. All I have to do now is re-order a few pieces before submitting.

I enjoyed writing this so much I may consider writing another at some stage! Meanwhile, I heard today from The People's Friend that they are reserving the two poems I sent them in June. I will hear in February next year if they will be published in one of their annuals for 2022!

I managed to escape to Winchester for a few nights last week. It was a lovely break - good weather, lots of walking, a visit to the cathedral, and a bus out to Alresford one day. I realised I'd forgotten to pack a notebook and went out to buy an exercise book, but after all that I didn't use it. Instead, I spent time reading in the little garden of the self-catering flat where I stayed. And to think I did consider taking  sketch book!

Some rather nice windows in Alresford

I now have to get motivated to write again, though I am still working through the online poetry course. We are half way through now.

Before I went on my break I met up with a lady from the writing group that met in Hammersmith before lockdown haulted things. Though it went onto Zoom, I only participated once because, as I've said before, Zoom isn't me. So I was thrilled to meet up in person with someone. With the group leader away for some time there won't be any Zoom. The meet-up went well and we even managed writing with another lady via WhatsApp with her in Germany! We had connection problems but we had so many laughs. There was a lot of catching up this time, so we only managed three short pieces, and all the rest was talking! We are going to try and meet regularly again. The place where we used to meet was closed, but we found another cafe round the corner overlooking the River Thames which worked just as well.

So, I'm in a more positive frame of mind with my writing. It's been a long time coming!

The Fulling Mill, Alresford, Hampshire

During the second week of lockdown this is what I did

With cloudy skies today I decided to tackle cleaning the bedroom, the only thing left on my list to do (except perhaps window washing). My to-
do list is shorter and I am on top of things like I haven't been in a while. The gardening is coming along and if all the seeds flower and produce grows we will have a riot of a garden this year. I have things growing on saucers and in pots to experiment.

My reading pile is gradually receding - I'm down to only one pile on the bedroom floor but there are books in a drawer and on a shelf still to read. I've been trying to cheer up a member of choir who is elderly and whose internet keeps playing up. He is so frustrated and fed up. We email a lot and we maybe moving into WhatsApp!

I have decided that virtual classes are not for me. I have tried with both my writing group and choir, but I don't think I'll be continuing. I particularly did not enjoy choir, but I am keeping in touch with a few people from there in other ways. I feel guilty in saying that now I've accepted that this is how things are, I am quite liking this slow life. While the weather is good I have the garden. When the weather is bad I do the chores and work on my laptop catching up with courses or viewing gallery exhibits. I save many links from Facebook but so far I've hardly used them. I take each day as it comes and try not to think about the future.

One scary thing I did was cut my own hair. Having tried to layer the top and sides I asked my hubby to use his beard trimmer (which has the largest cut comb) to do the back for me. There are a couple of longer bits still to fiddle with but I am really happy with it. I do prefer short hair and once the fringe starts to get into my eyes it has to go as it irritates me. I'm sure hairdressers will have lots of problems to sort out after this, still there's nothing like a challenge.

I am struggling in the last five weeks of my poetry challenge but am still on target. I often write poetry with a bit of a story, but one I wrote last week turned out to be more flash fiction than poem. I decided to take out the line breaks and put in speech marks to convert it into a flash. Perhaps I could add a bit more detail now. Anyway, I thought I'd share this one with you. Take care all.

Lions

He said he’d had an invitation to the Tower. I said, ‘You don’t get invited there, you get taken’.  He said this was different, he was going to see the lions washed.

‘Oh pull the other one,’ I said.

‘It’s true,’ he said. He was going with his brother.

So, I gathered my five children and walked the two miles by the smelly Thames, brown as human waste, which it was, and the little ones squealed delight as the turrets came into sight. ‘Will we see the King?’ asked my youngest.

‘I doubt it,’ said I. George probably had his eye on another castle, the one his wife was imprisoned in for laying in another man’s bed.

We arrived at the Tower of London keen to see this spectacle. A small crowd mingled, but fewer than I had expected. Some jeering rang out and a Yeoman strode over, his menacing looks made me squirm.

‘You’ve missed it,’ he said.

Some scruffy lad piped up, ‘So, where are they?’

The Yeoman pointed upwards to the spikes where two heads were impaled, blood still dripping.

‘They ain’t lions,’ said the lad. ‘We wanted to see them washed.’

The Yeoman laughed, ‘No lion washing today, but if you like you can see them. They have not been fed yet, though prime meat, you are not, more skin and bone than flesh. Still, I don’t think they will be fussy.’

*

(The first April Fools joke is believed to have been in 1698 when several people were tricked into going to the Tower of London to see the lions washed)

Hastings Literary Festival, plus some art and walking

My room overlooked the seafront

I said I wasn't going to do festivals and conferences this year, yet when I saw this one at Hastings I decided to combine it with a mini holiday in Eastbourne and only book a couple of sessions. This worked out right for me as I managed to combine a few of my interests in one long weekend.

I'd booked a lovely B&B on Eastbourne seafront where I could watch the sunrise and hear the sea lapping at the shore in the night. I spent many evening in front of the window watching the world go by, gazing at the sea and listening to Smooth Radio!

I arrived last Thursday around 2pm and once unpacked and revived with a cuppa I set out for an easy walk along the seafront towards Princes Park where hubby and I took the boys when they were young (Fort Fun is opposite and we took them too!). I indulged in a chocolate ice and ambled around the park before going back into the town centre for something to eat.

Princes Park, Eastbourne

Friday was, for me (and in the words of Lou Reed) a Perfect Day. I caught the bus into Bexhill and headed for the De La Warr Pavilion (long been on my list for a visit). I loved it and had a chance to enjoy the first of my passions - art. Modern art is growing on me! I bought a cappuccino and sat out on the balcony enjoying the sun and the view. I had to tear myself away from the shop, though I did by a book by Grayson Perry.

De La Warr Pavilion,  Bexhill

Inside in the Pavilion

It was time for my second passion - walking. I walked along the coastline all the way to St Leonards. I was amazed by the difference in cliff formations and was in my element. With the sun warming me, the cloudless sky, the sound of sea and the great views I enjoyed this walk more than I can express. Once in St Leonards I decided to check out the venue for the first workshop I had booked. It was held in a room in the Horse & Groom Pub. I soon found it and went off to buy some lunch and ate it overlooking the beach.

The workshop was Songwriting. Yes, I thought I do something different yet familiar. The first song I ever wrote was when I was around 10 years old! As a teenager and into my twenties I wrote songs on my guitar and taped them onto cassette. A few times I even collaborated with penfriends of mine. They would send me lyrics and I would tidy them up so they would scan and put them to music. I don't read or write music (despite singing in a choir) but I could work out chords. I'd send them back the songs when I'd recorded them. It was fun to do and that was the main thing.

When I married the guitar was packed away and I hardly ever wrote, though when the children were small I did sometimes accompany myself singing Christmas carols and I taught both boys the bass line riff to Smoke on The Water by Deep Purple! However, their interest in learning guitar was soon lost. A few years ago I did take a Songwriting course with Coursera and came away with an 89.9 pass mark! So, when I saw this workshop I thought I'd go for it.

Our tutor, Anna Page, was in a girl band which got close to signing with a record company several times but it never quite happened, and now she gigs and teaches. She taught us structure and to write what motivated us, what we were passionate about. Those who were particularly musical could use some instruments Anna brought along and there was a piano in the room. One guy had brought his guitar and offered me use it if I wanted. However, I was struggling to write lyrics due to the noise of people playing and singing into phones! We were told we could move around and had use of the bar and that's where I headed. I was trying to write a song about loving solitude. It was going to be a sort of love song and why I needed space. The distractions and a discussion with 'guitar man' the lyrics ended up that I couldn't find any peace!

Two things didn't work for me. The room we used was poorly lit and had no windows (it was once and old garage) and the distractions. For this type of writing I need total peace and light! Going into the bar was far better. People were talking but there were only a handful of people and I could switch off. My lyrics are not great. I'm not going to be using them. However, it was a good exercise and we all read out our lyrics. Some were able to sing their songs. I never got that far. Anna gave us some handouts and I shall be working through those.

My attempt at some lyrics didn't quite work.

Strangely, when In woke the next morning an idea came into my head. I had a subject and some rhyming words and I sat in bed with sun streaming in and wrote the lyrics for a whole song. All I need now is some music (which might change the words as I put it together). Anyway, I was pleased.

A full set of lyrics written the following morning.

Sunrise over Eastbourne

So, Saturday I took the train to Hastings. My second workshop in Jerwood Gallery wasn't until the afternoon so I had time for some browsing around the old town, visiting a church and some antique shops. My workshop ticket gave me free entry into the Jerwood Gallery exhibitions so I enjoyed looking around. I went over to the Book Fair. I knew which books I wanted but they didn't have them. I think that's because they were by famous authors who were giving talks and doing book signings.

The workshop I attended was by Michael Loveday on Flash Fiction. We soon delved into some writing, picking a location for our story. He guided us through the structured method and in between talked about what flash fiction is. We read some flash fiction pieces on a handout sheet and then discussed how they made us feel and what made them work etc. We paired up to discuss our own workshop pieces a few times. We then attempted to write a new piece using a different method - by choosing three random pictures and trying to find a link. We then discussed this method. It was interesting to see how different methods worked for people. Some preferred the structured method while others preferred the more random method. I struggled with both but strangely the structured method worked slightly better and that was a surprise because I'm not a planner. I think I shall try and use this method for a few new pieces and see how it goes. I found this an interesting process and Michael a great teacher. I never write well in workshops because I get anxious but I learn a lot, and that's what it's all about. There were more handouts to take home with recommendations for a book, a reminder to the methods and other information. Some months back I bought a copy of Michael Loveday's book Three Men on the Edge (V. Press), a novella-in-flash. I must get round to reading it now.

On my last day I met up with brother who lives just outside Eastbourne and we took the bus up to Sovereign Harbour where neither of us had ever been. We had a lovely walk and lunch before coming back into Eastbourne. There was an MG car rally which was interesting - there is something nostalgic about classic cars. We then said goodbye and I went off to the pier to buy some sweets to take home for the family.

Sovereign Harbour

It was a lovely long weekend and well done to the Hasting Litfest for putting together a great programme. I might not have got to everything I could have but my aim for this break was to take time for myself. I am one for variety in life and would have hated being stuck inside the whole weekend, especially as the weather was so gorgeous. This was a nice combination.

Evening falls over Eastbourne

National Writing Day

To celebrate National Writing Day here's a little fun flash for you featuring my favourite film! Happy writing.

What’s in a Name?

‘Did I get an invite?’ Lucy asks, her eyes searching the mantelpiece for a card.

               ‘’course.’

               Figures flicker across the television screen. Lucy knows this. It’s Strictly. She hates Strictly.                ‘Turn the TV over. There must be something else on.’

               Leo leans forward for the remote and begins to channel hop.

               ‘Stop!’ Lucy waves her arms like a swan with wing co-ordination problems. Leo stares at the old lady. ‘I like this.’ She sits back and smiles.

               ‘Die Hard.’

               ‘Yes. I have a soft spot for Bruce Willis and that….German.’

               ‘He’s not really German. That’s Alan Rickman.’

               ‘I know who he is, young man. I’ve not lost it yet.’ Silence. ‘Where’s Emily?’

               ‘Making tea, remember?’ Leo rolls his eyes and then hopes she hasn’t seen.

               ‘I met your mother yesterday.’

               ‘Oh?’

               ‘She seemed stressed.’

               ‘It’s all the wedding stuff.’ Boredom crept into his voice.

               ‘She used to go to school with my Brenda. Did you know that?’

               ‘Yes.’ Leo sighs. He was marrying Brenda’s daughter. Of course he knew that.

               ‘I’m glad I’ve lived to see Emily settled.’

               ‘You’ll go on for years.’

               Lucy looks at him sharply then laughs. ‘He’s a nice young man she’s marrying.’

               ‘Thank you.’

               Lucy turns away. ‘Oh. I don’t think it’s you.’

               Leo’s heart stutters. ‘Yes it is. Don’t you remember? You offered to pay for the honeymoon.’

               ‘Did I?’ Lucy stares hard at the TV. ‘I do like that German man.’ Then, ‘Alan, that’s his name.’

               Leo groans. ‘Yes. I told you. Alan Rickman.’

               ‘No, not him. Alan’s the name of the man Emily’s marrying. Hasn’t she told you yet?’

Flash Story - free read

I haven't shared any of my writing for a long time. So today here's a little story for you. The idea came from a song I heard a little while back.  Hope you enjoy it.

The Writing on the Wall

He’d seen those scratchings before. He just couldn’t remember when. Raising his hand he rested his fingers against the outline before pushing his flesh into the grooves. An image came to him so hard that he jumped back.

               Down the corridor echoed the sound of keys and chains and his eyes swivelled to the door. Shivering he turned once more to the wall, found what his eyes had been searching for. Scratched into the stone were his initials and a date seventy-five years in the past.

               The door swung open and the guard stood grim faced.                       ‘It’s time son.’ Behind him a priest hovered.

               He let go his breath, touched his fingers to the writing and smiled.

               ‘Would you like me to pray with you?’ asked the Priest.

               ‘It’s too late for that,’ he said. ‘Besides I already believe in the resurrection.’ He held out his wrists and the guard secured them with handcuffs. Then he led his prisoner out of the cell towards his fate.

Flashes, poems and a bookfest

Paragraph Planet (September)

My month with Kickstart Your Creative Heart is over and I ended up writing quite a lot in the end. I didn't use all the prompts. Some worked better than others but I did get back into a routine - my preferred early morning start. I found I was enjoying the process of writing again, so by taking this online course it achieved its purpose.

It's that time when I am waiting to hear about various submissions. In the meantime I have been published by Paragraph Planet again and Visual Verse have my poem Beached published on their website as part of this month's photo prompt (page 15, if you are interested).

I need to start thinking about submissions again and at some point looking at one of my novels. Knowing that will take a long time I'm tending to put that on a back burner and work with flash, short stories and poems. And I have rather a lot of distractions at present with a busy week or so coming up. The Wimbledon Bookfest has started and I have tickets to see Tracy Chevalier and Matt Haig. Looking forward to those evenings.

I have just finished reading a book about creative writing. Most of the 'how-to' parts is what I know but there was a another section about marketing yourself which I found most interesting and has made me think again about whether I should be doing more. Some things to mull over for sure.

121 Words - Yes a publication!

I have a flash fiction piece up 121 Words. They called if fantasy. I've never thought of it as that but I guess it is. I often write things on the edges of reality but I've never written what I class as full-blown fantasy - goblins, swords, holy grail, other worlds. That's what I think of as fantasy. Anyway, I'm not complaining!

The piece had to be exactly 121 words (and I do like a challenge). They also run a Twitter 12 word challenge and I've had one of those published too! Do hop over and have a read of my story The Knowledge.

Published - Flash Fiction piece

Received two pieces of news today - I didn't win the chapbook competition I entered with a stack of poems but I heard from Gold Dust magazine that Issue 31 is out and my flash story is now ready to view!

Gold Dust is free to read online or you can download it (also for free) at Lulu. Follow the links from the Gold Dust website. My story is on page 27. One is very happy!

Small successes help beat the dark pit!

My writing world has taken a bit of a knock lately. My confidence hit rock bottom and I even gathered all my writing material together and shoved it in a corner. When things happen they all seem to come at once - negative feedback, rejections and then on top of it all a cold that is reluctant to go. When I'm ill I withdraw. I think it's a self preserving mechanism. I've always had it. I switch off from everything and loose myself in sleeping, reading or listening to music. All those problems can wait until I am well enough to tackle them. This time I found it hard to do that. It worked for a while and then I'd go down into the dark pit!

Whatever has happened has changed me this time. I'm still not sure how good that is! So for now I'm sticking with what I feel I am good at - flash fiction and some short story writing. Out of that came a piece published on Visual Verse and today a piece of my flash is published on the great Paragraph Planet. Last week I also got a surprise - I have been longlisted in the Nottingham Writers' Club short story competition. Okay there are 95 longlisted stories there, but at least I'm in there and hanging on.

To help get back into things I have joined two online communities. I'm taking things slowly. Writing is beginning to happen again. My little writing group meets this afternoon and I had nothing to take to share. I pulled out the Back to Creative Writing School (Bridget Whelan) book I've been working through and an exercise in that book ended with me writing a fully formed poem - one of those strange writing experiences where the piece almost wrote itself.