Hello everyone,
As there are only a couple of days left of this year, I've made a few promises to myself; I'm loath to call them resolutions, as that's just inviting failure.
I've promised to write every single day, even if it's just a few lines. I've also promised to finish one thing before I start another, (I have four short stories on the go as well as my novel) I never seem to finish anything lately, even my orphanage story is hanging in limbo, much to the annoyance of my friend, who keeps asking when he can read it and have I finished it yet? I get so excited at the thought of a new story, that I abandon the old ones.
Talking of abandoned, the poor orphanage, (the focus of my short story) is now nothing but a sad, broken pile of bricks.
We drove out to see it the other day, just to say our goodbyes, but unfortunately we were too late, the demolition squad had beaten us to it.
It felt strange standing in the grounds amid mountains of broken bricks. A kind of sadness hung over the area, we both felt it, as if the bricks, absorbing the atmosphere of the home over the years, were slowly dying, needless to say we didn't stay long.
I wanted to take a piece of brick or wood as a keepsake, but didn't have the heart to separate it from its kin, so left empty handed, but with a heart full of memories.
I'm determined to keep my promises, 2015 is going to be a very productive year . . .I promise.
I wish everyone a great new writing year, whether you're a beginner or a professional, good luck to you all and a happy new year.
Tuesday 30 December 2014
Monday 8 December 2014
Feel Good Feedback
Hello everyone,
I have just received a lovely, encouraging text from my romantic interest. I started a new story based in the abandoned building of our first date and told him about it,(well he did ask) Anyway, after a lot of badgering and pleading, I finally let him read it, (I'd only written a few pages) and don't like anyone to see them, let alone read them until I'm fully satisfied with them.
Well, he took the printed pages home, read them and text me straight away; this is how the text went....'Hi hunni, you have real talent, I swear your stories could move me to tears, given the time you could really make it, you should quit your day job and write full time.'
If only; I'd love the chance to write full time, who wouldn't? Quit the day job and hit the big time, or sink trying.
That text sent my spirits soaring, I felt elated and so proud. Someone, who doesn't usually read or like fiction, loved my work; if only editors were that appreciative. Needless to say I'm busy writing the rest of the story to see what he thinks of the finished piece, (hope I don't disappoint) which leaves my poor novel gathering a bit more dust.
I know in the great scheme of the writing world, his opinion counts for very little, but to me, those words meant everything. That little text made my day and gave me hope. If one person likes it, maybe others will too, so my ending message to everyone is, never give up hope .....it's all we've got and please, show your work to other people, however nervous you may be.
I have just received a lovely, encouraging text from my romantic interest. I started a new story based in the abandoned building of our first date and told him about it,(well he did ask) Anyway, after a lot of badgering and pleading, I finally let him read it, (I'd only written a few pages) and don't like anyone to see them, let alone read them until I'm fully satisfied with them.
Well, he took the printed pages home, read them and text me straight away; this is how the text went....'Hi hunni, you have real talent, I swear your stories could move me to tears, given the time you could really make it, you should quit your day job and write full time.'
If only; I'd love the chance to write full time, who wouldn't? Quit the day job and hit the big time, or sink trying.
That text sent my spirits soaring, I felt elated and so proud. Someone, who doesn't usually read or like fiction, loved my work; if only editors were that appreciative. Needless to say I'm busy writing the rest of the story to see what he thinks of the finished piece, (hope I don't disappoint) which leaves my poor novel gathering a bit more dust.
I know in the great scheme of the writing world, his opinion counts for very little, but to me, those words meant everything. That little text made my day and gave me hope. If one person likes it, maybe others will too, so my ending message to everyone is, never give up hope .....it's all we've got and please, show your work to other people, however nervous you may be.
Monday 17 November 2014
Extra Time (to write)
Hello everyone
All appears to be going well, (maybe a little too well) My shifts at work have changed again; I now work mornings only; woo hoo; freeing up the afternoons for writing,(once the courses are out of the way, I'm free to scribble) we now have four to do every month; just as well I don't have much of a social life.
My writing is going well, so far; I've completed another two chapters of my novel and managed to do a lot of vital research, which I must admit, gave me a few nightmares, (the astral plane has some nasty entities floating around) I've also got another three short stories for my collection, only in notes at the moment, if I stopped to write them, I'd never get my novel done, although it is very tempting.
The romance is still going strong,(we don't see each other enough to argue) We went to a reputedly haunted pub out in the middle of nowhere; no houses, no street lights, nothing....just darkness. The pub dates back to the 16 century and although it's said to be very haunted, we neither saw or felt anything, I'm beginning to think we scare the ghosts away.
We also paid a visit to the derelict building of our first date. The place is literally in ruins. The grounds have been stripped of trees and bushes, completely levelled and with all the rain, the grounds are like quick sand, we sank in soggy clay like mud up to our shins, even doc martens didn't protect us. Scaffolding surrounds the main building as the tiles are stripped off the roof for resale and all the little out buildings have gone, reduced to nothing more than rubble; it is truly a sad sight.
I wonder where the ghosts will go when the place has been demolished? Will they still continue to haunt the site? Or will they cease to exist? This poses a question; Where do ghost's go when they are not haunting? Any answers will be greatly appreciated.
Anyway, that's about it for now, my novel beckons; it's sitting on the table in front of me and I can almost hear my main character urging me not to leave her in the predicament I just put her in. I wish all other writers out there good luck with their scribbling.
All appears to be going well, (maybe a little too well) My shifts at work have changed again; I now work mornings only; woo hoo; freeing up the afternoons for writing,(once the courses are out of the way, I'm free to scribble) we now have four to do every month; just as well I don't have much of a social life.
My writing is going well, so far; I've completed another two chapters of my novel and managed to do a lot of vital research, which I must admit, gave me a few nightmares, (the astral plane has some nasty entities floating around) I've also got another three short stories for my collection, only in notes at the moment, if I stopped to write them, I'd never get my novel done, although it is very tempting.
The romance is still going strong,(we don't see each other enough to argue) We went to a reputedly haunted pub out in the middle of nowhere; no houses, no street lights, nothing....just darkness. The pub dates back to the 16 century and although it's said to be very haunted, we neither saw or felt anything, I'm beginning to think we scare the ghosts away.
We also paid a visit to the derelict building of our first date. The place is literally in ruins. The grounds have been stripped of trees and bushes, completely levelled and with all the rain, the grounds are like quick sand, we sank in soggy clay like mud up to our shins, even doc martens didn't protect us. Scaffolding surrounds the main building as the tiles are stripped off the roof for resale and all the little out buildings have gone, reduced to nothing more than rubble; it is truly a sad sight.
I wonder where the ghosts will go when the place has been demolished? Will they still continue to haunt the site? Or will they cease to exist? This poses a question; Where do ghost's go when they are not haunting? Any answers will be greatly appreciated.
Anyway, that's about it for now, my novel beckons; it's sitting on the table in front of me and I can almost hear my main character urging me not to leave her in the predicament I just put her in. I wish all other writers out there good luck with their scribbling.
Sunday 26 October 2014
Prioritising (or trying to)
Hello fellow scribblers
Today sees me frantically trying to scribble another chapter of my novel before I go out. I've decided to concentrate all my efforts on that, instead of allowing myself to become side tracked by another short story that's popped into my head.
I've got another seven ideas for my collection (they just keep on coming) It seems like every couple of days there's a new one pushing its way into my mind demanding attention; so now I'm just writing the ideas down on bits of paper, so that I don't forget them and dropping them into an envelope to write later.
I don't know how long it's going to take to finish my novel, but I don't think it's going to be by the end of this year, (too many work related on line training courses to do) and of course, work itself gets in the way. Imagine how much more writing I could do if I didn't have to spend twelve hours a day in that place.
The romance is still going well; he expressed a great interest in my writing and asked to read one of my short stories, so I gave him the Tulpa. He read it through and said he loved it, (although I suspect he thought he'd better say it was good in case he upset me) Although he did confess, via text the next day, that it gave him nightmares, (which in my book is a success) and that he'd better be careful what his imagination conjured up in the future. He also said I should quit my day job and go into full time writing (I wish) He reckons, given the time, I could make it. (flattery will get him everywhere)
Anyway that about it for now, back to the novel, good luck with all your writing tasks and remember, always let your imagination be your guide.
Today sees me frantically trying to scribble another chapter of my novel before I go out. I've decided to concentrate all my efforts on that, instead of allowing myself to become side tracked by another short story that's popped into my head.
I've got another seven ideas for my collection (they just keep on coming) It seems like every couple of days there's a new one pushing its way into my mind demanding attention; so now I'm just writing the ideas down on bits of paper, so that I don't forget them and dropping them into an envelope to write later.
I don't know how long it's going to take to finish my novel, but I don't think it's going to be by the end of this year, (too many work related on line training courses to do) and of course, work itself gets in the way. Imagine how much more writing I could do if I didn't have to spend twelve hours a day in that place.
The romance is still going well; he expressed a great interest in my writing and asked to read one of my short stories, so I gave him the Tulpa. He read it through and said he loved it, (although I suspect he thought he'd better say it was good in case he upset me) Although he did confess, via text the next day, that it gave him nightmares, (which in my book is a success) and that he'd better be careful what his imagination conjured up in the future. He also said I should quit my day job and go into full time writing (I wish) He reckons, given the time, I could make it. (flattery will get him everywhere)
Anyway that about it for now, back to the novel, good luck with all your writing tasks and remember, always let your imagination be your guide.
Tuesday 14 October 2014
Mirror Mirror On The Wall
Hello everyone
Well, I finally re-read my novel from the beginning and got myself back into the flow . . . .and have written another chapter. I've also written another short story, this time about a car journey that my lead character has taken numerous times; although the route looks the same, everything is completely different; kind of made my boring journey to work look a little different.
On a completely different note, I took my son to the abandoned building known as the Babies Castle (where my friend and I had our first date) to say my goodbyes. Workmen are clearing the site and getting ready to demolish it. I'll be sad to see it go, not only because it holds special memories for me, but because it's a big, old rambling building with turrets.
Anyway, while we were exploring other parts of the building that were previously inaccessible due to the wild undergrowth, I nearly managed to scare myself to death. We got into a smaller cottage in the grounds via a tiny window and as it was raining, I had my hood up. Wandering down a dark passageway, I pushed open a door and came face to face with what looked like a dark, shadowy figure wearing a cowl.
Well, my heart went into my mouth and my stomach dropped to my boots, I screamed and almost fell over my feet trying to get away, crashed into my son , babbling like an idiot that there was something in there. He very bravely went and had a closer look and . . . . you've guessed it, it was a mirror. As I was wearing a hoodie, the raised hood looked like a cowl in the darkness. My son couldn't stop laughing and warned me of the dangers of looking into a mirror at my age.
We also met a team of paranormal investigators who were looking for a new site. They are called Trident and investigate reputedly haunted sites up and down the country. They decided against the Baby Castle due to its dangerous, dilapidated condition, (it's unsafe during the day when you can see where you're putting your feet, but would be lethal at night) We told them about our experiences of ghost hunting there and the fact that we didn't catch anything; but then they have more sophisticated cameras and gadgets, so they may have been lucky.
All in all it was a pretty interesting day and I've got another couple of short stories out of it. I'm over half way through my collection now; I'm aiming for about twenty, it's just finding the time to write them all as well as work on my novel and hold down my day job in between.
Anyway, that's about it for now, Halloween will soon be upon us, my favourite point in the calendar, so happy haunting to you all.
Well, I finally re-read my novel from the beginning and got myself back into the flow . . . .and have written another chapter. I've also written another short story, this time about a car journey that my lead character has taken numerous times; although the route looks the same, everything is completely different; kind of made my boring journey to work look a little different.
On a completely different note, I took my son to the abandoned building known as the Babies Castle (where my friend and I had our first date) to say my goodbyes. Workmen are clearing the site and getting ready to demolish it. I'll be sad to see it go, not only because it holds special memories for me, but because it's a big, old rambling building with turrets.
Anyway, while we were exploring other parts of the building that were previously inaccessible due to the wild undergrowth, I nearly managed to scare myself to death. We got into a smaller cottage in the grounds via a tiny window and as it was raining, I had my hood up. Wandering down a dark passageway, I pushed open a door and came face to face with what looked like a dark, shadowy figure wearing a cowl.
Well, my heart went into my mouth and my stomach dropped to my boots, I screamed and almost fell over my feet trying to get away, crashed into my son , babbling like an idiot that there was something in there. He very bravely went and had a closer look and . . . . you've guessed it, it was a mirror. As I was wearing a hoodie, the raised hood looked like a cowl in the darkness. My son couldn't stop laughing and warned me of the dangers of looking into a mirror at my age.
We also met a team of paranormal investigators who were looking for a new site. They are called Trident and investigate reputedly haunted sites up and down the country. They decided against the Baby Castle due to its dangerous, dilapidated condition, (it's unsafe during the day when you can see where you're putting your feet, but would be lethal at night) We told them about our experiences of ghost hunting there and the fact that we didn't catch anything; but then they have more sophisticated cameras and gadgets, so they may have been lucky.
All in all it was a pretty interesting day and I've got another couple of short stories out of it. I'm over half way through my collection now; I'm aiming for about twenty, it's just finding the time to write them all as well as work on my novel and hold down my day job in between.
Anyway, that's about it for now, Halloween will soon be upon us, my favourite point in the calendar, so happy haunting to you all.
Thursday 2 October 2014
TIME IS SO PRECIOUS
Hello everyone,
The romance, unlike my writing at the moment, is very much alive and flourishing. Nurtured daily by loving texts, even though we don't see each other very often, maybe once a week, twice if we're very lucky, as the shift patterns of our jobs keep us apart.
We did go out the other day; we found a derelict, abandoned girls school. This however, although very tempting to explore, appeared impossible to get into. Part of the main building had been torn down and the whole place was a fenced off building site, (which wouldn't have posed a problem, except for the security cameras) so after much deliberation, we gave up and went to the pub.
My poor novel has still not seen the light of day, not a single pen stroke has graced its pure white pages, although I have written a second short story for my collection. This one centres around the Christmas tree and although fairly horrific, is also, I think, quite sad.
I have promised myself that I will pick up my novel next week, re-read it from the beginning and aim to finish it by the end of the year. (Easier said than done,) as my job is now demanding that we do one on-line training course every month for the next twelve months. Some of these courses take several hours to complete and are mind numbingly boring, but as they are mandatory, we don't have a choice.
Today should have been my day off, but I had to spend six hours of it at work on a study day; next Wednesday would see me off again, but lo and behold, I have another study day; so much for trying to write anything.
My friend and I are planning, later this year, (if we ever get the chance) to take a trip out to Pluckly; the most haunted village in kent and see if its ghosts are a little more accommodating than the ones in the orphanage. We want to see, (or hear) if screaming woods really does scream and if fright corner really is as frightening as people say it is; no doubt we will end up in the Dering arms public house, which is also reputed to be haunted.
Will let you know in future posts what we found; if we ever get there!
The romance, unlike my writing at the moment, is very much alive and flourishing. Nurtured daily by loving texts, even though we don't see each other very often, maybe once a week, twice if we're very lucky, as the shift patterns of our jobs keep us apart.
We did go out the other day; we found a derelict, abandoned girls school. This however, although very tempting to explore, appeared impossible to get into. Part of the main building had been torn down and the whole place was a fenced off building site, (which wouldn't have posed a problem, except for the security cameras) so after much deliberation, we gave up and went to the pub.
My poor novel has still not seen the light of day, not a single pen stroke has graced its pure white pages, although I have written a second short story for my collection. This one centres around the Christmas tree and although fairly horrific, is also, I think, quite sad.
I have promised myself that I will pick up my novel next week, re-read it from the beginning and aim to finish it by the end of the year. (Easier said than done,) as my job is now demanding that we do one on-line training course every month for the next twelve months. Some of these courses take several hours to complete and are mind numbingly boring, but as they are mandatory, we don't have a choice.
Today should have been my day off, but I had to spend six hours of it at work on a study day; next Wednesday would see me off again, but lo and behold, I have another study day; so much for trying to write anything.
My friend and I are planning, later this year, (if we ever get the chance) to take a trip out to Pluckly; the most haunted village in kent and see if its ghosts are a little more accommodating than the ones in the orphanage. We want to see, (or hear) if screaming woods really does scream and if fright corner really is as frightening as people say it is; no doubt we will end up in the Dering arms public house, which is also reputed to be haunted.
Will let you know in future posts what we found; if we ever get there!
Monday 11 August 2014
The Ghost Of Christmas Past
Hello everyone,
I am ashamed to say that my novel has still not seen the light of day since my last entry, although I have written a short story inspired by the abandoned orphanage to add to my collection.
While the place was amazing and very atmospheric, the ghosts did not grace us with their presence. The EMF remained silent, the recorder picked up no spirit voices and the camera captured no orbs or anything else unworldly, although I did get some brilliant photographs of urban decay.
Standing alone in the corner of the great kitchen was a cobweb shrouded Christmas tree, complete with faded decorations. I wonder how long it had stood there? What memories it had? And how many chubby, little hands had touched its artificial branches over the years; it was quite a sad sight to behold. Once the centre of attention, its former glory now gone. Its only companions; the myriad spiders who now undoubtedly inhabit its tinsel clad body.
The feeling in the building had changed since our last visit; almost as if it were expecting us. It seemed to be holding its breath back behind its timber frame; waiting . . . .waiting for us to leave. It was not hostile or unwelcoming in any way, just empty.
In the small chapel that stands in the grounds, we found old hospital beds and blankets, their white fabric mouldy and rotting, while outside in the vast overgrown garden, a single yellow rose bloomed amid the wild grasses; the yellow rose of friendship maybe.
The no-show of anything supernatural was disappointing, but otherwise it was an amazing, interesting evening and I hope we have many more.
Until next time, happy ghost hunting.
I am ashamed to say that my novel has still not seen the light of day since my last entry, although I have written a short story inspired by the abandoned orphanage to add to my collection.
While the place was amazing and very atmospheric, the ghosts did not grace us with their presence. The EMF remained silent, the recorder picked up no spirit voices and the camera captured no orbs or anything else unworldly, although I did get some brilliant photographs of urban decay.
Standing alone in the corner of the great kitchen was a cobweb shrouded Christmas tree, complete with faded decorations. I wonder how long it had stood there? What memories it had? And how many chubby, little hands had touched its artificial branches over the years; it was quite a sad sight to behold. Once the centre of attention, its former glory now gone. Its only companions; the myriad spiders who now undoubtedly inhabit its tinsel clad body.
The feeling in the building had changed since our last visit; almost as if it were expecting us. It seemed to be holding its breath back behind its timber frame; waiting . . . .waiting for us to leave. It was not hostile or unwelcoming in any way, just empty.
In the small chapel that stands in the grounds, we found old hospital beds and blankets, their white fabric mouldy and rotting, while outside in the vast overgrown garden, a single yellow rose bloomed amid the wild grasses; the yellow rose of friendship maybe.
The no-show of anything supernatural was disappointing, but otherwise it was an amazing, interesting evening and I hope we have many more.
Until next time, happy ghost hunting.
Thursday 24 July 2014
(Ghost) HuntingFor Stories
Hello everyone
apologies for my absence. My novel and indeed, my writing, have taken a little side step at the moment (I haven't done any) I have been side tracked by a little romance.
I met a man after my own dark heart. I have known him for a few years, just chatting and sharing a joke or two, but he suddenly asked me out on a date, much to my surprise, although I have secretly liked him for a long time, but had no idea he felt the same way.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, our first date was in a abandoned orphanage. Yes, you read that right; he took me to a huge, creepy haunted house and it was amazing. The atmosphere in that place was electric, very dark and spooky and kind of dangerous as most of the upper floors have gone and we had to step carefully on the joists.
We roamed the overgrown grounds for ages before we found a way in. Most of the building had been stripped clean, but odd remnants of the past remained, bath chairs, beds, old photos and patient records, along with a few tables and chairs and a stove you cook several children in, while graffiti decorated the walls.
We went up aged Victorian staircases and into the eves to a room labelled 'SECTION D' (who knows what went on in there) but for the very top of a building, on a hot summer night, it was very cold with an unpleasant atmosphere.
We are going back again tonight armed with cameras, an EMF meter and digital voice recorder to see if we can get any spirit activity. The place certainly looks haunted and has a bit of a reputation for paranormal activity, so fingers crossed.
I should be able to get a good story or two from it at least to add to my collection; the atmosphere alone fires up my creative juices and gets my imagination working overtime, (especially Section D). I will let you know of our findings in future posts and any dark stories my mind can conjure up, so until next time, unpleasant dreams to all.
apologies for my absence. My novel and indeed, my writing, have taken a little side step at the moment (I haven't done any) I have been side tracked by a little romance.
I met a man after my own dark heart. I have known him for a few years, just chatting and sharing a joke or two, but he suddenly asked me out on a date, much to my surprise, although I have secretly liked him for a long time, but had no idea he felt the same way.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, our first date was in a abandoned orphanage. Yes, you read that right; he took me to a huge, creepy haunted house and it was amazing. The atmosphere in that place was electric, very dark and spooky and kind of dangerous as most of the upper floors have gone and we had to step carefully on the joists.
We roamed the overgrown grounds for ages before we found a way in. Most of the building had been stripped clean, but odd remnants of the past remained, bath chairs, beds, old photos and patient records, along with a few tables and chairs and a stove you cook several children in, while graffiti decorated the walls.
We went up aged Victorian staircases and into the eves to a room labelled 'SECTION D' (who knows what went on in there) but for the very top of a building, on a hot summer night, it was very cold with an unpleasant atmosphere.
We are going back again tonight armed with cameras, an EMF meter and digital voice recorder to see if we can get any spirit activity. The place certainly looks haunted and has a bit of a reputation for paranormal activity, so fingers crossed.
I should be able to get a good story or two from it at least to add to my collection; the atmosphere alone fires up my creative juices and gets my imagination working overtime, (especially Section D). I will let you know of our findings in future posts and any dark stories my mind can conjure up, so until next time, unpleasant dreams to all.
Friday 11 July 2014
Onwards And Upwards
Hello fellow scribblers
The sun is shining, at least on my novel (outside it's pouring again) I re-read a lot of it the other day and with my new found misery, have, I think, improved it greatly. There is now far more emotion and a greater depth of feeling for my main character. I've also shortened a lot of my chapters to emphasize her pain and suffering, which I think packs more of a rollercoaster ride and hopefully keeps the pages turning.
I'm still struggling with a title though, I still can't seem to find one that really fits and expresses the story. I've cut words out from card and jiggled them around, but nothing feels right.
I spent a lovely day with my daughter and grandchildren yesterday and as Chloe is eleven and due to start secondary school in September, I learnt a bit more about school life from a child's point of view; her hopes and dreams as well as a few fears, which will all add feeling to my writing.
On a different matter, I was perusing the members section of writing magazine, when I came across a picture of myself, complete with blog details and a short article. I sat happily on the page amid new and published writers and to say the least (after the initial shock) I was ecstatic; so much so that I text both my daughters. Its a weird feeling though, seeing yourself on the page of a well known publication, it's just a shame I'm not more photogenic.
Anyway, until next time, happy scribbling.
The sun is shining, at least on my novel (outside it's pouring again) I re-read a lot of it the other day and with my new found misery, have, I think, improved it greatly. There is now far more emotion and a greater depth of feeling for my main character. I've also shortened a lot of my chapters to emphasize her pain and suffering, which I think packs more of a rollercoaster ride and hopefully keeps the pages turning.
I'm still struggling with a title though, I still can't seem to find one that really fits and expresses the story. I've cut words out from card and jiggled them around, but nothing feels right.
I spent a lovely day with my daughter and grandchildren yesterday and as Chloe is eleven and due to start secondary school in September, I learnt a bit more about school life from a child's point of view; her hopes and dreams as well as a few fears, which will all add feeling to my writing.
On a different matter, I was perusing the members section of writing magazine, when I came across a picture of myself, complete with blog details and a short article. I sat happily on the page amid new and published writers and to say the least (after the initial shock) I was ecstatic; so much so that I text both my daughters. Its a weird feeling though, seeing yourself on the page of a well known publication, it's just a shame I'm not more photogenic.
Anyway, until next time, happy scribbling.
Wednesday 2 July 2014
A Light At The End Of The Tunnel
Hello everyone
The shade of darkness is finally lifting, I think I've weathered the storm and the sun is starting to peek through the clouds.
The past two weeks have been hell both in my personal and professional life. Imagine working a 12 hour shift where you have to be happy, friendly and polite to everyone all the time, when all you want is to be left alone with your misery.
Most nights have seen tears, in the quiet comfort of my bed they slip from between my lashes to soak into my pillow and dry un-noticed by morning.
I've done a lot of soul searching too, revisiting distasteful parts of my memory, forcing myself to confront my demons. I can't say it's been pleasant; anything but, although it has had a positive side. Much of my misery and mental torment can be used in my novel (which I have finally picked up again) I think it will give it a far more gritty, emotional edge. The REAL feelings are there, my main character's pain and self loathing have been felt first hand and I feel I'm in a much better position to write and understand them, it was almost like I'd stepped into her skin. I feel I know her better. Her feelings were mine, her emotional pain and torment coursed through my veins.
Suffering, both emotional and physical have their advantages. Once out of your system, you are cleansed (and drained) I have had my eyes opened by this latest experience; I've never felt so utterly alone, miserable and worthless, but I've come through it now, I hope and I've learnt by it. Things are far from perfect and I do not doubt for one moment that something nasty will rear its ugly head again and bring me down, but if I can use those emotions and put them into words, maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to write a better book.
The shade of darkness is finally lifting, I think I've weathered the storm and the sun is starting to peek through the clouds.
The past two weeks have been hell both in my personal and professional life. Imagine working a 12 hour shift where you have to be happy, friendly and polite to everyone all the time, when all you want is to be left alone with your misery.
Most nights have seen tears, in the quiet comfort of my bed they slip from between my lashes to soak into my pillow and dry un-noticed by morning.
I've done a lot of soul searching too, revisiting distasteful parts of my memory, forcing myself to confront my demons. I can't say it's been pleasant; anything but, although it has had a positive side. Much of my misery and mental torment can be used in my novel (which I have finally picked up again) I think it will give it a far more gritty, emotional edge. The REAL feelings are there, my main character's pain and self loathing have been felt first hand and I feel I'm in a much better position to write and understand them, it was almost like I'd stepped into her skin. I feel I know her better. Her feelings were mine, her emotional pain and torment coursed through my veins.
Suffering, both emotional and physical have their advantages. Once out of your system, you are cleansed (and drained) I have had my eyes opened by this latest experience; I've never felt so utterly alone, miserable and worthless, but I've come through it now, I hope and I've learnt by it. Things are far from perfect and I do not doubt for one moment that something nasty will rear its ugly head again and bring me down, but if I can use those emotions and put them into words, maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to write a better book.
Wednesday 11 June 2014
The Black Dog
The black dog has been sniffing around my ankles again drip feeding its poison into my mind. I woke up crying this morning; a sad dream, a nightmare, I don't remember, I just knew I didn't want to get up; wished I hadn't woken up.
I can not guess its coming, it appears to have no reason. Nothing bad has happened, except another rejection from Fiction Feast. My novel is / was coming along nicely, now I can't bear to pick it up.
Even my cat Moo knows something is wrong. At home she follows me everywhere, the bedroom, the bathroom, the garden, she is constantly at my side nudging and pawing me.
I am simply going through the motions of life, not caring if I reach the end of the day. When I am in the company of others, I step into a new skin and no one is any the wiser. I am pleasant, chatty and friendly, but I am dying inside.
I looked at my beta blockers, three boxes of 28, more than enough. I held them in my hands, all of them, a glass of water at my side until a piercing meow broke my train of thought. I dropped the boxes. How could I be so selfish? Who would look after her and her brother?
My children have grown up, flown the nest, they are independent, have lives of their own shaped by happiness, optimism and hope.
But my life has no meaning. I have nothing to look forward to, simply more of the same. I have little to show for my 48 years. No personal achievements, no home of my own, nothing. I have no one to talk to, no close friends, no one to confide in and so I commit my feeling to the written page, I am after all a writer.
I can not guess its coming, it appears to have no reason. Nothing bad has happened, except another rejection from Fiction Feast. My novel is / was coming along nicely, now I can't bear to pick it up.
Even my cat Moo knows something is wrong. At home she follows me everywhere, the bedroom, the bathroom, the garden, she is constantly at my side nudging and pawing me.
I am simply going through the motions of life, not caring if I reach the end of the day. When I am in the company of others, I step into a new skin and no one is any the wiser. I am pleasant, chatty and friendly, but I am dying inside.
I looked at my beta blockers, three boxes of 28, more than enough. I held them in my hands, all of them, a glass of water at my side until a piercing meow broke my train of thought. I dropped the boxes. How could I be so selfish? Who would look after her and her brother?
My children have grown up, flown the nest, they are independent, have lives of their own shaped by happiness, optimism and hope.
But my life has no meaning. I have nothing to look forward to, simply more of the same. I have little to show for my 48 years. No personal achievements, no home of my own, nothing. I have no one to talk to, no close friends, no one to confide in and so I commit my feeling to the written page, I am after all a writer.
Monday 2 June 2014
Rejection, Shame and Misery
Hello everyone
Today brings miserable news. My entry for Massacre Magazine summer contest has been rejected. 250 carefully crafted words thrown out with the trash by the click of a button. I can't even bring myself to read the winning entry.
I worked hard on that piece of flash fiction, cutting, preening and polishing until I was satisfied; I thought it was good (for me anyway) I thought I had a chance, I really did, but obviously not.
As usual I've wasted my time; time I could have spent on my novel, but then if I can't even get 250 winning words, what chance do I have with 80,000+. Am I just kidding myself; will it be 300 pages of drivel that no one will be interested in?
The story had to be about an abandoned summer house in the woods and this is it.
THE HUNGER
The summer house remains, its origins a mystery now. A drifter through time, slipping between worlds. Decayed and broken but never falling. A deadly visitor. The eater of children; the destroyer of lives. Enticing the innocent into its shrouded domain with the promise of base camps and dens. Places to play. Secrets to share. An army camp on Monday, a dolls house on Wednesday. It waits silently, patiently for the curious to stumble upon. It is always eager, desperate for the fresh young souls; it has a voracious appetite. I played there once, lured in by its earthy scent and almost hidden location. I was a robber hiding out from the police and in the end, they found me, the officers with their sniffer dogs. They say my body was unmarked, slumped in the corner, looing as if I'd simply falled asleep and forgotten to wake up. If only they knew the truth. The sudden sense of isolation, the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. Its painted skin rippling with anticipation. Vibrations so subtle that only the hair on your arms can detect. The ancient wood, porous, thirsty. The very bones of the beast breathing, sighing. A chill in the air now, almost imperceptible as it makes its move. Siphoning the soul from its body, dredging the foundations of your mortality. The damp wood beckons. You sit as tiredness overwhelms until the vessel that housed your being is empty, drained of its life force, you are dead.
I suppose I still have my Fiction Feast story awaiting its fate and another for Saga, but the seed of doubt has taken root again, so I don't hold out much hope for either of them. Rejection brings you down, makes you doubt yourself and your abilities.
Please let me know what you think of my flash fiction, until next time, happy scribbling and I hope you have more luck than me.
Today brings miserable news. My entry for Massacre Magazine summer contest has been rejected. 250 carefully crafted words thrown out with the trash by the click of a button. I can't even bring myself to read the winning entry.
I worked hard on that piece of flash fiction, cutting, preening and polishing until I was satisfied; I thought it was good (for me anyway) I thought I had a chance, I really did, but obviously not.
As usual I've wasted my time; time I could have spent on my novel, but then if I can't even get 250 winning words, what chance do I have with 80,000+. Am I just kidding myself; will it be 300 pages of drivel that no one will be interested in?
The story had to be about an abandoned summer house in the woods and this is it.
THE HUNGER
The summer house remains, its origins a mystery now. A drifter through time, slipping between worlds. Decayed and broken but never falling. A deadly visitor. The eater of children; the destroyer of lives. Enticing the innocent into its shrouded domain with the promise of base camps and dens. Places to play. Secrets to share. An army camp on Monday, a dolls house on Wednesday. It waits silently, patiently for the curious to stumble upon. It is always eager, desperate for the fresh young souls; it has a voracious appetite. I played there once, lured in by its earthy scent and almost hidden location. I was a robber hiding out from the police and in the end, they found me, the officers with their sniffer dogs. They say my body was unmarked, slumped in the corner, looing as if I'd simply falled asleep and forgotten to wake up. If only they knew the truth. The sudden sense of isolation, the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. Its painted skin rippling with anticipation. Vibrations so subtle that only the hair on your arms can detect. The ancient wood, porous, thirsty. The very bones of the beast breathing, sighing. A chill in the air now, almost imperceptible as it makes its move. Siphoning the soul from its body, dredging the foundations of your mortality. The damp wood beckons. You sit as tiredness overwhelms until the vessel that housed your being is empty, drained of its life force, you are dead.
I suppose I still have my Fiction Feast story awaiting its fate and another for Saga, but the seed of doubt has taken root again, so I don't hold out much hope for either of them. Rejection brings you down, makes you doubt yourself and your abilities.
Please let me know what you think of my flash fiction, until next time, happy scribbling and I hope you have more luck than me.
Tuesday 27 May 2014
Idiosyncrasies Or Something More
Hello everyone
I have a little writing quirk I'd like to share with you. I can't write unless I have Batty with me. He is a small, plastic vampire bat and was given to me by my son about 20 years ago. I thought he was cute, so put him on my desk and that days writing was amazing. The words just flew from brain to hand to pen, I achieved so much in such a short space of time.
The next day was hot and sunny so I wrote in the garden, Batty didn't come with me (I'd kind of forgotten about him by then) and my words died on the page. I struggled to form even a basic sentence. After putting it down to a bad day, I gave up. The next day was wet, as is usual with our weather, so I wrote at my desk with Batty watching over me and the words came alive.
I looked at Batty. Could it be possible that he was somehow responsible? Was he a lucky bat? For the next week I kept him in my pocket whenever I wrote and the words just danced ; plot ideas fell into place, situations I'd been struggling with became clear and I wrote prolifically.
My mind told me Batty was the reason. Somewhere within the whorls of my brain, Batty had been attributed with magic powers. He knows all my stories and helps with plot and structure. I'd never be without him, fearing my writing would shrivel and die without his assistance.
But now I think I may have picked up another quirk, quite by accident. I'd just washed my hair and was sitting in the sun drying it while I wrote, but the breeze was blowing the shorter bits into my face. I need a hairband, I thought, but all I could find at the time was my granddaughter's cat ears band, so I put it on and yes, you've guessed it, my writing sparkled. It was like my fingers had been possessed by a demon, I couldn't get the words down fast enough; the power of Batty had been magnified.
So is it simply association? I would have had a good writing day without Batty or the cat ears or does it go deeper. The power of suggestion on a susceptible mind, something tells me I'll never know. I'll keep you posted on my crazy ideas.
I'd also like to know if anyone else has any little quirks or rituals they have to carry out before they do specific things. Do you have lucky socks? Or a special charm that appears to have magical properties (my friend has a parking angel in her car) You never know, there might be a story in it. Until next time, enjoy your little idiosyncrasies, they could be beneficial.
I have a little writing quirk I'd like to share with you. I can't write unless I have Batty with me. He is a small, plastic vampire bat and was given to me by my son about 20 years ago. I thought he was cute, so put him on my desk and that days writing was amazing. The words just flew from brain to hand to pen, I achieved so much in such a short space of time.
The next day was hot and sunny so I wrote in the garden, Batty didn't come with me (I'd kind of forgotten about him by then) and my words died on the page. I struggled to form even a basic sentence. After putting it down to a bad day, I gave up. The next day was wet, as is usual with our weather, so I wrote at my desk with Batty watching over me and the words came alive.
I looked at Batty. Could it be possible that he was somehow responsible? Was he a lucky bat? For the next week I kept him in my pocket whenever I wrote and the words just danced ; plot ideas fell into place, situations I'd been struggling with became clear and I wrote prolifically.
My mind told me Batty was the reason. Somewhere within the whorls of my brain, Batty had been attributed with magic powers. He knows all my stories and helps with plot and structure. I'd never be without him, fearing my writing would shrivel and die without his assistance.
But now I think I may have picked up another quirk, quite by accident. I'd just washed my hair and was sitting in the sun drying it while I wrote, but the breeze was blowing the shorter bits into my face. I need a hairband, I thought, but all I could find at the time was my granddaughter's cat ears band, so I put it on and yes, you've guessed it, my writing sparkled. It was like my fingers had been possessed by a demon, I couldn't get the words down fast enough; the power of Batty had been magnified.
So is it simply association? I would have had a good writing day without Batty or the cat ears or does it go deeper. The power of suggestion on a susceptible mind, something tells me I'll never know. I'll keep you posted on my crazy ideas.
I'd also like to know if anyone else has any little quirks or rituals they have to carry out before they do specific things. Do you have lucky socks? Or a special charm that appears to have magical properties (my friend has a parking angel in her car) You never know, there might be a story in it. Until next time, enjoy your little idiosyncrasies, they could be beneficial.
Wednesday 14 May 2014
A Potential Home
Hello fellow writers
While flicking through my recent copy of Writing Magazine, I turned to the markets section and found a little gem; a possible home for my novel. It was a half page advert for a publishing company called Tiger Stripes. They mainly publish children's and YA books, but they have just launched a new imprint called Red Eye, which is full on horror and the best bit . . . they are open to submissions.
I checked out their website and guidelines and they sound perfect, just what I'm looking for. I was tempted to contact them straight away, but then stopped myself as I have two major problems, the first being that the book isn't finished yet, and the second is I'm afraid. Yes, you read that right, I'm scared.
1. What if they like it?
2. What if they don't?
Lets tackle number one first; If they like it and want to see it, that's great, but what if they accept an unfinished novel; I'd be forced to meet a deadline and with work commitments and shift patterns, I'm not sure I could deliver on time and what happens if my imagination dries up and I can't finish it?
2. What if they don't like it. My creation is slapped with rejection and I have to endure the feelings that go with it. Maybe no-one will like it, maybe I'm just kidding myself and I have no talent.
All these things are racing through my mind. I know there are plenty of other publishers out there, so maybe I should just leave it and finish the book first; I am writing frantically, but any advice on the matter would be very much appreciated. I don't want to miss the boat, but I don't want to jump aboard too quickly and watch it sink without trace.
While flicking through my recent copy of Writing Magazine, I turned to the markets section and found a little gem; a possible home for my novel. It was a half page advert for a publishing company called Tiger Stripes. They mainly publish children's and YA books, but they have just launched a new imprint called Red Eye, which is full on horror and the best bit . . . they are open to submissions.
I checked out their website and guidelines and they sound perfect, just what I'm looking for. I was tempted to contact them straight away, but then stopped myself as I have two major problems, the first being that the book isn't finished yet, and the second is I'm afraid. Yes, you read that right, I'm scared.
1. What if they like it?
2. What if they don't?
Lets tackle number one first; If they like it and want to see it, that's great, but what if they accept an unfinished novel; I'd be forced to meet a deadline and with work commitments and shift patterns, I'm not sure I could deliver on time and what happens if my imagination dries up and I can't finish it?
2. What if they don't like it. My creation is slapped with rejection and I have to endure the feelings that go with it. Maybe no-one will like it, maybe I'm just kidding myself and I have no talent.
All these things are racing through my mind. I know there are plenty of other publishers out there, so maybe I should just leave it and finish the book first; I am writing frantically, but any advice on the matter would be very much appreciated. I don't want to miss the boat, but I don't want to jump aboard too quickly and watch it sink without trace.
Tuesday 6 May 2014
THE EXTRA PASSENGER
Carrying on from last time when I spoke about horror, I've had a weird experience of my own. I brought a second hand car few years ago as my little black one died. This one is a bright red Yaris and although she's ten years old now, touch wood, I've never had any trouble from her; her name's Ruby by the way, except that I seem to have an extra passenger.
When I'm in the car by myself, going to pick up friends or family, whoever I'm collecting will always say, 'who was that sitting next to you,' when I get out. Even my grand daughter Chloe kept looking for my 'friend' when I picked her up. I told her I was alone in the car, but she insisted there was someone sitting next to me in the passenger seat.
Also, when I've been driving home from work after a late shift, I've heard whispering from the back seat. (Kinda makes me think of Steven King's Christine.) but she hasn't tried to kill anyone yet, as far as I know.
She wasn't the usual type or colour of car I would normally go for, I prefer black to fire engine red, but as I'd just lost my mum Kathleen and the car I was looking at came from Kathleen road in Southampton and the lady selling it was called Joan, my mum's middle name, I took it to be a sign. I just felt drawn to it when I saw the picture, weird eh.
Maybe mum's coming along for the ride, I don't know. I've never seen anyone sitting next to me,(that's probably a good thing) although I do feel the urge to check the rear view mirror quite often, as it feels like someone's watching me from the back seat, I just wonder who my spectral passenger is?
Car's aside, weird things happen at work too. I, along with most other staff, have seen he shades of dead residents shuffling into their rooms, call bells ring in empty rooms, doors slam on the top floor and the lift goes up and down on its own, especially at night. Myself and a colleague even herd a resident call for a nurse, even though said resident had been dead for the past three days.
I am a firm believer in life after death, to me, ghosts are real, I've seen too much not to believe (either that or I', just crazy) I saw my first ghost when I was six at my nan's house, he was about the same age as me and was sitting in the kitchen. We used to chat, but I can't remember an actual conversation with him. I saw another one when I was eight or nine. My cousin came on holiday with us to pevensy bay and this little girl used to tap on the window and call us to come out and play, but my cousin said there was no one there and that I was making it up to scare her and she wanted to go home; her dad came and got her and I was told off. The ghost girl came back that afternoon and I followed her, but when I got outside she'd gone.
That about sums it up for this week. Maybe the childhood ghosts helped to cement my love of horror and the supernatural, I don't know, they certainly roused my curiosity and started a lie long passion.
When I'm in the car by myself, going to pick up friends or family, whoever I'm collecting will always say, 'who was that sitting next to you,' when I get out. Even my grand daughter Chloe kept looking for my 'friend' when I picked her up. I told her I was alone in the car, but she insisted there was someone sitting next to me in the passenger seat.
Also, when I've been driving home from work after a late shift, I've heard whispering from the back seat. (Kinda makes me think of Steven King's Christine.) but she hasn't tried to kill anyone yet, as far as I know.
She wasn't the usual type or colour of car I would normally go for, I prefer black to fire engine red, but as I'd just lost my mum Kathleen and the car I was looking at came from Kathleen road in Southampton and the lady selling it was called Joan, my mum's middle name, I took it to be a sign. I just felt drawn to it when I saw the picture, weird eh.
Maybe mum's coming along for the ride, I don't know. I've never seen anyone sitting next to me,(that's probably a good thing) although I do feel the urge to check the rear view mirror quite often, as it feels like someone's watching me from the back seat, I just wonder who my spectral passenger is?
Car's aside, weird things happen at work too. I, along with most other staff, have seen he shades of dead residents shuffling into their rooms, call bells ring in empty rooms, doors slam on the top floor and the lift goes up and down on its own, especially at night. Myself and a colleague even herd a resident call for a nurse, even though said resident had been dead for the past three days.
I am a firm believer in life after death, to me, ghosts are real, I've seen too much not to believe (either that or I', just crazy) I saw my first ghost when I was six at my nan's house, he was about the same age as me and was sitting in the kitchen. We used to chat, but I can't remember an actual conversation with him. I saw another one when I was eight or nine. My cousin came on holiday with us to pevensy bay and this little girl used to tap on the window and call us to come out and play, but my cousin said there was no one there and that I was making it up to scare her and she wanted to go home; her dad came and got her and I was told off. The ghost girl came back that afternoon and I followed her, but when I got outside she'd gone.
That about sums it up for this week. Maybe the childhood ghosts helped to cement my love of horror and the supernatural, I don't know, they certainly roused my curiosity and started a lie long passion.
Sunday 27 April 2014
HALF WAY THERE
Hello everyone;
I've finally got around the half way mark on my novel, about 45,000 words, woo hoo, as you can tell I'm quite pleased about that. I had two days off this week and so I've been scribbling like mad. Some of it has fallen into place quite well, while other scenes will require more work, but that's what editing is all about; get the basic story down in any form, even if it's crap, you can always improve it later, but you can't improve on nothing, so always write something, however bad.
Being bad leads me onto my next point. I treated myself to a cheap horror dvd last weekend; it sounded good but as usual, turned out to be a big disappointment. I've amassed quite a collection of crappy horror films over the years. They always promise to deliver the thrills and chills, but for me, always fail miserably
They are either buckets of blood and guts for the sake of it or they're so rooted in psychology, they're just too confusing. I like films that make you think . . . when you're lying in bed at night, in the dark, you dare not have that foot hanging over the edge of the bed, just in case something touches it. Or you're afraid to get up to go to the bathroom at a certain time, 'cos that's when bad things happen and if you do brave it; you best not look in that mirror, you get my drift. Horror just aint what it used to be; it's just not scary anymore.
You get the 'jump' factor but not the creepiness of when the light goes out; what's in the darkness waiting, watching. I know horror, like everything else has to evolve, but sometimes we need to go back to go forward. (I was raised on the hammer horror films) and still have a 'thing' for Christopher Lee.
But I don't want visual monsters rampaging through the towns ripping off arms and legs. I want the hint of the thing in the darkness; let my imagination do the rest, it's far more powerful than anything the films can show me.
I can scare myself stupid if I let my imagination loose. Something scratches at the back door just before bed, both my cats are inside; okay, so it's probably just a fox or wind blown leaves, but my imagination won't let me believe the obvious and my poor long suffering son has to go and check it out, you know . . . just in case. One of my cats has a habit of growling at a certain spot on the wall or the cupboard, why? What's in there? I have to keep a tight rein on my imagination or else I'd be too scared to move, but that's horror for me, every day stuff that just isn't quite right.
What's your idea of horror; I'd love to know. It can take so many forms, so many shapes, so until next time, I wish you all creepy dreams.
I've finally got around the half way mark on my novel, about 45,000 words, woo hoo, as you can tell I'm quite pleased about that. I had two days off this week and so I've been scribbling like mad. Some of it has fallen into place quite well, while other scenes will require more work, but that's what editing is all about; get the basic story down in any form, even if it's crap, you can always improve it later, but you can't improve on nothing, so always write something, however bad.
Being bad leads me onto my next point. I treated myself to a cheap horror dvd last weekend; it sounded good but as usual, turned out to be a big disappointment. I've amassed quite a collection of crappy horror films over the years. They always promise to deliver the thrills and chills, but for me, always fail miserably
They are either buckets of blood and guts for the sake of it or they're so rooted in psychology, they're just too confusing. I like films that make you think . . . when you're lying in bed at night, in the dark, you dare not have that foot hanging over the edge of the bed, just in case something touches it. Or you're afraid to get up to go to the bathroom at a certain time, 'cos that's when bad things happen and if you do brave it; you best not look in that mirror, you get my drift. Horror just aint what it used to be; it's just not scary anymore.
You get the 'jump' factor but not the creepiness of when the light goes out; what's in the darkness waiting, watching. I know horror, like everything else has to evolve, but sometimes we need to go back to go forward. (I was raised on the hammer horror films) and still have a 'thing' for Christopher Lee.
But I don't want visual monsters rampaging through the towns ripping off arms and legs. I want the hint of the thing in the darkness; let my imagination do the rest, it's far more powerful than anything the films can show me.
I can scare myself stupid if I let my imagination loose. Something scratches at the back door just before bed, both my cats are inside; okay, so it's probably just a fox or wind blown leaves, but my imagination won't let me believe the obvious and my poor long suffering son has to go and check it out, you know . . . just in case. One of my cats has a habit of growling at a certain spot on the wall or the cupboard, why? What's in there? I have to keep a tight rein on my imagination or else I'd be too scared to move, but that's horror for me, every day stuff that just isn't quite right.
What's your idea of horror; I'd love to know. It can take so many forms, so many shapes, so until next time, I wish you all creepy dreams.
Thursday 17 April 2014
The Thief Of Time
Hello; I'm really struggling at the moment to find time to write. My manager mixed up the rota, so instead of my usual 36 hours a week, I've been doing 42 and 48 and as I've said before, 12 hour shifts kill my creativity, leaving me too mentally and physically drained to write.
I've got a rare day off this week, so I'm trying to pack in as much writing as possible, although I have to pay for my day off tomorrow by doing another 12 hour.
I've completed a short story for Saga magazine, themed around the paranormal, they're willing to pay £250 for the winning story with various smaller prizes for the runners up; all I have to do now is type it up and press send. I'm also a quarter of the way through my road trip from hell story for Massacre Magazine, but as both stories have to be in by 30 April, I'm not sure I'm going to meet the deadline for both; the road trip isn't going to plan.
I'm still waiting to hear from Norah about my Fiction Feast story, although I'm being a little impatient as it takes about 12 weeks for a response and it was only sent 4 weeks ago, but one can hope. Also my flash fiction is still awaiting its fate from Massacre, which also closes on 30 April, (think there must be something special about that date, maybe it's because it's walpurgish night )
As for my poor novel, well, I haven't looked at it for at least two weeks; I just don't have the time. If they were real people, they would have upped and left me by now or died of neglect. Once I get this road trip story done, I should be able to devote more time to it, but time is the one commodity I'm always short of. 24 hours in a day just isn't enough. You take 12 hours out for work, that's halved it, 6 hours sleep if I'm lucky, that's three quarters gone, that leaves 6 hours to do everything else, shopping, appointments etc.
I have thought about a writing retreat, somewhere quiet and inspirational, where I'm just left alone to write, but they're so expensive; it would be cheaper to rent a caravan at the beach and shut myself away for the week . . . now there's an idea. Disappear for a few days, no phone, tv or other distractions, completely impractical but a lovely idea all the same. Anyway, I'd better get back to it, time is slipping by again rather too quickly.
I've got a rare day off this week, so I'm trying to pack in as much writing as possible, although I have to pay for my day off tomorrow by doing another 12 hour.
I've completed a short story for Saga magazine, themed around the paranormal, they're willing to pay £250 for the winning story with various smaller prizes for the runners up; all I have to do now is type it up and press send. I'm also a quarter of the way through my road trip from hell story for Massacre Magazine, but as both stories have to be in by 30 April, I'm not sure I'm going to meet the deadline for both; the road trip isn't going to plan.
I'm still waiting to hear from Norah about my Fiction Feast story, although I'm being a little impatient as it takes about 12 weeks for a response and it was only sent 4 weeks ago, but one can hope. Also my flash fiction is still awaiting its fate from Massacre, which also closes on 30 April, (think there must be something special about that date, maybe it's because it's walpurgish night )
As for my poor novel, well, I haven't looked at it for at least two weeks; I just don't have the time. If they were real people, they would have upped and left me by now or died of neglect. Once I get this road trip story done, I should be able to devote more time to it, but time is the one commodity I'm always short of. 24 hours in a day just isn't enough. You take 12 hours out for work, that's halved it, 6 hours sleep if I'm lucky, that's three quarters gone, that leaves 6 hours to do everything else, shopping, appointments etc.
I have thought about a writing retreat, somewhere quiet and inspirational, where I'm just left alone to write, but they're so expensive; it would be cheaper to rent a caravan at the beach and shut myself away for the week . . . now there's an idea. Disappear for a few days, no phone, tv or other distractions, completely impractical but a lovely idea all the same. Anyway, I'd better get back to it, time is slipping by again rather too quickly.
Thursday 3 April 2014
Old Friends, New Stories.
Hello everyone,
This week sees a chance of publication from Massacre magazine, who, via e-mail invited me to submit a short story for their summer contest around the theme of road kill. I jumped at the chance and began my story straight away, so yet again the poor novel is having to take a back seat. It's not often you get an invite, so when you do, you grab it with both hands.
I'm also scribbling away frantically with a second short story for another competition with Saga magazine, they are looking for a ghost story to be included in their anthology, so I've not got much time for anything else at the moment, I seem to have gone a little competition crazy.
Also this week, my best friend from school tracked me down via facebook. We lost contact over 20 years ago when she moved to Devon. It was nice to hear from her again, (I've been trying to trace her for years) We used to get up to a lot of mischief back in the day, you know the sort of thing . . .bored teenagers, abandoned buildings, police cells . . .I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
It also sparked a lot of memories, some I'd forgotten about completely and some I can use, although a few of the more incriminating ones I'd rather not commit to paper. But dredging my memory like this is helping me with my novel; as it's centred around teenagers and set mainly in a school, I got thinking back to when I was that age and reliving those memories and feelings both good and bad and the intensity of emotions that went with them. How everything gets blown out of all proportion in a young mind; how a tiny little glitch can suddenly become a super heated mega storm in seconds. Teenage years are hard, rampaging hormones, insecurity, zits, but if you don't fit in like my poor character, you're in for a rough ride and one really bad day at school can feel like an eternity of torture. A careless throw away remark can haunt you for the rest of your life, going round and round in your mind. It eats away at your self confidence, undermining your abilities. But these feelings and emotions, however unpleasant, can be used. Turn them to your advantage, nurture the pain, at least for the duration of the story. Relive the hurt, the fear and humiliation and remember, a lot of wonderful things can grow out of shit.
This week sees a chance of publication from Massacre magazine, who, via e-mail invited me to submit a short story for their summer contest around the theme of road kill. I jumped at the chance and began my story straight away, so yet again the poor novel is having to take a back seat. It's not often you get an invite, so when you do, you grab it with both hands.
I'm also scribbling away frantically with a second short story for another competition with Saga magazine, they are looking for a ghost story to be included in their anthology, so I've not got much time for anything else at the moment, I seem to have gone a little competition crazy.
Also this week, my best friend from school tracked me down via facebook. We lost contact over 20 years ago when she moved to Devon. It was nice to hear from her again, (I've been trying to trace her for years) We used to get up to a lot of mischief back in the day, you know the sort of thing . . .bored teenagers, abandoned buildings, police cells . . .I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
It also sparked a lot of memories, some I'd forgotten about completely and some I can use, although a few of the more incriminating ones I'd rather not commit to paper. But dredging my memory like this is helping me with my novel; as it's centred around teenagers and set mainly in a school, I got thinking back to when I was that age and reliving those memories and feelings both good and bad and the intensity of emotions that went with them. How everything gets blown out of all proportion in a young mind; how a tiny little glitch can suddenly become a super heated mega storm in seconds. Teenage years are hard, rampaging hormones, insecurity, zits, but if you don't fit in like my poor character, you're in for a rough ride and one really bad day at school can feel like an eternity of torture. A careless throw away remark can haunt you for the rest of your life, going round and round in your mind. It eats away at your self confidence, undermining your abilities. But these feelings and emotions, however unpleasant, can be used. Turn them to your advantage, nurture the pain, at least for the duration of the story. Relive the hurt, the fear and humiliation and remember, a lot of wonderful things can grow out of shit.
Monday 24 March 2014
The Weed Wacker
Hello fellow scribblers
Last week I weeded my creative garden, digging out and destroying as many creation killers as I could find. I made two lists (I love lists) weeds and flowers. The weed list went something like this and told of all the reasons why my dream couldn't come true. Lack of time. Lack of money. Useless. No talent. No motivation. Unrealistic goals. While my flower list had all positive points. My dream. Desire, hidden talent that just needs to be nurtured. Enjoyment. Fulfilment. Passion.
I then took the weed list and set fire to it, destroying and cleansing my imagination which had become choked. Just because I didn't get enough time to spend on my writing, I thought, what's the point? Well there is a point. It's my dream. To take a line from a captain sensible song . . .If you don't have a dream, how you gonna make a dream come true? No dream. No hope.
As long as we're alive, there is hope, without hope, there is nothing to look forward to, no goal to aim for. Time is precious and we have to make the most of what we've got. I'd love to be able to write all day, to allow my creative juices to run riot, but that's not going to happen, instead I have to make good use of the time I've got. If I've got an hour or more, I'll work on my novel, if I've only got 15 or 20 minutes, I'll outline a short story, (short stories and flash are easier to dip in and out of)
I've taken a long hard look at my life this last week. It's not perfect by any means, far from it. But by being given this passion, this crumb of talent, why would I want to throw it away. If you don't take control of your life, then fate will control it for you. I don't want to be at the mercy of fate. Yes, it's going to be hard, but nothing worth having ever came easy. You have to fight for what you want, what you believe in and I believe in myself, even if no-one else does, that doesn't matter, self belief can move mountains. As Lisa Simpson said, believe in yourself and you can achieve anything.
Last week on my soul searching exercise, I forbid myself to write for the week. It was hard, no it was impossible, I lasted two days before I snatched up a pen and began to write. So you see, writing is in me, it's a part of me, a part of who I am. So grab your dreams, whatever they are with both hands, dust off the cobwebs, pull out the weeds and go for it, fight for what you want and make it happen.
Last week I weeded my creative garden, digging out and destroying as many creation killers as I could find. I made two lists (I love lists) weeds and flowers. The weed list went something like this and told of all the reasons why my dream couldn't come true. Lack of time. Lack of money. Useless. No talent. No motivation. Unrealistic goals. While my flower list had all positive points. My dream. Desire, hidden talent that just needs to be nurtured. Enjoyment. Fulfilment. Passion.
I then took the weed list and set fire to it, destroying and cleansing my imagination which had become choked. Just because I didn't get enough time to spend on my writing, I thought, what's the point? Well there is a point. It's my dream. To take a line from a captain sensible song . . .If you don't have a dream, how you gonna make a dream come true? No dream. No hope.
As long as we're alive, there is hope, without hope, there is nothing to look forward to, no goal to aim for. Time is precious and we have to make the most of what we've got. I'd love to be able to write all day, to allow my creative juices to run riot, but that's not going to happen, instead I have to make good use of the time I've got. If I've got an hour or more, I'll work on my novel, if I've only got 15 or 20 minutes, I'll outline a short story, (short stories and flash are easier to dip in and out of)
I've taken a long hard look at my life this last week. It's not perfect by any means, far from it. But by being given this passion, this crumb of talent, why would I want to throw it away. If you don't take control of your life, then fate will control it for you. I don't want to be at the mercy of fate. Yes, it's going to be hard, but nothing worth having ever came easy. You have to fight for what you want, what you believe in and I believe in myself, even if no-one else does, that doesn't matter, self belief can move mountains. As Lisa Simpson said, believe in yourself and you can achieve anything.
Last week on my soul searching exercise, I forbid myself to write for the week. It was hard, no it was impossible, I lasted two days before I snatched up a pen and began to write. So you see, writing is in me, it's a part of me, a part of who I am. So grab your dreams, whatever they are with both hands, dust off the cobwebs, pull out the weeds and go for it, fight for what you want and make it happen.
Monday 17 March 2014
The Seed Of Doubt
This week sees the ramblings from a tormented mind.
Firstly my shifts last week were horrendous, two twelve hour and three six hours in that place kills my creativity and gives me no time to write, hence the missed blog of last week. Also, I loath my day job with a passion. I do not feel like a 'valued member of the team' simply a body to fill a vacancy. If I were to break down or die, I could easily be replaced.
I did manage to write a little last week, I penned a 250 word flash fiction for Massacre Magazine, which for a while I was quite happy with. I'm not usually happy with anything I write, when I re-read it, its like being back at school . . . could do better. I also wrote about eight pages of my novel, but with time being so short, by the time I've got back into it, I have to leave it as something else demands my attention and if that wasn't bad enough, someone planted the seed of doubt.
As well as writing horror, I collect horror related items and recently brought on ebay a creepy looking black Victorian dolls pram, it was a reproduction so only cost £20. The seed planter then proceeded to tell me I had wasted my money and could have used it for something more important instead, which strangely got me thinking about my writing. Instead of wasting money, was I wasting time?
I have always written because I enjoy it and like most people, with a view to publication, dreaming of the 'big one,' the book that will launch my career. But is that all it is? A wild dream. Am I wasting my time chasing shadows than can never be caught? Could I be doing something more productive instead?
I had the day off work yesterday and decided to catch up on my novel, but the seed was germinating and like a weed was suffocating my creativity. Words wouldn't come, sentences were truncated and paragraphs died on the page. Suddenly I thought, who am I kidding; I'm never going to be the next Anne Rice or Steven King. I'm 48, I have health issues, time is not on my side, so why am I sitting here tormenting myself with something I might not be any good at?
My dream has always been to live in a nice little house by the sea and make my living from writing. Maybe I'm deluded, dreaming the impossible dream. Maybe I should just keep my stories for myself and write just for pleasure, or maybe I should give up entirely, I'm not sure anymore.
Writing has always been a pleasure, something to look forward to, like visiting an old friend, but it feels like my paper friends are turning against me. They are disinterested and sullen like a sulky child and all because of the seed.
Maybe the seed was a wake up call, or simply a throw away comment, either way, it made me think. But maybe that was a good thing. To think is to have ideas and ideas are what a writer needs. Maybe next week I'll feel better. Should I do some serious gardening and get rid of the weeds? Or do I let them take over and turn my fertile garden into a wasteland?
Firstly my shifts last week were horrendous, two twelve hour and three six hours in that place kills my creativity and gives me no time to write, hence the missed blog of last week. Also, I loath my day job with a passion. I do not feel like a 'valued member of the team' simply a body to fill a vacancy. If I were to break down or die, I could easily be replaced.
I did manage to write a little last week, I penned a 250 word flash fiction for Massacre Magazine, which for a while I was quite happy with. I'm not usually happy with anything I write, when I re-read it, its like being back at school . . . could do better. I also wrote about eight pages of my novel, but with time being so short, by the time I've got back into it, I have to leave it as something else demands my attention and if that wasn't bad enough, someone planted the seed of doubt.
As well as writing horror, I collect horror related items and recently brought on ebay a creepy looking black Victorian dolls pram, it was a reproduction so only cost £20. The seed planter then proceeded to tell me I had wasted my money and could have used it for something more important instead, which strangely got me thinking about my writing. Instead of wasting money, was I wasting time?
I have always written because I enjoy it and like most people, with a view to publication, dreaming of the 'big one,' the book that will launch my career. But is that all it is? A wild dream. Am I wasting my time chasing shadows than can never be caught? Could I be doing something more productive instead?
I had the day off work yesterday and decided to catch up on my novel, but the seed was germinating and like a weed was suffocating my creativity. Words wouldn't come, sentences were truncated and paragraphs died on the page. Suddenly I thought, who am I kidding; I'm never going to be the next Anne Rice or Steven King. I'm 48, I have health issues, time is not on my side, so why am I sitting here tormenting myself with something I might not be any good at?
My dream has always been to live in a nice little house by the sea and make my living from writing. Maybe I'm deluded, dreaming the impossible dream. Maybe I should just keep my stories for myself and write just for pleasure, or maybe I should give up entirely, I'm not sure anymore.
Writing has always been a pleasure, something to look forward to, like visiting an old friend, but it feels like my paper friends are turning against me. They are disinterested and sullen like a sulky child and all because of the seed.
Maybe the seed was a wake up call, or simply a throw away comment, either way, it made me think. But maybe that was a good thing. To think is to have ideas and ideas are what a writer needs. Maybe next week I'll feel better. Should I do some serious gardening and get rid of the weeds? Or do I let them take over and turn my fertile garden into a wasteland?
Monday 3 March 2014
So Many Stories So Little Time
Hello writing world.
Its been a busy past week. Firstly the offending tooth has gone, ripped out on Tuesday and consigned to the tooth fairy trashcan. (I'm sure there's a story in there somewhere)
As expected my shifts have all changed this week, but as I said before, it could work in my favour as it has today. I was on an early this morning which freed up the afternoon and evening for writing. Arriving home about 3pm, I grabbed my laptop and began writing, not giving my mind chance to think of any mundane tasks to waste time over.
Also, quite unexpectedly, I got another short story idea from work this morning, via an ear wigged conversation over heard from the toilet. (strange where you get ideas from)
I'm now up to chapter 6 of my novel and strangely enough, its still going well. Sometimes I burn out and abandon them after chapter 3, but not this time. I did a detailed and complete synopsis, a time line and I make notes chapter by chapter, high lighting all the important points along the way, that way, if I need to go back to a certain point, I know exactly where it is and don't have to waste an entire week looking for it. Maybe this will be the one. Maybe it will make me rich or at least a little better off or maybe it will simply be dumped in the box marked 'HOMELESS' under my bed as so many of its predecessors have.
I've almost completed another short story for my collection, that's 6 so far. They're all printed out and sitting in a plastic wallet, except for this latest one as my computer and printer still aren't on speaking terms. I've even got the title for the short story collection; A SLICE OF DEATH A PINCH OF MADNESS. What do you think, catchy eh? I've got 20 stories selected for it, (6 down 14 to go) they've all got titles with notes attached, I just don't seem to be able to find the time to write them. I've still got last months writing magazine to read yet, I haven't even looked at it and the new one comes out this week.
I went down to Folkestone on Saturday for my granddaughters 11th birthday, the weather was cold, but lovely and sunny, so we headed to the beach. The tide was out so we went onto the marina sands where the fishing boats are kept and I got a few photos of some seaweed hung caves and, yes you've guessed it, another story idea, they seem to be coming thick and fast lately. Even the journey inspired another story entitled 'THE NIGHT TRAIN' but as this piece suggests, too many stories too little time.
I've been wandering around the web a bit more lately and urge any would be horror writers to check out the 'horror tree'. Its an on line guide to magazines accepting submissions, the payment is small and sometimes exposure only, but its better than nothing and we've all got to start somewhere. Maybe one of us will be lucky enough to be spotted via one of our stories.
Once again I wish you all the very best of luck with your submissions, until next week . . . .
Its been a busy past week. Firstly the offending tooth has gone, ripped out on Tuesday and consigned to the tooth fairy trashcan. (I'm sure there's a story in there somewhere)
As expected my shifts have all changed this week, but as I said before, it could work in my favour as it has today. I was on an early this morning which freed up the afternoon and evening for writing. Arriving home about 3pm, I grabbed my laptop and began writing, not giving my mind chance to think of any mundane tasks to waste time over.
Also, quite unexpectedly, I got another short story idea from work this morning, via an ear wigged conversation over heard from the toilet. (strange where you get ideas from)
I'm now up to chapter 6 of my novel and strangely enough, its still going well. Sometimes I burn out and abandon them after chapter 3, but not this time. I did a detailed and complete synopsis, a time line and I make notes chapter by chapter, high lighting all the important points along the way, that way, if I need to go back to a certain point, I know exactly where it is and don't have to waste an entire week looking for it. Maybe this will be the one. Maybe it will make me rich or at least a little better off or maybe it will simply be dumped in the box marked 'HOMELESS' under my bed as so many of its predecessors have.
I've almost completed another short story for my collection, that's 6 so far. They're all printed out and sitting in a plastic wallet, except for this latest one as my computer and printer still aren't on speaking terms. I've even got the title for the short story collection; A SLICE OF DEATH A PINCH OF MADNESS. What do you think, catchy eh? I've got 20 stories selected for it, (6 down 14 to go) they've all got titles with notes attached, I just don't seem to be able to find the time to write them. I've still got last months writing magazine to read yet, I haven't even looked at it and the new one comes out this week.
I went down to Folkestone on Saturday for my granddaughters 11th birthday, the weather was cold, but lovely and sunny, so we headed to the beach. The tide was out so we went onto the marina sands where the fishing boats are kept and I got a few photos of some seaweed hung caves and, yes you've guessed it, another story idea, they seem to be coming thick and fast lately. Even the journey inspired another story entitled 'THE NIGHT TRAIN' but as this piece suggests, too many stories too little time.
I've been wandering around the web a bit more lately and urge any would be horror writers to check out the 'horror tree'. Its an on line guide to magazines accepting submissions, the payment is small and sometimes exposure only, but its better than nothing and we've all got to start somewhere. Maybe one of us will be lucky enough to be spotted via one of our stories.
Once again I wish you all the very best of luck with your submissions, until next week . . . .
Sunday 23 February 2014
procrastination or a lack of time
Hello fellow writers
Another non productive week as far as the writing goes. Firstly I've still got toothache and the troublesome tooth. I visited the dentist on Wednesday, they gave me antibiotics for a week and told me to go to the hospital and get a dental xray as my dentist doesn't have an OPG machine. That done, the hospital then told me they couldn't print out the results as their CD machine was broken (I've got another dental appointment on Tuesday to have the offending tooth removed) but that's not going to happen now if the machine doesn't get fixed in time.
Also this week I've had another E learning course to do for work, which meant another morning lost, that's 3 so far. Work itself has been manic and my new boss has decided to change all our shifts around (I've been doing lates for the past 6 years) which had left the morning free for writing. Now I'm going to have to do earlies, lates and long days, so no writing will get done that day. On the plus side, if she gives me 3 long days, I'll get the rest of the week off, which should free up extra writing time.
Although I did do some writing at work this week. I keep a small note book in my pocket, keep the short story in my head and scribble bits down as I think of them.
I've also been visiting the toilet more frequently (antibiotics can be a curse) but note book in hand, it's been quite productive, although a colleague did knock on the door and ask me if I was okay, (I lost track of time)
Another good thing about toilets is that they give you thinking time. I got the idea for another two short stories, both due to my visit the other week to Tonbridge to see the floods. Tonbridge has two big lakes fairly close to each other, Haysden and Barden, so in the middle of the floods, the toilet and my love of horror, the Barden beast and the Haysden horror were born. After I've written them, I may print them out, place them in plastic wallets and pin them up in said parks. (I'm not sure if this is allowed) for the curious to read and hopefully enjoy, (knowing my luck I'll get done for littering) Hopefully though I'll just spread a few chills among the early morning dog walkers and the late night fishermen.
That said, though, I'm still having printer problems. I brought a notebook laptop after Christmas as my old one died, but I neglected to check if it had a disk drive . . . it didn't and as my printer works via a disk to install, I've now got to find it as a download, which is not as easy as it sounds. Three downloads have already failed, but then the printer is ancient, but I will keep trying, no-one can say I'm not persistent.
But back to the writing. I haven't heard from Massacre magazine yet, but I'm still hopeful. My short story is finished, but as yet unprintable, my novel is creeping along nicely, my lead character's personality is really starting to shine. I may post further snippets of it here as well as short stories and a bit of flash fiction, although I do find flash a struggle. I'm a very wordy person, so usually have to slash my work to the point of death rather than just trim off the excess.
I've also had to curb my obsession with notebooks and pens. I love them way too much. Two of my desk drawers are full of note books as well as a couple of under bed boxes and I have enough pens to last several life times, they're even spilling over into my car. They range, as do the notebooks, from the plain and boring to the fancy, glittery and brightly decorated.
Unfortunately, we've now got a new stationary shop in town called BLOT. Well, that shop speaks to me, urging me to come in and browse its wares, feel the smoothness of its pens and the durability of its notebooks and I am helpless to resist. But yesterday I fought temptation. I didn't go in, it was hard, very hard, but I did it, one small victory for now.
Anyway that's about it for this week, I hope I'll have something more literary to write about next week. I wish everyone in the writing world good luck and free flowing words.
Another non productive week as far as the writing goes. Firstly I've still got toothache and the troublesome tooth. I visited the dentist on Wednesday, they gave me antibiotics for a week and told me to go to the hospital and get a dental xray as my dentist doesn't have an OPG machine. That done, the hospital then told me they couldn't print out the results as their CD machine was broken (I've got another dental appointment on Tuesday to have the offending tooth removed) but that's not going to happen now if the machine doesn't get fixed in time.
Also this week I've had another E learning course to do for work, which meant another morning lost, that's 3 so far. Work itself has been manic and my new boss has decided to change all our shifts around (I've been doing lates for the past 6 years) which had left the morning free for writing. Now I'm going to have to do earlies, lates and long days, so no writing will get done that day. On the plus side, if she gives me 3 long days, I'll get the rest of the week off, which should free up extra writing time.
Although I did do some writing at work this week. I keep a small note book in my pocket, keep the short story in my head and scribble bits down as I think of them.
I've also been visiting the toilet more frequently (antibiotics can be a curse) but note book in hand, it's been quite productive, although a colleague did knock on the door and ask me if I was okay, (I lost track of time)
Another good thing about toilets is that they give you thinking time. I got the idea for another two short stories, both due to my visit the other week to Tonbridge to see the floods. Tonbridge has two big lakes fairly close to each other, Haysden and Barden, so in the middle of the floods, the toilet and my love of horror, the Barden beast and the Haysden horror were born. After I've written them, I may print them out, place them in plastic wallets and pin them up in said parks. (I'm not sure if this is allowed) for the curious to read and hopefully enjoy, (knowing my luck I'll get done for littering) Hopefully though I'll just spread a few chills among the early morning dog walkers and the late night fishermen.
That said, though, I'm still having printer problems. I brought a notebook laptop after Christmas as my old one died, but I neglected to check if it had a disk drive . . . it didn't and as my printer works via a disk to install, I've now got to find it as a download, which is not as easy as it sounds. Three downloads have already failed, but then the printer is ancient, but I will keep trying, no-one can say I'm not persistent.
But back to the writing. I haven't heard from Massacre magazine yet, but I'm still hopeful. My short story is finished, but as yet unprintable, my novel is creeping along nicely, my lead character's personality is really starting to shine. I may post further snippets of it here as well as short stories and a bit of flash fiction, although I do find flash a struggle. I'm a very wordy person, so usually have to slash my work to the point of death rather than just trim off the excess.
I've also had to curb my obsession with notebooks and pens. I love them way too much. Two of my desk drawers are full of note books as well as a couple of under bed boxes and I have enough pens to last several life times, they're even spilling over into my car. They range, as do the notebooks, from the plain and boring to the fancy, glittery and brightly decorated.
Unfortunately, we've now got a new stationary shop in town called BLOT. Well, that shop speaks to me, urging me to come in and browse its wares, feel the smoothness of its pens and the durability of its notebooks and I am helpless to resist. But yesterday I fought temptation. I didn't go in, it was hard, very hard, but I did it, one small victory for now.
Anyway that's about it for this week, I hope I'll have something more literary to write about next week. I wish everyone in the writing world good luck and free flowing words.
Sunday 16 February 2014
A Crappy Week
Hello everyone. What a non productive five days. Its been one of those weeks when anything that could go wrong, did.
Firstly I've got agonising toothache (serves me right I guess, as I broke a back tooth a while ago and never got it fixed) Finally I got an appointment for Wednesday, so I'm going to be in pain a while longer. On the plus side, if there is one to toothache, living on a bowl of porridge and copious amounts of coffee for the week, I've lost 4lb.
The second thing to go wrong was that I had an E learning course to do for work. What should have taken an hour to complete, did in fact take nearly three. My laptop was not happy with the site. So that was another day wasted where no writing got done.
I've also had cat trouble. My little girl Moo decided she was going to help with everything I tried to do. After getting up at 4.30am, I set out to get a lot of writing done, but Moo had other ideas. First she wanted feeding, so did her brother Cobweb, but while he went back to bed, she decided to sit on everything I tried to do. First she jumped on my keyboard and sent my work off to God knows where, but it took a long time to get it back. So I moved to the old fashioned pen and paper for my short story (do you know how hard it is to write with a cat chewing the end of your pen and rolling over your book) I also sustained several deep scratches because I tried to push her off, so I gave up.
In between that I've been nursing my tooth and feeling sorry for myself. But all was not lost. I did finish chapter four of the novel and one of the short stories as a first draft and even wrote a blurb for the back of the book. What do you think?
Nine years is a long time. 108 months, 468 weeks, 3285 days. nine years is a long time to be unhappy, even longer to be tormented. But at 14 that had already happened to Janet Peterson. After nine years and a frightening twist of fate, the critical mass had been reached and something was about to snap.
Not bad eh? Might need a bit of tweaking, but okay for a first attempt. Unfortunately the novel still doesn't have a title. I've gone through hundreds of ideas but not gelled with any of them.
As a change of scene, I went to Tonbridge last weekend, before the toothache got me and looked at the flooding. The castle grounds and playing fields were all under water. It was a very weird feeling, kind of eerie and surreal. Everything felt different. Picnic tables were up to their necks in water, swings were in the middle of lakes and benches were almost completely submerged. I got plenty of photos and with my imagination working overtime a few story ideas as well. (I got a story idea from the snow last year, but still haven't got round to finishing it) I start these things with gusto and then dwindle off before finishing them when I think of something more interesting or exciting. If a story doesn't grip or move me in some way, I abandon it. Maybe that's a bit harsh, but I figure if I don't like it, then why should anyone else.
Anyway that's about all for this week, I'll be back again next week, or sooner if something exciting happens.
Firstly I've got agonising toothache (serves me right I guess, as I broke a back tooth a while ago and never got it fixed) Finally I got an appointment for Wednesday, so I'm going to be in pain a while longer. On the plus side, if there is one to toothache, living on a bowl of porridge and copious amounts of coffee for the week, I've lost 4lb.
The second thing to go wrong was that I had an E learning course to do for work. What should have taken an hour to complete, did in fact take nearly three. My laptop was not happy with the site. So that was another day wasted where no writing got done.
I've also had cat trouble. My little girl Moo decided she was going to help with everything I tried to do. After getting up at 4.30am, I set out to get a lot of writing done, but Moo had other ideas. First she wanted feeding, so did her brother Cobweb, but while he went back to bed, she decided to sit on everything I tried to do. First she jumped on my keyboard and sent my work off to God knows where, but it took a long time to get it back. So I moved to the old fashioned pen and paper for my short story (do you know how hard it is to write with a cat chewing the end of your pen and rolling over your book) I also sustained several deep scratches because I tried to push her off, so I gave up.
In between that I've been nursing my tooth and feeling sorry for myself. But all was not lost. I did finish chapter four of the novel and one of the short stories as a first draft and even wrote a blurb for the back of the book. What do you think?
Nine years is a long time. 108 months, 468 weeks, 3285 days. nine years is a long time to be unhappy, even longer to be tormented. But at 14 that had already happened to Janet Peterson. After nine years and a frightening twist of fate, the critical mass had been reached and something was about to snap.
Not bad eh? Might need a bit of tweaking, but okay for a first attempt. Unfortunately the novel still doesn't have a title. I've gone through hundreds of ideas but not gelled with any of them.
As a change of scene, I went to Tonbridge last weekend, before the toothache got me and looked at the flooding. The castle grounds and playing fields were all under water. It was a very weird feeling, kind of eerie and surreal. Everything felt different. Picnic tables were up to their necks in water, swings were in the middle of lakes and benches were almost completely submerged. I got plenty of photos and with my imagination working overtime a few story ideas as well. (I got a story idea from the snow last year, but still haven't got round to finishing it) I start these things with gusto and then dwindle off before finishing them when I think of something more interesting or exciting. If a story doesn't grip or move me in some way, I abandon it. Maybe that's a bit harsh, but I figure if I don't like it, then why should anyone else.
Anyway that's about all for this week, I'll be back again next week, or sooner if something exciting happens.
Tuesday 11 February 2014
The End Of The Early years
As I grew up I continued to write stories, none of which I ever considered for publication, stories in books and magazines were written by clever people, people in the know. It wasn't until I was about 13 that the penny finally dropped.
I was reading a Jackie magazine at the time, some mushy boy meets girl story and remember thinking, I can do that and suddenly realisation hit me like a slap in the face. Within minutes, pen in hand, I began to write.
I don't remember what the story was called, but it was about a girl with asthma who fancied this sporty boy. He was against drinking, smoking or taking any kind of medication in case it ruined his sporting career. To cut a long story short, the girl stopped taking her inhaler in the hope of getting this boy and got sick.
Carefully I typed my story out on my new Olivetti typewriter, a real grown up machine made of metal instead of plastic and dropped it in the post. A few weeks later I got a reply. It was a standard rejection letter, but on the bottom someone had written, good, not right for us, submit again.
I was ecstatic, raced up to my room and abandoning any homework I might of had, got straight on with writing my next story.
15 story rejection later (I'd had a few letters published in various magazines) I began to think I was wasting my time. My heart wasn't in these boy meets girl falls in love stories, as these magazines seemed to want, my heart lay in horror. So I gave up my publishing dream and wrote stories just for myself.
Leaving school, I got various part time jobs in cafes and supermarkets, before finally getting a fulltime one in a children's nursery. I was still writing and on occasion submitting and still getting the standard rejection letters.
At 18 I had my son, two years later a daughter and two years after that another daughter arrived. I was still cramming in a bit of writing, but time was scarce.
I got my first lucky break when Fate magazine in America brought an article I'd written entitled Right Place Wrong Time for $50, I'd written it after a night feed about 3am. Then three months later sold the same piece along with another article about fairies to Prediction.
After that I wrote a few more articles on the supernatural and had varying degrees of success as well as readers true experiences which I sold to Chat and Fate and Fortune.
A few years later I wrote a book, which although got published, sank without trace. Reading it a few years ago, I can understand why. It was terrible. Obviously written by a complete amature who was yet to learn her craft.
Again I stopped submitting, but instead took a writing class to hone my skills and learn something of the mysterious publishing industry. In due course I finished my assignments and got my certificate as well as a few articles, letters and short stories published along the way
After the course was over, I continued to write, but somewhere along the line, despite my successes, I'd lost the nerve to submit, fearing anything I wrote would automatically be rejected. So I wrote for my own pleasure again and because I had to, my head was so full of stories, I just had to let them out.
Jumping forward to the present day, I'm still writing and probably always will. My children have grown up and have families of their own now. I have a full time job working in a nursing home, a rented flat, two psychotic black cats and a very strong desire to succeed.
Yes my determination and drive have returned, better late than never. I wrote a story late last year, just because it popped into my head, I'd been reading another magazine, just happened to pick it up in the local newsagents, just like what happened with the Jackie magazine years ago and decided to submit. The magazine was fiction feast and within three weeks the story had been accepted and payment was on its way.
I was rich. Well, I could put petrol I the car now. But that single acceptance fired up my creative juices again. I've learnt a lot since the early years. I've grown up and toughened up and desperately need to subsidise my income, (caring doesn't pay much)
So this year 2014 is going to be my year. I've started a blog, which you're reading now and hopefully enjoying. I'm writing another three short stories and I've started a book, horror of course, which is up to chapter 4 already. So here's to the future and all it has to offer.
I was reading a Jackie magazine at the time, some mushy boy meets girl story and remember thinking, I can do that and suddenly realisation hit me like a slap in the face. Within minutes, pen in hand, I began to write.
I don't remember what the story was called, but it was about a girl with asthma who fancied this sporty boy. He was against drinking, smoking or taking any kind of medication in case it ruined his sporting career. To cut a long story short, the girl stopped taking her inhaler in the hope of getting this boy and got sick.
Carefully I typed my story out on my new Olivetti typewriter, a real grown up machine made of metal instead of plastic and dropped it in the post. A few weeks later I got a reply. It was a standard rejection letter, but on the bottom someone had written, good, not right for us, submit again.
I was ecstatic, raced up to my room and abandoning any homework I might of had, got straight on with writing my next story.
15 story rejection later (I'd had a few letters published in various magazines) I began to think I was wasting my time. My heart wasn't in these boy meets girl falls in love stories, as these magazines seemed to want, my heart lay in horror. So I gave up my publishing dream and wrote stories just for myself.
Leaving school, I got various part time jobs in cafes and supermarkets, before finally getting a fulltime one in a children's nursery. I was still writing and on occasion submitting and still getting the standard rejection letters.
At 18 I had my son, two years later a daughter and two years after that another daughter arrived. I was still cramming in a bit of writing, but time was scarce.
I got my first lucky break when Fate magazine in America brought an article I'd written entitled Right Place Wrong Time for $50, I'd written it after a night feed about 3am. Then three months later sold the same piece along with another article about fairies to Prediction.
After that I wrote a few more articles on the supernatural and had varying degrees of success as well as readers true experiences which I sold to Chat and Fate and Fortune.
A few years later I wrote a book, which although got published, sank without trace. Reading it a few years ago, I can understand why. It was terrible. Obviously written by a complete amature who was yet to learn her craft.
Again I stopped submitting, but instead took a writing class to hone my skills and learn something of the mysterious publishing industry. In due course I finished my assignments and got my certificate as well as a few articles, letters and short stories published along the way
After the course was over, I continued to write, but somewhere along the line, despite my successes, I'd lost the nerve to submit, fearing anything I wrote would automatically be rejected. So I wrote for my own pleasure again and because I had to, my head was so full of stories, I just had to let them out.
Jumping forward to the present day, I'm still writing and probably always will. My children have grown up and have families of their own now. I have a full time job working in a nursing home, a rented flat, two psychotic black cats and a very strong desire to succeed.
Yes my determination and drive have returned, better late than never. I wrote a story late last year, just because it popped into my head, I'd been reading another magazine, just happened to pick it up in the local newsagents, just like what happened with the Jackie magazine years ago and decided to submit. The magazine was fiction feast and within three weeks the story had been accepted and payment was on its way.
I was rich. Well, I could put petrol I the car now. But that single acceptance fired up my creative juices again. I've learnt a lot since the early years. I've grown up and toughened up and desperately need to subsidise my income, (caring doesn't pay much)
So this year 2014 is going to be my year. I've started a blog, which you're reading now and hopefully enjoying. I'm writing another three short stories and I've started a book, horror of course, which is up to chapter 4 already. So here's to the future and all it has to offer.
Sunday 9 February 2014
The early years part 3
Jumping ahead three years to when I was eleven, my dad died.(He'd been in and out of hospital for most of my life before finally succumbing to the smoking disease emphysema, or what's now known as C.O.P.D) and my love for horror took off.
I'd never seen a dead body before, so when my mum took me to the undertakers to say goodbye, I was both shocked and intrigued. Shocked because he looked so pale and hard (I poked him) because my mum said if I didn't touch him, I'd have nightmares, and intrigued because, although he looked like my dad, he kind of didn't. His hair was combed the wrong way, he'd always had a side parting and the lines around his mouth and brow had gone. He looked a lot younger and he was wearing a suit. Something he never did unless he was going to a wedding or a funeral, which in hindsight, I guess he was.
Anyway the day of the funeral arrived, the hymns were sung, abide with me(I still hate that song) the coffin sat on the catafalque and slowly began to descend. I remember asking my mum where it was going, dismissively she said 'downstairs.'
It wasn't until we'd left the chapel and I'd seen smoke coming from an enormous chimney, that my elder cousin had told me, rather bluntly, the truth.
'That's your dad, they're burning him.'
Well I was horrified, not being familiar with cremation, my imagination went into overdrive. In my minds eye I could see all these dead people lined up and waiting to climb into a giant oven and get swallowed up by the waiting flames. I never told anyone what my cousin had said, but I did have a few nightmares.
That aside, my next big milestone was how to survive secondary school. It did have its good points. I was introduced to proper subjects like English language and literature, which I was pretty good at in my first year, but it also had its bad points. If you were good at something, you attracted criticism and bullying. Yes, the bullies were back and not only in my own class, but in other years as well. I was called a swat, a suck up and teacher's pet to name but a few and it was always due to my writing. Expressing my love for the written word was not a good way of making friends.
I did have friends, social outcasts had to stick together. My friends enjoyed my little stories, or so they said. Mainly, I think, because they involved destroying, humiliating or maiming our tormentors in some way. Part 4 tomorrow.
I'd never seen a dead body before, so when my mum took me to the undertakers to say goodbye, I was both shocked and intrigued. Shocked because he looked so pale and hard (I poked him) because my mum said if I didn't touch him, I'd have nightmares, and intrigued because, although he looked like my dad, he kind of didn't. His hair was combed the wrong way, he'd always had a side parting and the lines around his mouth and brow had gone. He looked a lot younger and he was wearing a suit. Something he never did unless he was going to a wedding or a funeral, which in hindsight, I guess he was.
Anyway the day of the funeral arrived, the hymns were sung, abide with me(I still hate that song) the coffin sat on the catafalque and slowly began to descend. I remember asking my mum where it was going, dismissively she said 'downstairs.'
It wasn't until we'd left the chapel and I'd seen smoke coming from an enormous chimney, that my elder cousin had told me, rather bluntly, the truth.
'That's your dad, they're burning him.'
Well I was horrified, not being familiar with cremation, my imagination went into overdrive. In my minds eye I could see all these dead people lined up and waiting to climb into a giant oven and get swallowed up by the waiting flames. I never told anyone what my cousin had said, but I did have a few nightmares.
That aside, my next big milestone was how to survive secondary school. It did have its good points. I was introduced to proper subjects like English language and literature, which I was pretty good at in my first year, but it also had its bad points. If you were good at something, you attracted criticism and bullying. Yes, the bullies were back and not only in my own class, but in other years as well. I was called a swat, a suck up and teacher's pet to name but a few and it was always due to my writing. Expressing my love for the written word was not a good way of making friends.
I did have friends, social outcasts had to stick together. My friends enjoyed my little stories, or so they said. Mainly, I think, because they involved destroying, humiliating or maiming our tormentors in some way. Part 4 tomorrow.
Saturday 8 February 2014
The early years part 2
Moving on a few years to when I was 8, this would have been about 1973, I got my first typewriter for my birthday, after months of pestering and begging finally paid off. It was a Petite and came in a little carrying case.
My love for stories was obvious by then as I had amassed quite a lot of note books (none of which have survived) and left a trail of empty pens and broken pencils wherever I went. I even remember scribbling part of a story on my bedroom wall, much to my parent's annoyance.
Anyway, back to the typewriter. It was beautiful and magical and what used to take me 20 minutes to write with a pen now took me two hours to tap out laboriously with one finger.
I was cream and beige and very noisy. I used to have an uncanny knack of taping whenever my parents wanted to watch something on tv, so very quickly I was banished to my room and tapped away happily with my Pinky and Perky wallpaper watching over me.
Stories filled my head and I was often told off at school for not paying attention, although I did win a prize, I think it was a stationary set, for one of my stories in an English competition.
It was about a girl who was bullied, as I was myself, for being different. I wasn't sporty and would only run if someone was chasing me, which happened quite a lot. Nor was I academically gifted. I wasn't pretty, so didn't fit in with those who were and I wasn't clever enough to be nerdy, I didn't belong to the chess club, so I was a bit of a loner.
Anyway, in my story, this girl was different; she had magic powers. The story was probably influenced by the tv series Bewitched, but anyone who upset her got turned into an insect and got stepped on. Part three tomorrow.
My love for stories was obvious by then as I had amassed quite a lot of note books (none of which have survived) and left a trail of empty pens and broken pencils wherever I went. I even remember scribbling part of a story on my bedroom wall, much to my parent's annoyance.
Anyway, back to the typewriter. It was beautiful and magical and what used to take me 20 minutes to write with a pen now took me two hours to tap out laboriously with one finger.
I was cream and beige and very noisy. I used to have an uncanny knack of taping whenever my parents wanted to watch something on tv, so very quickly I was banished to my room and tapped away happily with my Pinky and Perky wallpaper watching over me.
Stories filled my head and I was often told off at school for not paying attention, although I did win a prize, I think it was a stationary set, for one of my stories in an English competition.
It was about a girl who was bullied, as I was myself, for being different. I wasn't sporty and would only run if someone was chasing me, which happened quite a lot. Nor was I academically gifted. I wasn't pretty, so didn't fit in with those who were and I wasn't clever enough to be nerdy, I didn't belong to the chess club, so I was a bit of a loner.
Anyway, in my story, this girl was different; she had magic powers. The story was probably influenced by the tv series Bewitched, but anyone who upset her got turned into an insect and got stepped on. Part three tomorrow.
Friday 7 February 2014
The early years
Hello, my names Jacki and I love to write. When I was four I wrote on the toilet roll in felt pen, so my mum got me a note book and some pens and my creative door was opened.
The handful of words I could write were sprinkled with shapes, squiggles and had the odd number thrown in for good measure, but I knew what every dot and symbol meant.
My first story was about a family of squirrels, one of them was magic, pink and had wings. I was very much into fairies at the time as most little girls of that age are, my grand daughter included.
If you were lucky enough to see this particular squirrel (only good girls could see it) you could make a wish on it, kind of like wishing on a star I guess. The story never got finished as far as I know, nor was it legible to anyone else, but to me it was a masterpiece.
The handful of words I could write were sprinkled with shapes, squiggles and had the odd number thrown in for good measure, but I knew what every dot and symbol meant.
My first story was about a family of squirrels, one of them was magic, pink and had wings. I was very much into fairies at the time as most little girls of that age are, my grand daughter included.
If you were lucky enough to see this particular squirrel (only good girls could see it) you could make a wish on it, kind of like wishing on a star I guess. The story never got finished as far as I know, nor was it legible to anyone else, but to me it was a masterpiece.
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