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.
Sunday 23 February 2014
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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