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.
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
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.
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