#FridayFlash Night and Day

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tock, tick...

Sylvia wakes with a start from a sleep she hadn't meant to take. Her knees are stiff and her back is sore.  The Roman numerals on the clock are at four thirty already. The sun has already reached the bottom of the hill, painting her sitting room wall red and orange. Funny how she used to hate that clock: the over-large gold leaves and the distorted cherubs seemed to sum up everything she disliked about her mother-in-law, Alison. How many afternoons had she and Paul sat in this very room, keeping Alison company, to that relentless tick, tock? Alison, whose days had ceased to please her, so she must destroy theirs, forcing them to stay and listen to her endless complaints -sciatica, rheumatism, loneliness. It was always such a relief  when Paul's sister took over, and they were released to the night air, the moon, the stars, the dancing.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tock, tick...

She's old, she needs me, Paul would say, as he whirled her across the dance floor like Fred Astaire. Though Sylvia knew it was true, she didn't want him thinking that way too long. She'd pull him with her into the music, and soon, he was singing a different tune, Night and day, you are the one...She smiles at the memory. Time was, when her feet could glide to that tune and she could dance through to pink dawns and still feel fresh and ready for more. Such days they were, when her hair was black, and she could follow her desires so easily: when an hour with Paul seemed to last a thousand years. Now Alison is dead, Paul too, the children left home, and those days may as well have been a thousand years ago.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock...

The rim of the sun is hanging on the horizon, sending shafts of red across the sky, making  the moon blush. That clock has ticked its way through so many of her suns and moons in this house that  she's come to love it for its ugliness. She even loved Alison a little in the end, as the years softened that sharp tongue and  the arrival of grandchildren brought some comfort. Now Sylvia's own days are an uphill struggle, and walks are something to dread, she can understand the old woman somewhat better too. Still, it was more pleasant living here in the later years, once the kids were grown, when it was just her and Paul, and Sinatra sang as they danced...Only you beneath the moon or sun. Those were the days when her hair was still dark, and he still thought her beautiful. Vanity of vanities - he wouldn't think her lovely now.

Tick, tock, tick,tock, tick, tock...

Outside the shadows are falling. Night rushes across the garden, masking the signs of Spring - the almond tree beginning to blossom, the sparrows laying nests. She ought to get up and make herself a cup of tea, maybe ring Gill, who worries too much. Only last year she would have leapt up the minute she awoke, but, her legs still feel shaky after her sleep, and she needs to catch her breath. There's no hurry after all. She might as well sit here for a while longer. She closes her eyes. Her breath shallows. And a voice sings to her across the years...Its no matter darling where you are, I think of you... She smiles, stretching out a hand for one last dance.


c Virginia Moffatt  2010

Cradle Song

This poem was written for an assignment last year, inspired by a true family story. My twin sister has just found the birth certificates of the two babies, Winifred and Wilfred Clark, so it seemed a good day to post it.

Cradle Song.

They wrapped you in white blankets,
swaddling you tight to keep you warm.
It was not enough to ward off death,
who came and wrapped her chill, thin fingers
around you both. Your mother’s face
crumpled, as pale as the tiny tissue-white
bodies, she cradled, unbelieving.
There was no coffin small enough to carry
such tiny bodies. Your father found a drawer,
empty now of baby-linen, just large enough
to lay you in. It was too early for the two
of you to be at rest. Still, the warm earth
welcomed you, wrapping you in her tender
arms, as the wind sang to you in your sleep.


c Virginia Moffatt 2009

Rave Review - "The Writer's Tale" by Russell T. Davies

It's not often that I read a book I love so much I can't put down. And I've never ever put one down and started blogging about it straightaway. But "The Writer's Tale" by Russell T Davies (former front runner for Dr Who) is just so brilliant that I have to tell you about it. I've been dithering about getting hold of a copy for ages now. I knew I'd enjoy it but the £30 price tag has been a tad off putting (For goodness sake BBC, some of us struggle to fork out half that for a book). So yesterday, when I saw it in the library, I grabbed it with both hands. And have been pretty much reading it ever since.

I've blogged about the great RTD here, which gives you an insight into why I love his work so much. What makes "The Writer's Tale" so special for me is that it is a treat for me both as a fan and as a writer. The book is basically a series of emails between Davies and the TV journalist Benjamin Cook. It begins by Cook asking whether Davies would be prepared to talk about how he writes an episode and quickly becomes the story of how The 2007 Christmas Special, and 2008 Series 4 are written. Seeing the ideas first form and change is absolutely fascinating. For several months Davies and Cook correspond about the new companion, Penny Carter, and then suddenly there is an option of Catherine Tate returning as Donna. Out goes Penny and Davies has to quickly think how/why Donna comes back, though using some of the same material. Only he and Cook ever know Penny existed and both are a little sad at the "demise" of this unwritten character. Yet when Series 4 is complete, Cook pays the ultimate compliment that Donna was way better than Penny would have ever been. (Interestingly enough the name stays as a journalist who gets caught up peripherally in the events of Episode 1).

Similarly we see Davies struggle with narrative points in the Series Finale. Why will Donna have to leave the TARDIS? (He comes up with a brilliant solution).How does he get all the companions from various places to be with the Doctor at the end? how does he get Rose to go off with Doctor 2 without it undermining her first departure? This last one is particularly interesting as most viewers felt that it didn't quite work. Davies is honest enough to realise he'd written himself into a corner when he'd come up with the idea of 2 Doctors and then made it central to the finale's resolution. He writes and rewrites the scene, and though the final version is better than the first - it's still a bit of a miss. But you have to admire him for trying.

The other thing that is interesting is how difficult he finds it to write. You'd think a writer of his stature and experience would find it easy. Yet  it seems like he flies by the seat of his pants every time, procrastinating all day and writing into the middle of the night, right up to the morning of production. That's either depressing or encouraging to writers like me. I'm an optimist so I'll take encouraging every time. And he's honest and sometimes quite impossible, and arrogant, yet also deeply humble. In a very long email he completely dissects his own behaviour at the BBC launch of the Titanic episode and is disgusted with the false notes he plays. I find that very heartening and human.

Finally, I love this book because it ISN'T prescriptive. Davies cut his teeth in script writing years ago. He doesn't need to be taught, because he's worked out for himself there are natural pauses that make a 3 Act structure. I like the fact he kicks against us needing to read Robert McKie to write. I do love the Robert McKie book too and found it useful, but it's refreshing to hear a successful writer say they're not bound by it. The book ends with a quote about gaining your writing voice that sums it up perfectly:

"Gaining a voice, whatever that is, comes with experience and practice - and the writing, again, is indivisible from the person. Your voice tends to be something that others  talk about, about you. It's not something that you think about much yourself, and certainly not whilst writing. I never - never - sit here thinking, what's my voice? You might as well ponder, who am I? It is, in fact, exactly the same thing. You can wonder your whole life and you'll never get an answer to that."

This is a great read - I hope your local library has a copy.

Plug of the Month - Catherine Chanter in the Asham Award

For those that don't  know the Asham Award, it's a biannual short story competition for women. The closing date for next year's award is this Thursday, so I thought it an apt moment to plug last year's collection - "Waving At The Gardener" . I enjoyed the previous collection "Is This What You Want?" enough to submit a piece two years ago. Sadly I wasn't even longlisted, but my friend Catherine Chanter made it to the final 12 and deservedly so..

I first read her excellent story "A Summary of Findings" when she submitted it for critique before handing it as an assignment. The brief was to write a piece from at least two different points of view. Whilst most of us went for the standard two person piece, Catherine in typical bold fashion, wrote a story with a monstrous but hugely sympathetic central character, whose mistakes were coldly analysed by commentaries from various professionals writing reports to cover their backs after a terrible event has occurred. Catherine makes us completely understand Callie's difficulties and pain, yet also, how her failings as a mother contribute to the tragedy that unfolds. There is a wonderful word play (particularly on the multitude of uses for the word "unit") and a sense of impending danger that builds up to the dramatic conclusion.

Highly recommended.

And STOP PRESS I have just seen that Catherine has won the 2010 Yeovil Prize for Poetry with her poem The Foster Boy's Bedroom. If this was the one she shared in class, I'm not surprised. Well done Catherine!

#FridayFlash Awards (Finally)

So here I am on Saturday, reading some #FridayFlash  stories and remembering just what I love about this online writing community. I'm hoping, after a two month absence, that I'll find some inspiration to join in next week, but right now, it is about time I gave out some long promised #FridayFlash awards. The very wonderful Mazzz in Leeds nominated me some time ago and the deal is that one is supposed to nominate other writers too. It's been a long summer, so I've never quite managed it. So here goes, with probably my first round, 4 that I love (in no particular order):

Laura Eno who writes over at A Shift in Dimensions  is one of the earliest (maybe even founding?) members of #FridayFlash. She's always welcoming to newcomers and she's also a very fine comic writer. Her ongoing serial about the adventures of a peanut eating Death and his best buddy the rather hapless Chronos (Father Time) are hilarious, and this week's entry, though not in that series, is just laugh out loud funny. Enjoy.

Simon at Skycycler is very different. He writes poetic, moving stories of moments between people that are poignant or funny, sometimes both. He hasn't been writing much of late, so I hope that's just a blip. And I look forward to more in the future. But treat yourself to his back catalogue - you won't be disappointed.

Mazzz in Leeds is another regular #FridayFlash writer, and one I loved even before she nominated me!  She's well known for the high death rates in her stories, but they are done with such aplomb and infinite variety that each new story is a complete revelation. I love her sense of the gothic and dark humour and the moments of pathos that come when the laughing stops. Read her write now!

Finally, I came to #FridayFlash because my husband spotted David Masters tweeting about it. David writes over at Truant Pen with an enviable delicacy and incredible range. He writes with compassion and understanding and seems to be able to move from satire to compassion, humour to tenderness with incredible ease. Definitely one to watch.

There are many, many more, so I'll have to do this again, but that's it for now, my first round of #FridayFlash awards!

Obituary for Pip O'Neill

My obituary for my friend Pip O'Neill is now up at the Guardian in their Other Lives section. I hope it captures a little of her wonderful wise spirit. You can read it here.

Philippa (Pip) O'Neill - In Memoriam

This is not a personal blog, I use it for writing and thinking about writing. You may have noticed that I have been a bit quiet of late. This is because one of my best friends, Philippa (Pip) O'Neill died of cancer last week. I have been trying to think of the best way to pay tribute here. I have written an obituary and sent it to the Guardian, but I wanted to remember the fact that she was such a whole-hearted supporter of my writing. I wanted to remember that even though she had nothing published, she was a terrific writer, sending me a wonderful short story recently. I wanted to remember her love of literature.

This morning, I remembered this poem. It is one of my favourites - written by Tennyson after his close friend Arthur Hallam died. It seemed right, for Pip, who drank life to the lees and remained strong in will to the very end.

Ulysses
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.



There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.



Philippa (Pip) O'Neill 15/9/61-18/8/10