My first post was actually on the 10th July 2009, but let's not quibble, shall we? I'd like to take a moment to wish my blog a very happy 2nd birthday.
I started this blog just as I finished my creative writing course. My aim was to develop my own fiction, share my thoughts about writing and connect with the writing community. After two years of being constrained by the academic treadmill, I felt it was time to break free and do my own thing.
I started with a prose poem Midwinter, and the first of many plugs of the month being for my lovely sister Julia Williams, who is, coincidentally this month's plug. Although I don't manage to do it every month, I've been delighted to use this blog to advertise her work, the poems of my sister Joanna Clark and friend, Karen Annesen, and the fiction of my writing buddies, Catherine Chanter and Rachel Crowther.
I had high hopes of writing articles here, and intended to keep regular series going: Art and Craft, has featured Graham Greene and William Goulding; Sublime Screenplay: The Sopranos, ER, Finding Nemo; Rave Reviews: Gilead and Oranges are Not the Only Fruit. I've got a whole bunch more I'd like to write, and add one on Children's Classics, but alas, there never seems to be time.
The main purpose of this blog has been to experiment in my fiction. It took me a while to work out how best to do this until my husband pointed out #fridayflash to me. #fridayflash is a community of writers who post flash fiction on their blog each Friday and advertise it via twitter. Although I don't manage to write or read #fridayflash every week, in the last 18 months, it has become an indispensable part of my writing life. I love the discipline of capturing a story in 1,000 words or less, enjoy reading other people's stories and the warmth of connecting with other great writers. I haven't counted how many #friday flashes I've written, but here's a random selection that I quite like. Alive,alive o is the voice of the anti-hero of my next novel (if I ever finish the current one), A Day In the Life an experiment in twitter that doesn't quite come off, but was fun to do. I like Tommy Rot even though it's very sad, and Submission which is based inspired by a holiday I took in Morocco. Golden Girl reflects my passion for running, whilst Protecting the Legacy seemed the only possible reaction to last year's election. Moving Out is, I hope, a playful response to a particular curse of modern motherhood, whilst Bad Weather Warning and On the Mudflats deal with some bleak political realities. I ended 2010 reflecting on relationships, loving in Night and Day, hard-hearted in Waiting for the Thaw, and comic in White Christmas. I've not written so much this year, but topical events have been a rich source of inspiration for Nobody's Fault, Blast from the Past, A Saturday in March, Breakfast News, Rapture, and The Sheriff Rides into Town. Though my anti-romantic side has also been to the fore with After He'd Gone, Bad Timing, and Red Shoes.
All in all, I feel it's been a productive two years - 98 posts, 30 followers, plus 300 on twitter who come and see me from time to time. I'll never have the time to write as much or as often as I like, but I'm quite pleased with what I've achieved. So thanks to all my followers, visitors and commentators for turning up, reading and letting me know what you think. Hope to see more of you in the year ahead!
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Friday, 15 July 2011
Plug of the Month - The Summer Season by Julia Williams
My lovely sister Julia Williams, has done it again! Her fifth book in 4 years is flying off the shelves. She doesn't really need my endorsement, but she's getting it anyway. And on our birthday too.
The Summer Season is as bright as sunshine, as sweet as a glass of Pimms. A perfect read for the beach or bank holiday. Through the power of gardening and the coming together of a community, Lauren, Joel, Kezzie learn to terms with what they've lost and find out what they need.
Happy Birthday dear Julia, may your rise up the bestseller charts be swift!
Saturday, 9 July 2011
#fridayflash The Sheriff Rides Into Town
I've always lived by the rule book my Father left me. It worked for him, and it's worked for me. In particular:
#Rule No 1. If you are careful, you won't get caught. But you have to be very careful.
Oh, I've been careful, so very, very careful. For all these years, I have been above suspicion. My email is encrypted. I change my mobile regularly. I use so many intermediaries I'm untraceable. If a crusading hero were to ride into town on the whiff of a rumour, they'd find nothing but straws whistling down the wind. And if they were able to weave a tale from the fragments they found, well then:
#Rule No 2.Your friends are your best defence.
I have friends, such powerful friends. There's hardly a politician, newspaper mogul, movie star who I haven't helped in some way. They've all enjoyed the hospitality of my house parties, and appreciated the parting video as a memento of their stay. If our sheriff were to enter the saloon bar with impertinent questions, they'd rise as one to protect me, I'm quite sure about that. As for the tiny few who reject my generosity, ridicule is such an effective weapon, their protest rarely amounts to much. Should some foolhardy idiot dare stick their neck out to defy the mocking bullets, there's always:
#Rule No 3. Deny everything.
Our gunslinger might think he has all the shots, but when he faces me down at the poker table, there's no way he can win. Whatever cards he holds, I'll always call his bluff. My tongue will gild my lily-words, allaying the doubts of even the most sceptic audience. I will tell the tallest of tales, wrapped in the tiniest veneer of plausibility and the world will believe me, as it always done. Failing that:
#Rule No 4. Create a fall guy.
I'm fire-proof. I'm sure of it. Were our dogged loner actually able to penetrate the maze of connections I have created, he'd reach an impasse just before my door. I own my workforce. All of them. They know they have no choice but to hang for me, and, if it comes to it, they surely will. It is hard to imagine they'd have the wit to sell their souls to anyone else, but if they do, I'll have a way out. That will be the day when it's time for:
#Rule no 5. Burn the village.
If all else fails, I have other resources to fall back on. There are still places I can go where none can reach me, and I can begin again. If it comes to it I will burn my village to save it. It will be satisfying to watch my pursuer from a distance, as he warms in the flames of his great victory. A victory that will be bright, beautiful and pyrrhic.
This morning I woke to the sight of waggons circling, of vultures hovering overhead. My nemesis is swaggering down Main Street for our final showdown. I am ready for him. My bags are packed, the possessions I care about least are piled high. All I have to do is light the spark and they will burn.
My Father's rules have protected me all these years. They protect me still. For we have saved the best for last:
#Rule No 6. Cut your losses and be gone.
Dedicated to Alan Rusbridger, Guardian Editor.
#Rule No 1. If you are careful, you won't get caught. But you have to be very careful.
Oh, I've been careful, so very, very careful. For all these years, I have been above suspicion. My email is encrypted. I change my mobile regularly. I use so many intermediaries I'm untraceable. If a crusading hero were to ride into town on the whiff of a rumour, they'd find nothing but straws whistling down the wind. And if they were able to weave a tale from the fragments they found, well then:
#Rule No 2.Your friends are your best defence.
I have friends, such powerful friends. There's hardly a politician, newspaper mogul, movie star who I haven't helped in some way. They've all enjoyed the hospitality of my house parties, and appreciated the parting video as a memento of their stay. If our sheriff were to enter the saloon bar with impertinent questions, they'd rise as one to protect me, I'm quite sure about that. As for the tiny few who reject my generosity, ridicule is such an effective weapon, their protest rarely amounts to much. Should some foolhardy idiot dare stick their neck out to defy the mocking bullets, there's always:
#Rule No 3. Deny everything.
Our gunslinger might think he has all the shots, but when he faces me down at the poker table, there's no way he can win. Whatever cards he holds, I'll always call his bluff. My tongue will gild my lily-words, allaying the doubts of even the most sceptic audience. I will tell the tallest of tales, wrapped in the tiniest veneer of plausibility and the world will believe me, as it always done. Failing that:
#Rule No 4. Create a fall guy.
I'm fire-proof. I'm sure of it. Were our dogged loner actually able to penetrate the maze of connections I have created, he'd reach an impasse just before my door. I own my workforce. All of them. They know they have no choice but to hang for me, and, if it comes to it, they surely will. It is hard to imagine they'd have the wit to sell their souls to anyone else, but if they do, I'll have a way out. That will be the day when it's time for:
#Rule no 5. Burn the village.
If all else fails, I have other resources to fall back on. There are still places I can go where none can reach me, and I can begin again. If it comes to it I will burn my village to save it. It will be satisfying to watch my pursuer from a distance, as he warms in the flames of his great victory. A victory that will be bright, beautiful and pyrrhic.
This morning I woke to the sight of waggons circling, of vultures hovering overhead. My nemesis is swaggering down Main Street for our final showdown. I am ready for him. My bags are packed, the possessions I care about least are piled high. All I have to do is light the spark and they will burn.
My Father's rules have protected me all these years. They protect me still. For we have saved the best for last:
#Rule No 6. Cut your losses and be gone.
Dedicated to Alan Rusbridger, Guardian Editor.
Saturday, 21 May 2011
#fridayflash - Rapture
Sylvie wakes with a shiver. She can hardly feel her feet. Her back aches. She has slept with bent knees and now her right leg has cramps. She shakes it back to life, warming her toes as she does so. She doesn't mind the cold, not with Jim sleeping beside her and the knowledge of what today means. She turns towards the blissful sight of of his lovely face in the green tentlight. She could gaze at his face for hours, but the sun will be rising soon, and they can't be late. She strokes his smooth skin and is rewarded with his eyes fluttering open and his lips reaching to kiss hers.
"It's time," she says.
"At last." His grin is ecstatic.
They jump out of their sleeping bags, pulling their clothes on, eager to get moving.
"No time for breakfast," says Sylvie.
"We're not going to need any, where we're going." He grabs her hands and they race towards the cliffs. The air is cool as the grey-blue sky lightens in preparation for the final dawn. Jim takes large strides up the stony path, forcing her to takes twice as many steps just to keep up. The exertion warms Sylvie and she soon forgets her aches and pains.
They arrive at the top, beaming at each other in breathless elation. At the edge of the cliff, they find a grey boulder. They sit against it, staring out across the sea at the horizon which is already lined with a strip of orange-gold. A seagull sweeps past and dives down into the waves below. Otherwise they are completely alone.
"I thought the others might come," she says, trying not to sound too disappointed.
"They were faint-hearted. Not true believers," he smiles at her, "It's better this way. Just us. You're the only one worth saving."
Oh the delight of hearing those words. After all this time, she still can't quite believe she is his chosen one. But here they are, just the two of them, right at the end. She snuggles against him, watching the clouds above the horizon turn pinky-orange. The wind has picked up causing the waves below to rise and fall, crashing against the rocks below. She looks at her watch, five to six. The sun will soon be here and then, and then...
"What will happen to the others do you think?"
"Earthquake, fire, pestilence, plague."
"Even my mother?" This has always been her one reservation. Her mother isn't a believer, of course, but she is a harmless soul.
"I'm sorry sweetie, but your mother is one of the worst. She reads the Bible, but doesn't hear the message. It's right there in Genesis, and Matthew and Peter. This is the last day of tribulation, it's quite clear. Yet she doesn't believe it."
Jim has explained this before - the thousandth year since this, the seven thousandth since that. The importance of using the Hebrew and Gregorian calendars. If truth be told, Sylvie doesn't quite understand, but it is enough that Jim does, "I guess you're right."
"You know I am."
The sun is half way above the horizon, joined at the water's edge by its orange reflection, creating the momentary illusion that a ball of fire is burning the sea. It is getting warmer,d espite the wind and the sky has paled into blue. A dog barks in the distance. Sylvie's watch says a minute to six. She squeezes Jim's hands. He squeezes back.
"I love you Sylvie," he says, and she trembles with joy. This is it. The two of them, about be raised up to heaven. The sun pulls itself above the horizon blazing the sea with orange and red waves. They wait in eager anticipation. Any second now. The hands on Sylvie's watch march round to six. They wait patiently. Any second now.
They wait...any second now...and wait...The sun rises higher in the sky, fading into yellow, it's reflection reduced to a tiny circle in the waves. Six ten, six twenty, six thirty, seven. Nothing happens.Nothing. But the sun keeps rising.
Sylvie's back is sore, her knees ache, her right leg is cramping. She is longing for a cup of tea and a fry up. But she doesn't dare to suggest it. How could Jim have got it wrong? He's always been so certain. Suddenly, Jim throws his hand against his forehead, as if he's heard her thought, "Idiot. I'm a total idiot." He ruffles in his pocket and picks out a leaflet. "Look," he says, pointing to the date and the time. "I misread the time. It's 6pm NOT am."
Sylvie grins with delight."So, it's still going to happen then?"
"You betcha." He stands up and stretches. "Come on," he adds, "Breakfast. We'll come back later"
Hand in hand they run back across the cliffs. Towards the day ahead, and the rapture that is still to come.
"It's time," she says.
"At last." His grin is ecstatic.
They jump out of their sleeping bags, pulling their clothes on, eager to get moving.
"No time for breakfast," says Sylvie.
"We're not going to need any, where we're going." He grabs her hands and they race towards the cliffs. The air is cool as the grey-blue sky lightens in preparation for the final dawn. Jim takes large strides up the stony path, forcing her to takes twice as many steps just to keep up. The exertion warms Sylvie and she soon forgets her aches and pains.
They arrive at the top, beaming at each other in breathless elation. At the edge of the cliff, they find a grey boulder. They sit against it, staring out across the sea at the horizon which is already lined with a strip of orange-gold. A seagull sweeps past and dives down into the waves below. Otherwise they are completely alone.
"I thought the others might come," she says, trying not to sound too disappointed.
"They were faint-hearted. Not true believers," he smiles at her, "It's better this way. Just us. You're the only one worth saving."
Oh the delight of hearing those words. After all this time, she still can't quite believe she is his chosen one. But here they are, just the two of them, right at the end. She snuggles against him, watching the clouds above the horizon turn pinky-orange. The wind has picked up causing the waves below to rise and fall, crashing against the rocks below. She looks at her watch, five to six. The sun will soon be here and then, and then...
"What will happen to the others do you think?"
"Earthquake, fire, pestilence, plague."
"Even my mother?" This has always been her one reservation. Her mother isn't a believer, of course, but she is a harmless soul.
"I'm sorry sweetie, but your mother is one of the worst. She reads the Bible, but doesn't hear the message. It's right there in Genesis, and Matthew and Peter. This is the last day of tribulation, it's quite clear. Yet she doesn't believe it."
Jim has explained this before - the thousandth year since this, the seven thousandth since that. The importance of using the Hebrew and Gregorian calendars. If truth be told, Sylvie doesn't quite understand, but it is enough that Jim does, "I guess you're right."
"You know I am."
The sun is half way above the horizon, joined at the water's edge by its orange reflection, creating the momentary illusion that a ball of fire is burning the sea. It is getting warmer,d espite the wind and the sky has paled into blue. A dog barks in the distance. Sylvie's watch says a minute to six. She squeezes Jim's hands. He squeezes back.
"I love you Sylvie," he says, and she trembles with joy. This is it. The two of them, about be raised up to heaven. The sun pulls itself above the horizon blazing the sea with orange and red waves. They wait in eager anticipation. Any second now. The hands on Sylvie's watch march round to six. They wait patiently. Any second now.
They wait...any second now...and wait...The sun rises higher in the sky, fading into yellow, it's reflection reduced to a tiny circle in the waves. Six ten, six twenty, six thirty, seven. Nothing happens.Nothing. But the sun keeps rising.
Sylvie's back is sore, her knees ache, her right leg is cramping. She is longing for a cup of tea and a fry up. But she doesn't dare to suggest it. How could Jim have got it wrong? He's always been so certain. Suddenly, Jim throws his hand against his forehead, as if he's heard her thought, "Idiot. I'm a total idiot." He ruffles in his pocket and picks out a leaflet. "Look," he says, pointing to the date and the time. "I misread the time. It's 6pm NOT am."
Sylvie grins with delight."So, it's still going to happen then?"
"You betcha." He stands up and stretches. "Come on," he adds, "Breakfast. We'll come back later"
Hand in hand they run back across the cliffs. Towards the day ahead, and the rapture that is still to come.
Friday, 13 May 2011
Breakfast News #fridayflash
Gotcha!
1st May 2011 8:31am
RESULT. Go SEALS go. I can't believe the lefty liberal pricks on this thread bleating on about human rights. Don't you get it Obama Bin Laden KILED people. Lots of them. I thought Osama was weak, but not know GO Osama. You showed us the US NEVER gives up.
Appalled.
1st May 2011 8.32am
For God's sake what's wrong with you people? Do you really get off on celebrating death in this way? What makes those people outside the White House any different from those fundamentalists burning US flags?
BTW Gotcha it's OSAMA Bin Laden. Obama's the president.
Gotcha!
1st May 2011 8.33am
Oh come of it Appalled. Ringing your hands about poor little Osama (no typos). The man was a fucking sycopath. He murdered thousands of people. Caused a war, and while his people lived in caves he was larging it in a millionaire's manssion. Fucker deserved to die.
Appalled.
1st May 2011 8.34am
Where should I begin Gotcha? I'm not saying Osama was a saint. But who created him? The fucking CIA that's who. They needed him in Afghanistan and when communism collapsed they needed a new enemy. 9/11 was a TOTAL set up. There were no hijacked planes. It was the US airforce all along.
Jim sighs as he looks at the computer screen. What an idiot. He types in a response, his fingers tapping the keys in righteous indignation. Then, aware of the rumbles in his stomach, he shouts down the stairs, "Jenny, are you doing a fry up?"
Jenny looks up from her computer screen, appalled by the latest comment she has read. "In a minute. Let me just finish this".
She bangs out an angry response to Gotcha. Then she rises from the table and heads for the fridge. She pulls out bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs. She drips oil into the pan and starts chopping vegetables.
She knows what makes her husband happy.
1st May 2011 8:31am
RESULT. Go SEALS go. I can't believe the lefty liberal pricks on this thread bleating on about human rights. Don't you get it Obama Bin Laden KILED people. Lots of them. I thought Osama was weak, but not know GO Osama. You showed us the US NEVER gives up.
Appalled.
1st May 2011 8.32am
For God's sake what's wrong with you people? Do you really get off on celebrating death in this way? What makes those people outside the White House any different from those fundamentalists burning US flags?
BTW Gotcha it's OSAMA Bin Laden. Obama's the president.
Gotcha!
1st May 2011 8.33am
Oh come of it Appalled. Ringing your hands about poor little Osama (no typos). The man was a fucking sycopath. He murdered thousands of people. Caused a war, and while his people lived in caves he was larging it in a millionaire's manssion. Fucker deserved to die.
Appalled.
1st May 2011 8.34am
Where should I begin Gotcha? I'm not saying Osama was a saint. But who created him? The fucking CIA that's who. They needed him in Afghanistan and when communism collapsed they needed a new enemy. 9/11 was a TOTAL set up. There were no hijacked planes. It was the US airforce all along.
Jim sighs as he looks at the computer screen. What an idiot. He types in a response, his fingers tapping the keys in righteous indignation. Then, aware of the rumbles in his stomach, he shouts down the stairs, "Jenny, are you doing a fry up?"
Jenny looks up from her computer screen, appalled by the latest comment she has read. "In a minute. Let me just finish this".
She bangs out an angry response to Gotcha. Then she rises from the table and heads for the fridge. She pulls out bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs. She drips oil into the pan and starts chopping vegetables.
She knows what makes her husband happy.
Friday, 29 April 2011
Bad Timing - #fridayflash
"I don't think I love you any more."
These are not words a girl wants to hear. Particularly, when the person uttering them is still inside you, and you are experiencing the after-shocks of a deep and satisfying orgasm.
"Then you'd better go." He doesn't move. "NOW." I push him off me. He rolls over to the damp side of the mattress.
"I'm sorry."
"Save it."
"I wish..."
"Just GO."
He makes no further attempt at civilised conversation. Taking me at my word, he climbs out of bed, and grabs his clothes. I bury my head under the pillow so I don't have to look at him. But I can hear the crackle of static as he pulls a T Shirt over the torso that I was just stroking, the sliding of trousers up the legs that were so recently wrapped round my body.
"Bye then." His words penetrate the muffle of the pillow case. If he's looking for a moment of understanding or forgiveness I'm not inclined to give it. I wait till he has left the room before I allow myself to bring my head up to breathe. A sickly smell of sex pervades the room. It makes me gag. The door to the flat bangs. My cue to jump out of bed, run to the toilet and throw up.
I feel better for a second. And then I begin to cry. My body shakes with sobs that seem to surface from deep in my gut. What am I going to do now?
I don't now how long I sit there crying on the cold bathroom floor, my sticky legs rubbing against each other, aggravating my eczema. I do know that when the tears finally subside, and I pull myself up, my face is puffed and blotchy. He used to say I lit up every room. No-one would say that of me now.
The stupid thing is, that I know he is right. He doesn't love me. He never did. And I didn't love him either. We were held together by mutual orgasm and the need for company on a Saturday night. Would it have made a difference if I'd said it first?
I have a shower, get dressed and make myself some toast. It doesn't change anything, so I phone in sick. I put "Casablanca" in the DVD, wrap myself in a blanket, and settle down to watch.
The bedroom will smell of sex for days. The bedsheets will stay stained.
I'm not inclined to clean up just yet.
These are not words a girl wants to hear. Particularly, when the person uttering them is still inside you, and you are experiencing the after-shocks of a deep and satisfying orgasm.
"Then you'd better go." He doesn't move. "NOW." I push him off me. He rolls over to the damp side of the mattress.
"I'm sorry."
"Save it."
"I wish..."
"Just GO."
He makes no further attempt at civilised conversation. Taking me at my word, he climbs out of bed, and grabs his clothes. I bury my head under the pillow so I don't have to look at him. But I can hear the crackle of static as he pulls a T Shirt over the torso that I was just stroking, the sliding of trousers up the legs that were so recently wrapped round my body.
"Bye then." His words penetrate the muffle of the pillow case. If he's looking for a moment of understanding or forgiveness I'm not inclined to give it. I wait till he has left the room before I allow myself to bring my head up to breathe. A sickly smell of sex pervades the room. It makes me gag. The door to the flat bangs. My cue to jump out of bed, run to the toilet and throw up.
I feel better for a second. And then I begin to cry. My body shakes with sobs that seem to surface from deep in my gut. What am I going to do now?
I don't now how long I sit there crying on the cold bathroom floor, my sticky legs rubbing against each other, aggravating my eczema. I do know that when the tears finally subside, and I pull myself up, my face is puffed and blotchy. He used to say I lit up every room. No-one would say that of me now.
The stupid thing is, that I know he is right. He doesn't love me. He never did. And I didn't love him either. We were held together by mutual orgasm and the need for company on a Saturday night. Would it have made a difference if I'd said it first?
I have a shower, get dressed and make myself some toast. It doesn't change anything, so I phone in sick. I put "Casablanca" in the DVD, wrap myself in a blanket, and settle down to watch.
The bedroom will smell of sex for days. The bedsheets will stay stained.
I'm not inclined to clean up just yet.
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Plug of the Month - The Partridge and the Pelican by Rachel Crowther
This is another novel I've seen in bits and pieces. Rachel and I spent the winter of 2008 emailing each other and critiquing various segments of our books . Of course, she is far more efficient than I and has not only completed a Masters in Creative Writing since then, but the novel too and got published to boot!
I can confirm that although I haven't read the whole and the bits I did read were out of sequence, this is fab.
I'm really looking forward to it. So enjoy!
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