Switching Targets

Just so you know, most of the updates for now, are going straight up on the Travel Site, since that's what I'm doing, mostly.

And This Young Man Looks Fine, As Well.

I should like to pose the question: do we really have to be made-up and clad in skirts, if we are to be recognised as women? For that matter, why can't men wear skirts and flaunt eyeshadow without being seen as overly feminine?

I could rant at length, but I won't...

What is it with people and their stereotypes? Bah!

Friendship...

Sounds like complete silence as you stand atop a hill - serene and beautiful.

Feels like a picnic on a summer's day, sprawled on the grass with the breeze and sunshine competing for Best In Show against your skin; a duvet on a frosty morning; creamy cocoa as it slides across your tongue.

Smells like marshmallows toasted on a bonfire in the crisp night air.

Tastes like strawberries, with a sprig of mint apiece.

Looks like an oak tree, earthy and familiar, yet full of life.

(Your turn!)

Hereford Bound (well, almost).

Or, no I did not say Cornwall!
(I completely forgot about posting this earlier!)

Snapshots of a journey by rail.

Rooftop after rooftop flits by, marred only by the scratchy blur of naked trees.
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A burnt-out, rusty orange car (V.W Bug, I think) lies precariously on a hill - almost lost amongst the sun-drenched orange of autumnal bracken - its bonnet permanently forced into a gaping smile.
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The young signaller at Westgate, who could be sixteen as easily as late-twenties, seems remarkably responsible in his long jacket and peaked hat as he stands to attention and the train flies by, the powerful smile of a caretaker behind his eyes.
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Endless track streams in front and behind, so full of possibility.
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As the trees bow to the wind, one lone woman battles across shadow-cast fields, her collar high as she recalls a curious dog to her side.
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B'ham New Street:
(let it be noted: Horseradish and Sour cream crisps are bizarrely delightful)

Woman with her hair in tight-pulled, fading bun, watches me with interest as we await our trains, until I look back and try to lend a smile. She quickly looks away, resolute and stern.
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A gentleman turns head as he charges for a train, in his trendy woolen business coat and matching flat cap. I wonder how the style came back into fashion, and how it works on one so young.
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Hereford route:
2 small children imitate the train as it flees from their excitement. I can almost hear their their 'whistling', even through the toughened glass.

The Sanctuary of Friends.

Just a quick post to let the whole world know that Anna has started a blog. Check it out!!

Look Behind You, Pumpkin!

Alex and I have returned from picturesque Colwall, where I stayed, I kid you not, in Wood Cottage:


with my Fairy Godmother; a woman with an incredible energy, and an obsession for words which almost rivals mine.

We spent 48 hours (not nearly long enough) reading each others work and writing beside a proper fire:

and catching up on 13 years of socialising using means far greater than the telephone. It has to be said that, whilst I am jealous of the fact that she owns a real fireplace - the ultimate in homely touches - she also owns the worlds coolest kitchen!

In fact the whole place has the same magical zany energy as she does. And it's exactly as I remembered it; the stream, the trees, the pictures and paintings and things everywhere you look. I want somewhere just like it of my very own, one day.

Knowing how absorbing words can be, anyone who knows either Mim or I, would be extremely proud to know that we found the time to stop for drinks at the beautiful Malvern station, and visit the most photographed lane in Britain

for lunch at THE MACIHOUSE. And we went to the pantomime performance of Robin Hood and The Babes in the Wood, which sincerely rocked, and set both of our performance-loving-streaks on edge.

If only this story hadn't had an ending!

Fumbling with stories.

In Part 4, there is a story telling session. The question is, do I tell the stories, or does Alex just skim across them in retrospect? This'll shape the rest of the chapters, as I cannot easily include stories told in far-away places if we do not share the ones of home... but those which came from published sources may prove to be a problem.

Suggestions please.

Travelling Words.

My father gave me an old copy of The Great Railway Bazaar as a pre-adventure read, minus the final pages. It’s brilliant, even without conclusion. No doubt I will be quoting it for quite a while.

Enormous thanks must go out to knights in shining-literary-armour Heather and Kim, for not only suggesting an incredible book, but for filling my rucksack with books to inspire and aid the trip. Once again, I find myself baffled by the amazing collection of people around me.
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In pre-travel adventure, I visit the Fairy Godmother tomorrow, an amazing kindred spirit. I would love to post an epic on her, but it's late, and I have an early train to catch, so I shall do it in retrospect. I must remember to pack my words-wand :-D
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'That cold made leaving even easier..."Have you tried aspirin?" "No, I think I'll go to India."' Paul Theroux. Inspiration for any would-be traveller who doesn’t know where to start.

Progress.

This is, in part, a repeat post. Those of you who read both sites will have to excuse it.

I went to my penultimate creative writing group last night. Things are progressing there too, with talk of more meetings, and a fairly stable group of regulars once more. Some of the people there have offered valuable support and advice for almost 6 years; they’ve known my writing since its adolescent phase, and never held it against me. They, unknowingly, have helped me work through the most difficult of times. Other, newer members of the group are not discounted from this appreciative post. I feel beyond lucky to have met this strange gaggle of wonderfully talented artists.

I’ll be sorry to leave them behind, if only for a while.

(14 days to go, and a hundred things to do.)

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Alex is progressing nicely, and I can't wait to find out whether the three fantasmo-rad kids who've spared some time to test it out feel the same way.

I am slightly worried, however, about whether it'll be so great, without continual prodding from close-at-hand fellow writers. And whether the computer-cafes in far flung places will cope with me using them as a work-base from time to time.
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* I’m searching for a book to take along, which doesn’t take up half my bag, but I won’t have finished by the time I land on foreign ground. It has to be inoffensive, just in case it is discovered, and perhaps, ultimately swappable. I mean, it’s not going to last the whole trip now, is it?! Any suggestions, anyone?

I want to live on Fibber Island!

I this album had been made when I was younger, I would have tamed it, and kept it in the wardrobe as a pet! It's mad, it's wonderful! And I just had to share.

What's the Time, Mr. Wolf?

I'd like to point out that I think my body-clock, nay, my brain, is wired all wrong.

Despite having a tiredness-headache, despite that weird twitchy tired eye thing, despite the coffee machine needing far more attention in the dark-hours, I am still far more productive between the hours of twelve and four AM.

In fiction, this often results in the best of my writing (most of it completely unremembered as I read over it). We shall see, tonight, if this transfers as well to fact-based grammar definitions and the like.

If it's all pre-determined, why wasn't I notified?

Coming to a new point in life, I found myself wondering what all my old (from pre-Leeds, pre-high-school days) close friends were up to. And with little chance to catch up, I decided to try to hunt them out. Remembering surnames from the past is HARD, man!

Mostly it's not got me anywhere - Claire, Will Roach, Daisy Brown, Amy Phipps, if you're out there, hollar!

What's really bloody weird though, is that one guy, whom I saw last when I was 7 or 8, turns out (if indeed it's him - it looks like him, it *sounds* like him) to be in long-standing friend Rachel's class at Cambridge. What are the odds of that?!

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This might be my new favourite album. It's lovely.

Preparations

The world is not working to my blueprint. There are no people in offices to talk to at 2am. People do not respond to e-mails within 24 hours. There is no gorgeous girl supplying me with coffee and kisses every hour. And there are not enough minutes in the day to get things done.

All of these things is a minor problem in my world, and each could escalate to catastrophe at any given point.

I have 18 (almost 17) days left to get everything sorted. I'm tired, but I daren't go to bed; there's far too much to do. It's Valentine's this week; as depressing as it could be.

The only e-mails/ texts I have received today, have been people excusing themselves from my pre-travel gathering. I am slightly mortified that one of my closest friends, far too long unseen, is stuck in London, thus condemning us to a further 2 years+ of e-mail relationship.

On a happier note, Preparations of a different kind are complete, in the form of Alex. Part 3. Actually, most of part 4 is taken from an early draft of 3, so that won't be far behind - other things permitting.

Absence makes the Heart...

I know, I know... life just keeps getting in the way of posting. And writing. And, well, stuff!But I have been busy, look.I'm not going to link back here from there. Global Scribe is safe, whereas, anyone who's been here, knows that sometimes, here is not.

Tolerant Annoyance.

Or, My Family.

I love my family, I really, really do. And it's sad they live so far away. But it's odd how some of them always seem to see bad in everything.

Some of said family, during my weekend in the Depths of the World (um, Southampton) were as amazing as ever. Highlights included a walk on the Common with my incredible, globe-trotting grandfather, and planning a family-history trip together whilst I am in India, and playing stupid games with my amazingly sensible 15 year old cousin until 2am.

Some, however, seem to think I'm still eight years old, and that everything I do is wrong.Lowlights include being told repeatedly of all the things that will go wrong whilst I'm away, and told, in an offended, upset tone 'Well, we never had to do this when I was your age!' and informed that I should not be travelling at all, let alone by myself, to places so 'wild'. Bah!

I was also, in the same dejected yet pitying tone, given the 'I do so wish that you'd find Jesus...' speech. It's strange that she's never asked me what I believe, but proceeds to lecture me anyway. I only wish I'd thought to reply, 'well perhaps I'll find him in the desert."

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** I had no idea how much I despise the word 'worship' before last weekend!

In other, happy news: I've appeared in The Little Hedonist's Best Of The Rest list :-) It's nice to know there's really people out there.

Strange, these walls, they do not want to shift, not even brick by brick.

There seem to be more questions than actual writing at the moment... I would just like to point out to those awaiting it, that Part 3 is almost Done - it has been 'almost done' for a while, but, I can almost let go of it. All the parts are written, and wait to be strung together.

Now then. Stories. I'm having difficulty figuring out whether to tell the stories Alex hears, or not. It's part of the experience, and will be more so when we're Out There, but it might cause problems, if for example, the story came from a published book.

Opinion, anyone?

*aside - has anyone else heard 'At Dawn in Rivendell'? If you're a Tolkein fan and haven't heard it, find a copy!

Call of the Wild

Can anybody tell me whether it's possible to contact Clarissa P. Estes? And how? I've tried to find a website with a comment box or e-mail address, but Google does not like me this evening... And I desperately want to ask her something (and hope she spares the time to answer).

Colours.

Friday lunchtime, I step out from the orange-box building where I play all day for stupid money, amidst the stormy purple clouds, and head over to the shop in search of lunch. The air is thick with thunderous heat, but somehow it's still cold enough to make me shiver, and everything around me is that simultaneously light and heavy rained-on hue.

But when I leave the store, two minutes later, the sun has sprung from nowhere. Everything glistens, a warm honey colour oozing from the ground, the lilac cloud-punctuated sky, the grass... even the poster-painted playground shines in new, exciting colour.

Thursday, I'm sure this would have slipped unnoticed, through the broken web of writer's word-net (it's like a butterfly net, only the weave is tighter). But now, after a day filled with cuddle-requests and honest open conversation, handprints painted over everything, jelly cubes, and those rocking on-a-spring playground thingeys, I cannot help but smile, and notice things again.

There are a thousand reasons that I love my job - I shall not bore you with them here. Suffice it to say that me and the under-fives, we're of the same mind. I'm saying nothing more.

The World's a Stage.

I don’t know what is going on inside my head right now. I mean, usually I can see its workings, particularly where writing is concerned, like actors testing scripts and props upon a stage. Literally, people hanging about in Shakespearean, or scrubby-stylish thespian attire when the characters are not in costume (It’s a beautiful, mostly open-air stage, too. I wish that it tangible, so all could see). Do you think I jest?

And then, without warning, it all, even foundations of the stage, has gone, leaving a cold, empty cavity inside my skull. And suddenly, there’s nowhere, no one, to test my words and images, and I cannot write…

It’s strange then, that I think my characters are back, creeping out of hiding now that the monstrous stage-eraser has passed.

Without a stage, they cannot help me out so readily, but the child-like part of me which is in love with everything – every flower, every rain-cloud, and each emotion, however full of gloom – is back, and seeing the world as it should be seen once more. For that I’m happy. At least I can write in abstract, and I can play at moulding words, but what about my words, and my winding, tangling tales? When will they return?

The Writer, She is Gone.

I cannot do it. I simply cannot write. I proclaim the artist dormant – for no matter how I try, the vision and the act don’t meet. My words are clumsy, my plots are inexcusably confused, and my style – which comes mostly from strange and matchless description (apparently – these are not my words, I don’t feel at all that I deserve such praise) is patched and faded throughout my work.

Nothing matches, nothing flows, nothing fits, and I do great injustice to some brilliant ideas with every word I try to place.

I Give Up. Nothing anyone can say will convince me of otherwise. For now, I Am No Writer :-(

The inexplicable things.

How does one explain the telepathic bond between girl and rat? Coz 'suddenly, Alex heard Ginger's words inside his head' and similar variations, sound so pathetically melodramatic. It has to happen after/ as they bond I suppose, because it only happens for kids with their special toys who have developed character. But when? And how?

Stumped again - seems like I always am. Not feeling much like a decent writer this morning, or much of a writer at all.

I Think It's Elves.

I swear there's something wrong with this family. Something not quite right; something one might say were almost fantastical.

I mean, we've all been running hard and fast, so mess accumulates, as it does in any other House of Chaos, in the corners and the deep shadows of cupboards, sprinkled on the surfaces and floors in a proud show of filth.

But as I start to chip away at it, I notice something strange; there's a limited spray of your usual packaging, clothing and grime, but mostly, there is stuff. Some of it, I admit, is left-out stuff, but half of it, is not. Half of it is stuff that serves no purpose, ugly, space consuming stuff and stuff that's downright weird.

We don't know where it comes from. None of have been out to buy a fresh supply of stuff, we haven't had the time. And the old stuff that no-one dares to throw away, not knowing its origin or whether it belongs to someone, a momento of an age that's passed, stuff I know has not been used, is everywhere again... No-one has removed it from its safe and tidy box, or shelf, and yet here it is, in daylight, posing as ornaments or books, or kitchen knick-knacks. Weird. I think it's elves.

Trouble in the Play Pen.

So, I sit at the computer, Alex beside me, to make sure I get the details right, and we start to write Part 3. The trouble is, there's so much to put into it to get it up-to-date, as such that it's hard to know how to begin. And everything we've tried seems oddly self-indulgent. It seems I'm having trouble with describing the onset of that Companion-Person bond. It just sounds fake, every single time, like one of those really bad kids books that I resented being forced to read at school. This is not the image we desire - it's not a key-stage book, or indeed a SATs English paper task.

I need my fix of random, wonderful writings. Mark & Vicky have kindly supplied me with some, but much as I love penning things alone, I wish there was a group-thing this week (read: NOW). I'd be busy anyway, on Monday - Rudy, a Slovakian ex-colleague's in town - but that's not the point, and the following week, the 16th, leaves me with sorrofully few fortnights left before I fly the nest.

I shall update properly at the weeked, there's a half formed polari/ Obligatory New Year's post in the making, and there should be one about the sandpit wars of the week - as soon as there's a ceasefire!