Phone-A-Friend.

Or, Why did I start this? And why can't I stop?

We may have to re-think. If the story's tone is more suited to an older child or teen, I may have to re-write it. The thing is, I like it now, the way it is, and I do not want to lose the tone of it. But I don't know many teens who might be interested in the travel of a teddy-rat. And besides, the aim of the thing was to raise an interest in kids, not older folks.

Does it matter if kids don't understand the words, or sentences in part? I mean, I don't think it ever put me off (and how else do kids learn, if not from exposure?) but would it discourage any kids less used to reading than I was? And if it's ok, up to a certain point, what portion do you think should be safe, easy language? And will it make any difference if the kids are read to, not reading independantly? In fact, does this still happen, at 9 or 10 these days?
---
I am slightly worried about the portrayal of Ginger. Those of you who know me will figure out why as you read. I hope it's not sickening or cliched, or too far off the mark.
---
how do you get accented characters on this thing?

Eureka!

By jove, she's got it! Nearly, anyway.

He can only communicate directly with His Person (although I don't know yet whether this will be vocally or through the power of thought). However he understands the feelings of every creature around him. He may possibly develop a communicative relationship with others, if, and only if, he meets some very special individuals. But, what about the bears and dolls and other faithful companions whom he meets along the way?

Penny For 'Em.

Kids, that is. Seriously, anyone have any 9/10 year olds I could borrow/ kidnap/ purchase (from afar, even!) in order to take the Alex tales for a test drive.

A Question Of Climate.

walking the dog today, the meagre sun not half-awake, the light snow coated everything once more, and every step was set off with the harsh plastic crinkle of re-frozen flakes. Stink-Dog inevitably raced to the beck at the bottom of the road. It must've been cold - there was no rolling over in the middle of the flow, and only some bounding after sinking sticks. For the rest of our stroll, the tiny, perfect icicles queued along his underside tinkled as he walked. And he had the smartest christmas beard I've ever seen.

I have a question. Should Alex have a voice, or telepathic powers, or should he be a silent, solo type. Initially, I didn't want him to have a voice; so many parents get pissed when reading 'make believe' so obviously not grounded in fact or possibility, and some kids nowadays don't seem to buy it either. But everyone knows about the power of a person's teddy, surely, and for there to be no connection would be, well, wrong. On the other hand, uniform telepathy isn't exactly true to form either; have you ever known a bear who's understood by everyone he meets? Selective telepathy, then? But then it gets complicated, and would the readers understand and empathise with this part-time communication skill?

It's Such A Perfect Day, I'm Glad I Spent It With You!

Dec 25th shall be the stuff of legend in our house; a Christmas free of argument and filled with family joy as any normal household must get every year. But that's another story which, actually, will be immortalised in Alex. Chapter 3.

Parts of this will too, but I wanted to share the festive cheer with my one (on a good day) reader.

Dec 27th (yes, I know the camera's calender needs fixing) started out like this...

a wonderful half an hour, utilising the 1mm dusting of snow. This quickly led to the perfect kind of drive; out in the country with my dad, the snow clotting as it whisked round our coocoon, the beach boys on the stereo, and an excitable black monster leaning over my shoulder. This in turn led to a walk with Stink-Dog, the Best Dog in the World, and Dad at a local wood, with snow and mulch, mud, sunshine, moss and trees all rolled into a cookie-dough ball of joy. We messed about trying to climb the crag with ice-numbed fingers and mulch-caked hiking boots for a while, to no avail. And when we hiked round to the top, watched the motionless sheep and busy helicopters through binoculars, as you do. This was, of course, interspersed with stick-throwing for HRH Stink-Dog. I'd almost forgotten how adorable he is with his half-puppy, half-pony canter of elation.

In Which a Small Rat Takes the World By Storm.

Alex made his debut yesterday; and very well recieved he was, too. We’ve decided to share his story; an ongoing project for children everywhere. You can request the first part of his tale through the comments section here, or via e-mail.

Writing and Roaming. A new-found friend.

I found my Travel-buddy yesterday. A small guy, who'll stow away comfortably in my rucksack, and who seems as inclined towards Freedom and the Stories as I...

Alex.

Floundering in Parenthood, and Other Musings of the Day.

My Precious Tale is writhing in agony, desperate to shed its skin for the fuller, magnificent pelt of adulthood. I keep seeing glimpses of the things it could become, but I cannot seem to give it the tools it needs to do so; there’s so much to impart upon it that I don’t know where to start.

---
Foreboding Reality:

I'm going to miss Borders' Meetings when I leave, perhaps more than any other single regular activity.

I'll miss the face-to-face honest feedback and ideas. I'll miss the sense that there are others out there who value that spark which makes us show up at the page/screen. And I'll miss being exposed to a myriad of works, in styles I'd barely read in any other place.

Most of all, I think, I'll miss the discussions, where the writing and the writers rub against one another until a spark, a flame, a rumbling fire ensues. Every week the differing experiences and topics lead to a new hoard of tangents. And you always learn something, without setting out with that in mind.

Santa's feeling rather odd tonight.

As Rachel has kindly pointed out, I have been neglecting this blog (again). In fact, I have been neglecting writing all together, making me feel like the snow-fed grit beside the roads. There simply has not been the time to put the words together, but I feel all the worse for it.
---
Guilt:

Feels like quicksand, syrupy against your fingertips as you flounder, cold as it oozes in between the folds of cloth you wear.

Sounds like a pin dropping to a kitchen floor for all eternity.

Tastes like strong black tea, etched upon your taste-buds for hours after the fact, its remnants bitter and harsh.

Smells like fresh cut grass on a frosted morning, the air damp and clean enough to carry the green aroma for miles, a smell so pungently beautiful that you’ll always feel inadequate, as though you don’t deserve to be there in the moment.

Looks like an inkblot, spidery as it expands even beyond the page, indelible and irrevocable no matter how hard and long you stare in horror.
---

I do have reasons (as usual) for not turning up at the page. I now have tickets for word-wide exploration, and with my passage suddenly reality, I have to get organised. Admittedly, this has been stunted somewhat by the realisation that I’m going Out There, for a Very Long Time; a mix of elated, inspired freezing terror.

I have been writing tiny pieces, in a search for the Christmas Tales that make the grade this year. So far, 98% of it is shit, and I’m running out of time.

In other news (I’m sure there was more than this to write about, before I sat down to actually do it) I went to my first football match today, with a lad I have been working with; Leeds vs. Leicester City at Elland Road. Leeds won 2:1. And I surprised myself by quite enjoying it; I thank The Boy for making the transition pain-free and entertaining, despite his frequent pleas for alcohol.

Oh, and I bought one of these today; fascinating, in an Eeyore’s-Pot kind of a way. It’s my new favourite piece of travel-kit.

The View of the Nac Mac Feegle.

I promised a couple of budding writers a starting place. Here's a couple I used recently, just to get things going. Both of the following explore perception and description; try them out and see how far you go, and leave them here for all to see, if you feel so inclined. Good Luck. Xx


The View of the Nac Mac Feegle: Pick three everyday objects, and zoom in on them. A shower head becomes a UFO, a weed becomes a shrubbery.

Blind-Man's Bluff: Pick up three everyday objects and describe them using only touch for stimuli.

Lord Of The Flies: A Rather Average Evening.

"No Problem." I concede, not realising what I’m signing up for as I head for the kitchen with three teenage boys in tow.

2 minutes in, as we assemble the ingredients on the worktop, I have to pull apart two rampant, angered youths.

"’s true!" Number Three growls indignantly. "Y’ do have to use a different knife for meat."

"Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean you threaten to knife him, does it, Three?"

The knives themselves, ridiculously blunt through necessity, cause quite a ruckus as they are produced. Forbidden fruits!

They snipe at each other silently behind my back, until some ancient instinct flares within the them at the sight of flame as I ignite the hob.

"Whadawe do then?" grumbles Number One, unable to avert his gaze.

"Well, if you take the green board and cut the chicken into cubes, about so big..." I gesture with my thumb and index finger, "Two, if you could chop the onions and pepper, and Three, could you do the mushrooms and the chilli? Both of you use the white boards. I’ll heat up the oil. Three, throw out the chilli seeds, unless you want it really hot, and make sure you wash your hands when you’re done!"

All goes quiet, and I cannot help sense the calm, against the full-on fights of not an hour ago.

"Done." They mutter, almost simultaneously, as the oil begins to hiss aggressively.

"Fabulous! Right. Onions 1st, then chicken after a minute or so, then the vegetables. Then, if One adds that spice sachet, and stirs the food to stop it sticking, Two can take charge of the wraps, and Three can do the cheese, Salsa and Sour Cream; and the two you can set the table."

"Wha’ about you?" Number Two protests.

"Nu-uh. It’s your meal, guys. I’m just here if things go wrong."

They stare at me for a moment as power shifts. No-one’s ever trusted them before.

"Well? Come on, or it’ll be nine o-clock before you eat." I’m hopelessly aware that one blunted knife could slip through someone’s ribs its holder turns around, and if malice erupts, there’s little space to step between them.

"Wha' d’we do?"

"Onions first, Fuck-brains."

"Guys." I warn.

In go the onions, with whoops of delight as the oil protests. And I stand back and watch.
Number One, the eldest, held authority over the other two, and quickly took charge of the task in hand.

As they haphazardly hurl food into the pan, he tosses it with flair, and barks instruction out across the room.

Exultant screams fill the room as I melt into the work-top and let the tale unfold, half amused, and half afraid of the creatures I have made.

It doesn’t take a moment for the shirts to fly across the room, but then, it’s hot in here with the hob on full. Seconds later, abetted by a wooden spoon, the barbecue-war-sauce is spread ceremoniously across each boy, with a heart-shuddering cackle of manhood. They dance around the flame in the tiny kitchen, a tangled mass of activity as they go about their separate tasks, the fire’s potency reflected in their eyes. I can’t quite grasp what’s going on.

The noise level rises, with an evil tribal note. I glance towards the door, but Number Two hovers nearby, one sharp eye on me.

I can almost hear the heathen-tongues spurt forth with instruction to ‘bind and boil the care-worker’. I forcibly remind myself that this is real life, and that that could never happen.

"Man Prevails!" Wails Number One, as he stirs the pot one last time, and the flame dies down.
Two and Three step in, plates in hand, to capture the raw spirit of the thing in tiny doughy parcels.

"Hope yer ‘ungry!"

Through the serving hatch, we see Number Four appearing from nowhere, and thudding onto a dining chair.

"Phwoooar!" his eyes light up as a plate is placed in front of him.

The other staff quickly follow suit, passing the plates through until the table’s full.

"Nice going, guys!" I congratulate, as everyone tucks in. "Now, who’s washing up?"

Apology

I thought I should apologise to anyone who has come to either this site, or Progressions in search of updated work. I'm not posting it, because I have developed an irrational fear that, despite no one ever reading them, someone may steal it for their own. If any of The Group were looking for it, leave me a comment or an e-mail, and I'll forward it to you.

There was or there was not, in the oldness of time...

Once more, the wanderlust has taken hold, atop a kind of deflated misery of unknown source. Usually the season grips me, pushing me through the months in a kind of grinning trance, but now, I cannot find the slightest smile.

I have not written a word all week. My fingertips and muse feel fat, and lazy. I have ideas aplenty, but not the inclination to spit them out onto the page. I’ve worked less than I should have, and my bank account is feeling it, but I have no energy spare to work the extra hours. And I’ve spent far too much money in the last few weeks, but I just can’t seem to stop.
But, it’s Biz’s birthday on Tuesday, which, oddly, feels more of a milestone for me than either of my ‘key birthdays’ ever felt for me. Perhaps this, and the childish traditions that we hold so dear shall shake me from this indolent state and set me free. Or, perhaps if I force myself to write, and work, I'll find my groove again. Whatever; I’m letting it all go for the party, anyway.

I have a new itinerary for travel, which I shall disclose another day. Suffice it to say for now, that I shall be delving into fewer places, but leave a deeper groove in each. I bought a new book; my favourite book all year, I think - ‘PALESTINE, A Guide’, which looks at every facet of this fascinating culture. I think I’m going to try to write a folk-tale that fits the Palestinian style. Perhaps I’ll alter Homecoming to fit.

Changing of the Seasons.

There’s a definite excitable hint of winter in the air; the buzz of Halloween, Guy Falkes and Christmas all rolled into one as your feet snap along the pavement or swoosh through fallen leaves. This is the best time of the year, despite the rain and wind, and ice. I cannot help but bounce through daily chores. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help me write gut-wrenching grieving scenes for Blood Omen. It is going well though, hence a much neglected blog, again.

I have reverted to winter listenings, such as John Williams’ Harry Potter scores, which feed my mood and fit the weather perfectly. There’s just something about it.

A little over a week ago, I stayed at Mark's, for another 2 days writing, which was, as always, a great success. And we rewarded ourselves with a trip to the cinema to see David Cronenberg’s A History of Violence, staring Viggo Mortensen and Maria Bello. If you have not seen it, then you must. It’s the first movie in a long long time to treat violence as the serious creature that she is. The cast was perfect, the script clever and poignant, and Howard Shore’s score as snug a fit as you'd expect. A lot of people seemed irritated by the ending, but… well, go see it. It’s amazing. I went to see it twice.

I have yet to see Howl’s moving castle, Domino, Lord of War, and the impatiently awaited Corpse Bride. That’s just the beginning of my list. It’s no wonder I am always skint.

The Ultimate Question

"How do you know how many words?"

She laughed. "I count them all… no, I use the automatic word count on my word processor."

"But… It is not accurate. It contains not real words."

"No, it doesn’t count symbols."

"But… like ‘a’.

"‘A’ is a word."

"Not real word. I never count."

"But," she huffed "you can’t say ‘a’ is not a word? How is it not a word?"

"It makes nonsense. It has no… no meaning ."

"Of course it has meaning - the English language doesn’t function without it."

"What then, what it mean?"

" it signifies an indefinite object. It’s an indefinite article."

"Like what?"

"Well, you can say ‘the mouse’ if you are talking about a specific one, but if it is not a particular mouse, it’s ‘a mouse’."

"So, it means, ‘any’?"

"No. ‘any’ is different. It can be used for one, some, or all of something. ‘A’ is more specific. It talks about one unspecified thing."

"but, it does not mean anything, really."

"It does!"

"But, it is only one letter. It’s not proper word."

"You can’t say that! That’s discriminatory! If you can’t have one letter words, can you decide not to have long words one day? Besides, there are some scripts where one character is interpreted as a whole phrase. They’re necessary!"

"No. I am talking only of the English language. It means nothing."

"But… if ‘a’ is not a proper word, what about ‘an’. That’s got two letters!" she smirked triumphantly. "and it means the same thing."

"So you can just use it instead."

"No, you use ‘a’ with words that start audibly – the way you hear it – with consonants, like the letter ‘c’, and you use ‘an’ with words which start with vowels, or sound as though they do. Although there are exceptions."

"Still, in my head, is not a word!"

"Look, I spend half my time writing, and reading, and editing people’s work. I love semantics. I work with the English language every day; it is my tool! You will not win this one!"

"It’s not word!"

Stolen Moments: A Tale of Autumnal Bliss.

The morning was hazed with frost and cold wet air, but the mist broke away before the shock of orange streaks across the sky.

The bus was heaped with bodies fighting equally for seats and oxygen; damp clothes steamed, their musty odour leaking from the bus at every stop. Finally, flustered, I stepped into the icy outside world once more, with time to spare. Beside Place Around The Corner, is a beautifully quiet neighbourhood, and the forested park of a stately home.

Most people, with 25 minutes to spare, would hurry to the comfort of a conversation and a mug of tea. Not I. Meandering between the trees, into golden light-filled spaces, and cool pine-needle shady spots, I look up at the canopy. The light paints highlights on the leaves, turning steadily into their autumn shades. It’s beautiful. So, breathing freely for the first time in a week, I carry on, the fellowship of the Ring drifting to my ears. It’s so serene and awe inspiring. And I wish that it could last.

Foremost, Writer.

Isn’t it strange how single moments can change you, change the way you think, or pull back into line a purpose which, though hidden from view, has been apparent through all of your remembered life.

There were several of these moments, for me, in the last week; ‘The Week that They Were Writers’.

The first, came at the climax of our 12 hour drive, where, sitting at the end of the garden, by the tumultuous loch, shadowed by the ridge of the escarpment, we stretched, and breathed, and laughed.
Picture the frolicsome writers, here, as they realise that they are free to be themselves. This manifested itself in a peculiar way, even for us:

“I spy… Something beginning with ‘S’.”

“Seaweed?”

“Nope.”

“Swimming seagull?”

“Nope.” After several minutes of this, Rachel sighed. “It’s everywhere. Look up!”

Sarah bounced in triumphant inspiration “Clouds?”

(It was at this point, amidst the peals of laughter, that I thought ‘Fuck! There’s no hope for the world if a writer cannot even recognise the phonetics of her alphabet’, and suddenly, I relaxed, more than I have done since Borneo)

--
The following morning, awaking to perfect Scottish rain, and the sea lapping at the window (almost), I looked out of the window and I knew. I am the luckiest person alive.

--
Writing was slow, to start, as I was ashamedly rusty at actually responding to the muse with more than scribbled notes. But then, I constructed a mini-tale entirely on the act of eating cake, entitled: Don’t mess with the Crazies, You Never Know What They Might Do, Or, The cake is evil as well as masochistic, it forces us to eat it with its domineering frown. And I saw that it was good. I may post it at Progressions.

--

The Day they Let the Writers Loose.

The day they let the writers loose was a dark, and dismal day. The wind did howl, and trees did bend, and small sheep blew away. The writers they did gambol, exultant as they breathed fresh air, and stories rested for a while; though their fingers found it rather odd that the laptop keyboards were not there. And as they gazed out through the trees, at choppy waters far below, the locals spied them standing there and longed for them to go. For the crazy writers were a sight they did not wish to see; with wild hair, dishevelled looks and crazed expressions in the eye. The locals hid behind their doors, until the writers passed them by.

The writers, as they walked, they talked their cares away, barely noticing the clouds, which barraged them with drops of grey. The day they let the writers loose, they had a lot of fun; all singing and all dancing until their walk was done. The day they let the writers loose, was a dark, and dismal day; but to them it didn’t matter, as they wandered out, to play.

--
Upon this escapade, I heard this tale. (Credit goes to Joe Knowler, in his infinite wisdom, and to Rachel for passing it on.) It is, quite possibly, the best story known to humankind…

Mum collected Rachel and Ed from school, with Joe in the buggy beside them, and the two excited children began swapping stories as they walked home.

Suddenly, a voice sprang from the buggy.
“Once ‘Pon Time.”

This hopeful, solemn voice was met with joyous wails. “The baby’s telling us a story: Tell us a story, Joe!”

“Once ‘Pon Time…” Joe began, in his best storytelling tone, “was a mummy, an’ a baby, an’ a monster…” long pause. “Munch. Crunch.”
--
I rediscovered, during our return, that Rachel and I, when together, can make a joke of anything. For instance… Where are the houses? Why, where the houses are, of course. It was also on this day of adventure, that I decided I must return, for a much longer period of writing, somehow. Ardaneaskan’s good for me, and even better for my concentration and my style.

--
It was not all fun and games however,(although much of it was: we even provided Pythonesque Comedy Hour for the Waterside café in Lochcarron) and we did do serious writing, honestly. I doubled the length of Blood Omen, and made plans to further it, thanks to helpful criticism from my fellow yarn-weavers. And I made Rachel cry. I do feel slightly guilty that, upon realising this, I did a victory-jig in my head, whilst chanting ‘I made my best friend cry. Woohoo!’ (Sorry, Rach!).

Markulon, Prolific Writing Superhero that he is, wrote, 36,000 words, nearly all of them brilliant, and all from reputable sources. He scratched off several short stories, one of which forced a lump to my throat as I read. And he tactfully avoided working on his novel.

And Rachel: She Who Could Not Write, produced from nowhere an onslaught of 50 word story-cards, each with the week’s theme… eaten, and then proceeded to write an awesome creepy tale; the longest(twice as long as the previous longest piece), best thing she has ever spawned. It has everything! I still have to pen it for her.

--
It occurred to me during the week, that I am, first and foremost, a writer. And perhaps, the stressful job I hold in order to save for my travels, is not worth it. I may have to find a boring, undemanding job and take the longer route to gaining money, just so that I can concentrate upon my work.

--

There was plenty more, but it shall remain undisclosed, for the sake of you, the reader’s sanity. Suffice it to say that it was the best week in a long time. Due thanks must go to both Rachel and Mark, who made it what it was. And, more so, to Mark, who single-handedly drove us there and back,(thanks, Mark, for all the effort and stiffness and pain!).

The House of Muse: Safe Under Lock and Key.

I got a new desk yesterday, unexpectedly. Actually, it’s a shelving unit with a bureau. It’s only small, but it’s increased my working space and re-alighted the muse which faded with hum-drum working weeks. What can I say, I’m a sucker for furniture as much as I am for stationary.

It’s really beautiful though, with its understated form; it’s smooth grain reaching up to caress the thoughts as they flow from pen with ease. And it locks, keeping scraps of inspiration free from prying eyes.

Good Things Come.

Before I give way to the un-blogged occurrences of the past 3 weeks, let us concentrate on the 3 points of the day:

My writing (Blood Omen, to be exact) was dubbed ‘mind-blowingly fucking excellent’, and likened to that of Tennessee Williams by a non-writing fast-becoming-friend at work. I did not pay him any money for this statement. He also took the first part away, adamant that he would be really pissed off when he reached the end of it, gagging for more. I now have ANOTHER person expecting me to finish the damn thing when The Pest, Mark, Myself and potentially Mystery Being escape to Rowanlea.

The same fast-becoming-friend discovered that I am ‘ripe for poaching’(I love his phrases!) from the Tom Havocs and, having decided to form a group of ‘elite’ performers to record his own stuff, hinted that maybe I should switch allegiance. I think he’s right.

Lastly, I cycled home from work this evening, along the darkest of lamp-dwelling streets , having done no exercise whatsoever for a long, long time. I’m still alive, and I’ll do it again.

---
For a small, embarrassing portion of time (an entire unforgettable evening) I was flayed alive in a Pop Idol ps2 contest. Totally slaughtered. This was only a slightly gentler fate than re-enacting, complete with words and actions, a Barney song-time video no less than 11 times in one day.
---

I noticed the other day (though I’m sure not for the first time) that no matter where I have to settle for the night, as soon as I pull off my shoes, I feel that I belong, and a comfortable sensation overtakes all else. It never seems to matter whether I’m tired, or even if I’m settling straight away or doing further work, this simple act has the effect of several hours rest, completely relaxing every part of me. I wondered for quite a while what the deeper meaning to this revelation is. It also crossed my mind that, perhaps, there is a link to the no-shoes-indoors etiquette of much of S.E Asia.

---

I was going to write about the ironic falling of responsibility, but I don’t think I shall as the persons involved may come across this blog. I’ve become rather fond of them. Perhaps another day, cleverly disguised as a fairy tale (please, don’t anyone ask how it would go, for I’d see it as a challenge, and there’s too much content acting out inside my head as it is).

They Nameth it Fool.

I’m resigned to the fact that I may never get some of my beginnings and ideas, and completed stories back – not to mention all the photos and other crap which I may or may not find stored on CD somewhere. MOST of my work is backed up – several times I might add. It’s just that, some of my scanned photos/ picture adaptations and, the less important mini-scraps of work, didn’t always seem worth the effort. And now my pc is being weird, so I can’t log on as me, and since I didn’t want to share the progeny of my mind, it seems I cannot reach them. Fuck!

Wondering: Should I continue with Blood Omen until I reach the end, and then revise, or should I revise what I've got and then write/ perfect piece by piece. Decisions, decisions...

Also, why is it that when you're ill, all you want to do is get up and go to work, go out, be on the move, and yet, the rest of the time, you'd give anything for a day in bed with movies or book, or your imagination. Just a thought.