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?
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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.
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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.

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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.
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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.
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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.