And then on Facebook, connected to so many, 'Success depends on how well we relate to those around us. How we take care of the whole community, the whole community being the world, which includes, people, animals, plants, everything.'
We're not individuals, we're part of the whole and life is merely a physical ride. It's not real. We can change the ride. We're at the controls. Who are you?

There's a day to get on with.

Bright warm red dissipates in steaming still water like clouds in a distant breezy sky. Nothing else matters.
Bones softening, merging into matter that doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the sight in the distance of those that do matter.

In Between Times

It may be the time of year, suspended between Christmas and New Year. Feels a bit like No Man's Land. Should still be feeling sociable and festive but can't quite get into work mode. The house is full and I work from home mainly.
Monster Belt flows when I'm in full swing. What's good is that I get snatches of valuable thinking time and eureka moments. The crux is what is real and what isn't? Who is sane and who crazy, or is there a little of both in us all? I know the next chapter, just have to write it. Here goes...

The New Year Approaches.

Thinking about what I don't want to stay as it is in 2012. This last year has been a mixture of soaring highs and bottomless lows. I don't want to live on a flat plain, but the lows were too drawn out and deep this last year.
The next twelve months may have to be ones to get through and make the most of as commitments mean certain things cannot be changed, but that makes me determined to organise soul building events and to build a positive attitude.
Changes could be big. I'm pre-menopausal and in some ways I'm excited to emerge as a different woman entering a new stage of my life. There are new possibilities and a different attitude to life ahead and I'm looking forward to finding them out. I've been concerned that this will mean I can't do certain things, like the dance I do, but then, another type of dance will take its place at some point and that's okay.
And peace. Hopefully there will be some peace. But for that, changes have to be made and they will be, just not yet, I think.
Waffling again. I need to think. New way of working and living. I can make changes for the better there. It's a start.

What writing throws up.

I thought this week would be easy, but it's hard. Monster Belt is throwing up so many things about my childhood, things mum's told me about her parents and their life, her life and it's all falling into this book and it's wrapped up in the Yorkshire moors which can be bleak beyond desolate. And that's my childhood too. I remember how cold it can be. Chillingly, bone achingly cold.

It makes you want to reach out to people in the past, ones I never knew (I never knew my grandparents) but I can't. It's a different world. And as I'm writing, I'm wondering where this novel, in fact, any of my novels fit.

Concentration

What do we do when we can't concentrate? Go and do something else? But I want to do what I'm doing, working on Monster Belt, but my thoughts keep straying.
Keep telling myself, this is a job, bum on seat, eyes on screen, fingers on the keyboard, but I'm having difficulty controlling my thoughts.
Discipline. That's what I need and I have, I'm just not utilising.

Think one chapter. I'll complete Chapter Sixteen. Leave the edit. Move on to Chapter Seventeen.
I like my characters. I want them on their way. I can do this.

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou

Have to say, came into this biased after hearing some not so complimentary things about working with Wes Anderson. However, I haven't worked with Wes Anderson, so that is someone else's experience, someone I respect, but not my direct opinion.
So, coming in slightly biased.
I immediately enjoyed it, the script, direction, art direction, editing, performances. Loved Steve Zissou lighting a cigarette when his stranger son turns up and the way it/the match burned. Angelica Houston, always a joy. And Owen Wilson, not as actor I usually like, was excellent as Steve's son. Certain roles are made for Bill Murray. I need say no more.
Loved the ship and how we were shown the different rooms, the antique look and the fact that it was eccentric. And the voice over.
The hiatus moments as the scene turned. The irrationality of characters and their emotion and others for their restrained emotion.
And then on another note, what it raises in us, the viewer. The urge for adventure, for spontaneity, for being part of a team with a common cause (this has cropped up a lot this year) following your dream and keeping that sense of awe, respect, appreciation.
The team. Loved the shot of everyone in the submarine and the little sign, 'No more than six people..' and there were about ten. Moments like this are shot through the film.

Where the film slightly lost my attention was with the pirates. Although the camera didn't linger on anyone shot or hurt and injuries didn't seem as bad as you would have thought, keeping that surreal feel, people were shot, I'm not going to give away the plot, so bear with me, but this section didn't hold my attention in the way the rest of the film did and this section took up a vast chunk.And this wasn't a gaping objection, merely a slight dip.
However, it was the device that brought all parts together, it was set up well, 'Don't take us into unprotected waters....' These hints worked as part of the humour rather than sledge hammer signposts. The quick delivery, although given to us more than once, were part of the film's remit.

The Life Aquatic isn't my favourite film of all time, but for much of it, I will watch again and probably find things I missed on the first viewing.

The Monster Belt

Someone has told me to watch The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. I looked it up and read the premise. It goes along the lines of, '....man seeks to find and kill the sea creature that killed his best friend.'

I'm working on my novel, The Monster Belt (working title) at the moment. The premise? 'Young man seeks to find the sea monster that killed his best friend.'

Mmmm. Damn. I watched a clip of The Life Aquatic and really like it. It's nothing like The Monster Belt.

Mmmm. Damn.

Leaving Coty

Chapter seven of this edit of Leaving Coty. Cut, cut, cut, but all for the good of the plot. And the sense of the plot. Tessa isn't the clearest of people in this book. She's got what she wants, but does she want it now? Funny how a book we're writing can change because we as people change. She is striving for something else now and in that striving, the thing she really wants but won't admit, comes along. When we're looking somewhere else...
Now, in reality, in Ruth's World, I'm aware of certain things that came along and went again when I wasn't looking, but now I'm looking because I do want them, and now because I'm looking, they won't come.
Typical.
But, in Tessa's World, I'm in control, so she might just get what she wants, unless my reality dictates.
This book is such a journey.
And I'm desperate to get back to Monster Belt. Very, very fond of Monster Belt.

More JW and childhood

I read a few chapters of Jeanette Winterson's book last night and a few this morning. It's not an autobiography as such, it feels like her thoughts mingled with fiction with fact and you can hear her saying it aloud. This is why I like it so much. And it reminds me of things, things that I knew but were not said, or thought clearly. Some people at her reading said how she inspired them, (young women from Accrington and others) how she resonated with them, how she made them laugh and think. All these things.
Reading her book from her comments reminds me why I too used to read so much. It isn't to lose yourself, it is to find.
There is a coldness to a childhood in the north of England, was, physically due to lack of heating and the weather. There was warmth, a lot of warmth, I had a very happy childhood, but at the edges there is a coldness. Parents weren't involved, children had their own world, there was a difference that now blends between children and parents. If you're lucky.
But we found out on our own. And I read. It's good to be reminded.

Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

AT five o'clock yesterday, Sunday, I went with a friend to hear Jeanette Winterson read and talk about her autobiography, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?
I've only read Oranges are not the only fruit and have seen the television series that was made of it. I don't know the rest of her work, only that it is experimental, she has written some children's books and she is insightful on programmes like The Late Review.
She was funny, interesting, knowledgeable and a great reader. She didn't need anyone to interview her, she could carry an idea, take on board a question from the audience and run with it well enough by herself.
I liked her idea of the inner world seeing us through crises, though my friend pointed out, all very well to say that when you live in Hampstead.
Mmm. It's a mix. We need to look after our outer and inner selves. But we don't need banal aspirations and trivia around us. What does get us through hard times is how we deal with them and that comes from...luck? How we deal with them and that comes from...character? The ability to have an inner world that can get us through rough periods in our lives.
Whatever the outcomes, she made me, I won't speak for everyone, think.
And a young woman from Accrington, where JW is from said her friends were amazed a girl from Accrington could read, let alone write a book. There will be many in Accrington who can read and write and maybe even a novel, but this young woman was inspired by her and had come to Manchester to buy Oranges are not the only fruit and then saw the author was giving the talk.
We could buy books and she signed them and looked you in the eye and responded to everyone, even if they were saying the same as the last, or something similar.

Perfect time of day and the perfect day as well. Five O'clock on a Sunday afternoon. Royal Exchange - we want more!! This should be a regular event.
I'm so glad I went.

Female protagonists

At the writers' group, I'm reading out 'Monster Belt' (working title.) A female writer said she found the female character quite reticent. Her female characters are all out there. She's reticent for a reason. It made me think about all my characters and Jane in Monster Belt and Lizzie in Erosion are both messed up and distrusting.
Tessa in the Coty books is the most grounded and even she is unsure about things.
I think we are all unsure about things at times, that's real. We can put bravado on and plough through regardless. Some people don't. I'm writing about people that do have insecurities.
I do wonder though if readers want to hear this or not though. Do they want their main character as indecisive? Should she be a trail blazer, strong and powerful and entertaining? I'm not writing that kind of book. I don't write those kind of books.
This is me mulling it over. Confusing for the reader? Needs further thought.

After the Flood

I only caught this programme on Radio 4 near the end but you could listen again. It sounded very interesting. Radio 4, Thursday 13th October 11.30 am.
After the Flood
Norfolk-based writer Kevin Crossley-Holland meets East Anglians directly affected by coastal erosion, including storyteller Hugh Lupton, the Bishop of Dunwich and the bellringers and residents of the Norfolk village of Happisburgh. They bring alive Kevin's short story Sea Tongue, about het myth of the drowned bells of Dunwich.
Producer Mark Smalley

Bigger write up:

After the Flood
It's hard to imagine that the tiny Suffolk village of Dunwich was once a thriving medieval port. Much of it was engulfed by a great storm in 1286 but legend has it that the church bells still ring out underwater at certain tides, a legend that inspired Kevin Corssley-Holland's short story Sea Tongue. Here, extracts from his work, read by the people he meets, help to illustrate his elegiac thought-provoking quest to observe the effects of coastal erosion in East Anglia, beginning in Norfolk at Happisburgh's 15th -century church. In 50 years' time it may well have fallen prey to the implacable, gnawing power of the North Sea. Crossley-Holland also meets a self-styled King Canute striving to save the crumbling cliffs at Hunstanton and hears memories of the devastating 1953 floods in which 30 people perished in eastern England alone.

Can you see a film coming on with The Fog-like bells ringing out? Words like explosion and express train were used to describe the house cracking and cliff collapsing. That rings bells.

EROSION IS ON THE AGENDA.

Erosion Synopsis

A chalet collapses into the North Sea. The residents aren't in time to save it or its owners but can they or do they want to save themselves? New comer, Lizzie Juniper, finds herself enmeshed in a mystery that culminates with reverberations of the Gunpowder Plot.

'Erosion' is a contemporary novel set on Yorkshire's crumbling coastline. We think of erosion as a now familiar fall of rocks and earth into the sea, but in this novel it is the characters, not the landscape that hold the key to the collapse of a remote chalet park. A loner with nowhere left to go, twenty-four year old Lizzie Juniper finds herself in this forgotten community and she has to discover if it is really the sea that is taking away their lives or some other force that has the potential to undermine everything she is trying to build.

In the opening chapter, Lizzie witnesses the cliff crash into the North Sea. It takes with it one of the chalets and its owners. The residents not in immediate jeopardy are given five days to vacate. As chapters progress, fiery-haired Lizzie finds her new neighbours are reluctant to leave despite the approaching danger. Lizzie however, is determined that this time, her lover, Andrew Booth, owner of Moorland Castle, will do the right thing and let her stay in the Castle Gatehouse. With the entire area booked up for Halloween Weekend, she has nowhere else to go. Before he can do so however, he disappears and she is barred from re-entering the stately home where she worked as a guide. Each sun filled, late October day passes with some startling development whilst artist Jez paints their portraits, nationalist Randolph grows increasingly violent and a feast to mark the day of the dead is held.
Ex-bomb disposal expert Peter takes possession of mysterious parcels and the two remaining couples bake cakes, cook farewell dinners and reflect on the past.
When Jez paints LIzzie's portrait at the local art club, she finds her increasingly emotional self unexpectedly exposed under his scrutiny. This feeling of dropping the mask builds until later, he hides with her amongst the colourful fabrics in Marilyn's closet and she finds she can finally trust someone.
It is Plot Night; November 4th, the night before Moorland Castle's annual bonfire and firework display. Lizzie has almost worked out exactly what force is destroying the chalet park and its residents, what significance the portraits hold and why Peter is on a bus bound for Scarborough. A body lies in the Castle's double Priest Hide, surrounded by a last act of defiance and Randolph and Jez prepare a final farewell to the chalet park.
Leaving behind the Priest Hide and its secrets, Lizzie and Jez escape down the old smuggler's passage back to the beach where the cliff continues to crumble and Randolph chooses to remain. It is as though everything always leads back to the sea. Lizzie and Jez have one chance of a new life, but it isn't an easy choice.

'Erosion' is about more than a collapsing cliff face' it is about the disappearance of a way of life and what people with nothing left to lose are capable of when pushed to the edge.

'The cliff towered over them, looking painful like burnt, smarting flesh. The only movement being a gentle wind ruffling the scrub land grass. And then, without warning, the cliff began to move. Rivulets of soil crumbled gently, cascading like dusty waterfalls.'

'Erosion' holds something of the sweeping vistas of director David Lean's, 'Ryan's Daughter' and a flavour of the mystery of Daphne du Maurier's 'Rebecca.'

Erosion

Right. Finished that edit of Erosion. Now it's put away for a few weeks and then I'll revisit it, hopefully, please dear God, hopefully for the last time.
So, re-working the synopsis as I find those so difficult and continuing with Monster Belt. I'm glad. Looking at Erosion again, I can feel the characters of Monster Belt taking over and they can't, they're different. So it's a relief that I can put Erosion away for now.
And an image for Monster Belt. So much choice. What will it be? Goodbye Lizzie and Jez, hello Jane and Harris. Oh, and hello to the monster that lies in the crevices in everyone's head.

Wish I was here right now, in Oliva, Spain.

Changes

This year is full of changes. Another one today. Feel they are here to tell me something even if I can't always work out what it is.
I feel I'm beginning to understand certain things, about the wider picture of it all, and then something small and personal and selfish hits me.
This is life, I guess.

And in all this, I want to write the best book ever written!

But which one? Monster Belt, Meeting Coty (no, that's done and it's not the best, parts are..) Erosion, Leaving Coty or Jiddy Vardy?

I think it's between Leaving Coty and Monster Belt.

Okay. So, I'm learning things about the bigger picture....

Starting again

Changing our World

I'm not sure about the phrase 'think big.' If we think so big, the vastness of the idea, plan, dream, is intangible. Can be.
I prefer, start small, but also, think in numbers. Each individual performs one small act that if performed by many, many individuals, it becomes that one big thing.
More and more I'm believing in the power of many rather than of one. It feels better and it is more likely to make that idea, plan, dream become tangible and the process of getting there, to that aim, so much more enjoyable. It's the getting there that is part of the process too.

So, to change our world, start small. I'll show kindness, I'll have kindness shown to me, I'll pass it on and that other person will, to another and another. If we pass on kindness, thoughtfulness, common sense, attitudes will change, we won't need to slam people up in prisons, punish, shout, hit out, blame.
How long will this take?

There are already people out there doing this, so all we need to do, is to hold out our hands and join in.

5

5

A clairvoyant told me to watch out for the number 5. This October, I've heard has 5 Mondays, 5 this, 5 that. Should I be excited or nervous? My gut instinct is to be excited. I don't want to waste it, whatever it is.

Fourth funeral of the year

The Minister read out this poem at a funeral I went to on Tuesday. You can substitute 'he' for 'she'

You can shed tears that she is gone,
Or you can smile because she lived.
You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back,
Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left.

Your heart can be empty because you can't see her
Or you can be full of the love that you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember her and only that she is gone,
Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on,
You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back,
Or you can do what she would want:
Smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

Life's Mix

Yikes. Just re-read the last entry. It doesn't sound like me at all and also I'm re-iterating things from other people which I'm not sure I agree with. I talk such nonsense at times...at times?
Well. Fourth funeral of the year tomorrow. It could be the set up for a play for today, tomorrow's funeral, over in Yorkshire again, but the lady involved was a person worth remembering so we'll put aside the background drama. She wanted to be a missionary and probably because of her modesty and small stature, she was turned down. She would have been ideal. Very strong willed underneath a gentle persona. Setting off today, visiting my godmother, the widow of the 100 year old gentle, kind, highly intelligent man who died not so long ago.
Back Wednesday evening and think I'm going to an erotic flash fiction night as part of Didsbury Festival...

Just started re-reading A Kind of Loving. The voice of the main character, Vince, reminds me so much of a friend it makes me laugh. Smile and laugh. Vince is very funny. That's the key. You follow him because he is funny in a very northern way.
I've been sounding angry lately. Humour is the key. Laugh and the world laughs with you...
Life is about living.

Explanations

"What has what 'they' think got to do with my life? They'll think what they like whatever you do and some might be right and some might be wrong. But they can't know because nobody lives inside your skin but you.
In the last resort you're on your own. Nobody knows but you. It's you who makes the decisions and lives with them.....
....So am I expecting approval for what I'm going to do? Do I send a memo round explaining, so I won't be misjudged? And if I do and manage to get it all down accurately, will they understand then?'
Stan Barstow.

I know, I know, I'm quoting someone else, but I want to. I was asked to justify myself at the weekend. No.

Writers' Groups

It's great the writers' group is so successful that the number of members has swelled, but less good in that we now read out more intermittently which means the process of writing or editing work slows and threads are less easy to follow. In some ways, I'd like to pick and choose the ones I follow, but that is not how it works. We could splinter into smaller groups, maybe chosen by genre. Maybe that way advice would be more pointed. But then I wouldn't hear genres I wouldn't naturally pick and that would be a mistake.

Mmm.

Didn't get to read out Chapter 3 of Monster Belt. Can you tell?

Writing

Chapter 3 of Monster Belt ready for the writers' group tonight. Chapter 26 of Erosion with its emphasis changed. Trouble is, swapping between the two on the same day, will Lizzie merge with Jane? I don't think so, they are very different, but my female characters are very contradictory in everything they do and think. But then, isn't everyone?
No.
Better if characters in books are though.

Going to make an apple crumble in a bit. Apples from the garden. And custard. Winter food in autumn. Jacket potatoes are in the oven now.
Didsbury Arts' Festival starting next week too. And the Manchester Literature Festival looming.
And currently, Musicians Without Borders. Juba gig Friday. Great stuff.

Sometimes...

Sometimes I think it gets to the point when you need to quieten all the voices and noises around you so that you can hear what's going on inside yourself.

Screenwriters

Read an ex-student's short film script this morning. It is uplifting to see talent. A story told simply, from the words could see the visuals on the screen, realistic dialogue and the events flowing naturally, imaginatively, and giving that tug to the emotions that we know what is happening, will happen, but it's right we know and that the inevitable is the right end. And we feel satisfied.
And I know she isn't the only one who can do this. The future of film is in safe hands.

Friday afternoon

Downstairs, Miranda is playing the theme music for Amelie on the piano. The sky outside threatens rain. The air hangs with that autumn grey quiet. A lamp illuminates the computer screen. It's a time for tea and crumpets and butter and snuggling on a sofa to watch on old black and white.
What's that word? Languishing. Despondent? Without thought. Drifting. The keys ring out from downstairs, upwards, along the corridor.
Comforting.

Death

Paul, the guy with the red hair, died on my uncle George's birthday, 26th June, 2001. I think that's right. Paul was forty. My uncle George died shortly after his 100th birthday, 26th of June, 2011. This is the first year I forgot the anniversary of my father's death, 29th August 1991.
Don't let anyone tell you that death brings people together. It doesn't. It blows you apart.

The Monster Belt

Here's a first stab at the synopsis of Monster Belt:
There are caverns in everyone's head where monsters lurk. And there's a belt between two latitudes in the Northern Hemisphere where flesh and blood monsters exist.

Harris White needs to find the monster that killed his best friend over ten years ago. Two twelve year old boys, out boating as they did every day off the Balearic island of Formentera, drinking a couple of bottles of San Miguel, dive into the cool water. Jonah disappears and Harris stares into the large dark eye of the monster that has taken him.

Jane Clark lives in Hawksmoor, West Yorkshire, the central point of the Monster Belt and home to the annual Monster Convention. She dreams of being killed by large spiked hair curlers and strives to work in London. Fresh from university, the job market is bleak and she agrees to accompany Harris on his quest of the Belt.

What bonds them is the disappearance of a young boy in the local lake called The Mere. Legend has it that a monster lurks there; the Mere Monster. Jane doesn't believe in monsters, Harris believes that is all that makes up the world.

Harris grows increasingly preoccupied and frustrated that Jonah's killer will not show itself and unsettled by his withdrawal, Jane's inner demon can no longer be ignored. Bother their monsters are close to home but they are lodged where least expected.

Returning the following year to Hawksmoor for the next convention, the perpetual downpour floods the rivers which pour down into the Mere, saturating the marshland and as the water floods into the valley, cutting off the Bunkhouse Hotel where the convention visitors await rescue and Harris and Jane sit marooned on the roof, deciding whether or not to jump into the murky water and risk confronting the Mere Monster.

And the real test is how we confront the monster within.

Ever had days like this?

Onwards

I know, I know, I keep saying I'm working on the final edit of Erosion, but this is the FINAL ONE. And so, at Writers' group, I've now read two chapters of Monster Belt out. Focus, focus, that wonderful word.
So, three hundred final pages of Erosion to plough through, holding concentration and the thread.
Monster Belt - well, it's written, but at 62,000 words, it's too short. I hate novels that are obviously padded, so need to start digging down to see what I can discover about Jane and Harris. Jane, fresh from university, believing in her own cynicism and Harris, a hippy child brought up on an island in the Med, is an expert where monsters are concerned.Jane dreams about being eaten by hair curlers in underground caves. She lives in a village that is at the central point of the two latitudes that form the Monster Belt. And in the village lake there lurks a monster that takes children's lives.
She's nothing to do all summer except work part-time in the village pub. Why shouldn't she go with Harris and find out if monsters really exist?

Decisions

Sometimes it doesn't matter what the decision is, it's the making of it. You decide and act on it and then, with your head clearer you can do this, then you do that, could be small things you do, but you do them and it gets easier to do the next thing.
I remember mum telling me about when she suffered from serious anaemia after I was born and she was so, so tired. And depressed probably. She couldn't think or face anything and she remembers standing at the sink washing up. She washed one thing, rinsed it, dried it and put it away. Then a spoon, washed, rinsed, dried, put in the drawer. Then a fork. Then a knife, a plate, following the sequence until all the washing up was done. That's the only way she could do it.
Sometimes that's all we can do. Work through the pile that seems so big, too big, one small step at a time. And then hopefully, it's done.

The sea

I must go down to the seas again,
To the lonely sea and the sky.
And all I ask is a fair ship
And a star to steer her by.
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking
And a grey mist on the sea's face and the grey dawn breaking.

From memory, I couldn't quite get it right. I looked it up. This is how it stands now. John Masefield. Something that would be good to do today, good to do on many days.

Driving

I drove over to Ilkley in Yorkshire this evening to pick up my mother. Re-reading that, it sounds funny, but I'm not going to re-write. Set off about half past six, quarter to seven. I came off the M60/62 and headed on the M66 Bury-Colne-Skipton route. I love the spectacle of Saddleworth Moor high on the tops, but this way, the Colne direction, I enter Yorkshire through the quiet way in. The hills spread almost immediately beyond the towns and you sense very soon that the countryside is nearby.
The sunset tonight glowed to my left and then behind. Deep rose flushed with warmth. And as Addingham and Ilkley loomed, Beamsley Beacon and the moors and tree tops lay tinged in a golden pink glow as the sky began to darken and the sun dipped behind the horizon as at a private bonfire.
The air smelt clean and of straw. I know what I mean by that! A tractor ploughed late. Three horses, sheep grazing, cows, heads down nuzzling grass.
It was a good drive. It felt like home.

Yet again...

Ha. Ever get the feeling you've loaded the gun and shot it at yourself?

Hope

"There were many ways
Of breaking a heart.
Stories were full of hearts
Broken by love,
But what really broke
A heart
was taking away
its dream -
Whatever that dream
might be."

Pearl Buck

Rough Water

Is it possible to turn the boat around and paddle back up river?
Can you do it alone if you've got enough determination and strength? Can someone else help when they don't know the bends and turns and where the rocks are as well as you?
There's a sandy cove that catches the sun. It's an easy place to pull up the boat; gentle, restful, once you know it, there'll be no surprises.
Someone's standing on the bridge. You crane your neck and squint but you can't see where the road leads. Into the mountains?
Turn the boat around and paddle hard or stay with the current and see where it leads?

Tribe of Doris photos

Love

Strange how things connect with a common thread. I went to my Uncle George's funeral last Monday. He had a wonderful 100th birthday at the end of June, which was a joyful celebration and then, August, a full church of friends, colleagues and family. The vicar asked how we can judge what is a successful life: the amount of love around. There was lots of love and respect for Uncle George that day. I'm Auntie Joan's god-daughter, so was asked to read Chapter 13, 1 Corinthians. We all know it.
'I may be able to speak the languages of men and even of angels, but if I have no love, my speech is no more than a noisy gong or a clanging bell.....if I have no love, I am nothing...if I have no love, this does me no good.
Love is patient and kind; it is not jealous or conceited or proud; love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable; love does not keep a record of wrongs; love is not happy with evil, but is happy with the truth. Love never gives up; and its faith, hope and patience never fail.....' and it goes on.
I hadn't rehearsed this version and I hadn't planned on the entire chapter. It came as a shock when I opened the order of service and saw it all printed out. Thank goodness it was printed out. I read through it a few times to look for where to place emphasis. The vicar spoke of love. He gestured me to the podium and microphone. The family sat at the front. It was a privilege to read.

And the next morning, we drove down to Somerset to the Tribe of Doris Festival. And that emanated love and forgiveness and kindness echoing the sentiments of the funeral service.
I'm going to try and retain all that, remember it - live it.

The Tribe of Doris

'Doris' means 'doorway.' The week spent at The Tribe of Doris Intercultural Summer School of Drumming, Dance and Song near Wellington in Somerset opened many doorways. You could be cynical about the whole thing, but being there, spending a week in the fresh air camping, creating music and dance with a feeling of sharing, forgiving, loving and concentrating on posititivity, it was impossible to resist the spirituality of the site.
I learnt to spin like a whirling dirvish and not fall over or feel sick because the spinning isn't about the physical act, but about concentrating on receiving love from the vertically, loosely extending left hand and giving love out through the loosely horizontally, palm downwards, facing right hand, eyes open, and slowly coming to a stop and then you can spin and spin. If your arms tire, place them crossed over your chest. Sheikh Ahmad Dede spoke and sang of forgiving - of how we are receptacles to ask for love and pass it out so that more love comes back. The whirling is because everything whirls, the earth round the sun, the earth on its axis, the moon around the earth. And we are all part of the universe. It made sense and felt a way to live that would be a relief in many ways. Keep it simple, think positivily, put away negative thoughts. Forgive. It's more effort and hurtful to all involved not to forgive. Follow your conscience nd trust the universe and it will work out. Similar thoughts came out in Denise Rowe's Contemporary African Dance classes too amongst other things. That was the main message from Doris. Trust the universe. And if we work together we can accomplish great things. Think we need that more than ever right now.
The skies clouded during the Saturday night Open Air show when everyone performed what they had experienced and learnt in the week's workshops. People waved away the clouds. The clouds went. The evening was clear. You couldn't not believe there was something in the power of collective positive thought.
There is so much to say about this week in Somerset. It'll have to be a daily update and I'll work through the week from the day we arrived, Tuesday the 9th of August at about eleven in the morning, for the Opening Ceremony at twelve, until Sunday the 14th, about two fifteen after the closing ceremony at noon until two. In the sunshine.

The Holy Name

It's easy to believe in God when you sit in a church. For one, it's cool on a hot, sweltering day. And then there is the calm atmosphere. No-one runs or shouts. No phones, computers or business. People walk slowly or stand or sit quietly. And there is peace in sitting doing nothing. No distractions. And then you look around. It's beautiful whether it's a plain church or ornate like The Holy Name on Oxford Road in Manchester.
Last Monday, August 1st we sat in a pew attending a funeral, the traditional funeral mass, entirely in latin.
The alter, backed by intricate high carvings, backed by a tall stained glass window and a roofed walkway set the stage for the ceremony. Candles glowed. Two dark suited sons and four other men carried in the coffin, straining, followed by close family. The emotion at the sight of them overwhelms. There seems no control over the sudden surge of sadness. Breathe. I'd taken four pieces of kitchen roll. Used the first. Calm down. Is it empathy? Memories of other funerals? Sadness for someone dying too young and the family left behind?
The service leaflet, printed with Mick's face, date of birth and death, translated the latin for us. I didn't read it, but listened without understanding. It didn't matter. I watched the Priests carry out the service and listened to the male voices singing from the organ loft behind. And looked at the stained glass windows and the high, high vaulted roof and a woman in front dabbing her eyes and the row of young men, obviously school friends of one of the sons, smart in their suits, some more comfortable than others and one in black plimsols, the nearest to black shoes.
Three Priests bobbed to the alter in unison.
You can believe in a force greater than us when you hear voices pitch perfect and clear and sunlight streaming through coloured glass forming softer echoes on stone and feel the cool of an ancient building soothe away the city's heat and unite with a large group of people over a common reason.

The Lost Steps by Alejo Carpentier

For now: http://occasionalreview.blogspot.com/2007/07/lost-steps-by-alejo-carpentier.html

A Good Read

I'm reading Margaret Atwood's 'The Handmaid's Tale.' This is my first reading of the book. Is it why I'm feeling so down?

That's the thing about good literature. It does affect our mood. It seeps into us and we walk around, maybe not with anything concrete from the book in our minds, but a sense of difference. A question. Why do I feel like this? We may tend not to put it down to what we are reading, but it could simply be that.

Good literature can affect our view of the world, the way we think, the way we look at other people, other places. It makes us more understanding. Makes us angry, defiant.
Makes us believe. Makes us laugh.

Like music, it changes our mood, enriches, transforms, educates.

'The Handmaid's Tale' gives us information in drips. They accumulate, grow and increase. It doesn't spoonfeed. For that I am very grateful.
And it is not self important and pompous in its length. I really dislike books that pad themselves out and say, 'Aren't I important and clever because I'm so BIG.'
A good book is modest. It doesn't need to do that. Every word is there for a purpose and it doesn't sledge hammer or waffle or repeat pointlessly and annoyingly and it doesn't let the reader down.

And I love the pages. They are silkly smooth, slighly off white, you flick your fingers over the edges and they turn easily, no sticking. The cover is hard and the image intriguing. But most of all it is the feel of the pages I like. Touch. Back to touch. It is so important. Books to hold in the hand. To feel.


And it's raining, raining for three days. As it Thomas Hardy novels, the weather suits the mood of the character.

Mid July

Watched 'The Miracle Worker' again last week. Late at night. Cat by my side. On my own, which I like doing late at night with certain films like this one.
The opening visuals with the credits and music are stunning. Black and white. The iconic image of the blind Helen Keller, arms outstretched, reaching for something, wandering over the horizon and down the hill. And then her mother following.

Her coming into a room seen through the reflection in a large Christmas tree bauble. She reaches out. It breaks.

Legs kicking, heels pounding on the floor.

Sheets blowing on the washing line and becoming entangled.

And then The Scene. The battle of wills between deaf and blind Helen and her teacher, Annie Sullivan, once blind herself, after several operations and eye drops and glasses, able to see.

The Scene goes on and on. Helen WILL sit down on a chair at the table and eat her food from her own plate with a spoon. She has never done this before and never been stopped from wandering around the table eating from other people's plates. Annie isn't having that. And it's violent. Looks improvised. Even the actors are suprised and desperate and shattered. It's not pretty. It's also funny and shocking.

And then there are the hazy images when the past leaks into the present as Annie is tortured with memories of the time she and her younger brother, Jimmy, grew up in a workhouse.

The only way Annie can reach Helen who is growing more and more distant by the day, is through touch.

The Miracle Worker, starring Anne Bancroft and Patty Duke, directed by Arthur Penn in 1962 is highly recommended.

The Big Blue

The Big Blue, directed by Luc Besson. I had the box here. Someone's run away with it. I'll have to write about it tomorrow, the details I mean, starring Jean Reno, Rosanna Arquette....
Great sense of humour, beautiful visuals, haunting music (very 80s) some bits that bother me, but less so on this latest viewing (Rosanna Arquette's character) and an ending that makes me cry but makes me yearn for the same as the main character experiences. Trying not to spoil it if you haven't seen the film. The ending is right for the characters and the story and I'm sure many of us at some point feel that is the way we'd like to swim, float, drift...

Post The Reading

The Untitled Gallery at 6, Mount Street in the centre of Manchester isn't easily visible, but if you follow the road round from the front of the Quaker Meeting House, keeping to the right, there is a doorway and a sign on the wall. Two charities and Commonword are also resident here. Katie Rutherford, the Director of the gallery opened the door. A little sloping corridor with a bicycle parked up. White washed brick walls. Other corridors.
The Untitled Gallery is a long narrow whitewashed room. A little wooden child's desk and chair stood to the right of the doorway. This was where the writer would sit, typing on a Mac.
At the far end was Katie's desk and all her paperwork, phone, computer etc and a large screen with a projector on the ceiling showing the words typed, changed, corrected, poured out.
And along both walls were a series of old wooden shelves from a disused school library with books, spines to the room - well, blocks that looked like books. This was the Re-Covering Exhibition. I walked down the lines of books and recognised some titles but not the covers. Artists had chosen a book and designed their own cover. I liked the concept. These covers, some with lights attached, bulbous barnicle of wood, flames, holes, images were engaging, interesting, puzzling. Worth a viewing. Even an Enid Blyton title that I hadn't heard of with a beautifully illustrated cover and colour. And bullet holes in another and wood textures. The old school desk and chair blended with the theme.
The idea for The Reading is for the writer to take inspiration from the surroundings, people around and the last paragraph left by the previous writer. I had vaguely thought of an idea in case my mind was blank. The last paragraph of the previous writer proved I couldn't use it without a leap.
Two male characters, un-named. They'd lost their jobs on the building site, one was an expert in cleaning glass partitions, they were going to buy shoes.
I was off. And then I wasn't. I was asked very politely if I'd come off the computer as several venues weren't picking up the link to view the writing on their screens. It was being sent to The Cornerhouse, John Ryland Library, the City Art Gallery, Chinese Gallery, MMU library...other places. Several times over hours these needed to be sorted. And were.

The three hours passed quickly. I didn't edit. The odd word that came out back to front or miss-spelt, but I merely kept writing, moving the story forward, axing John and adding Eve. Taking the story on at a pace, introducing elements. Hoping it wasn't total rubbish.
And then I was finished. Katie had made me a cup of tea at the beginning, asked if I wanted another, but I didn't need it.
The writer after me hadn't appeared, I couldn't stay longer, my back ached, my head was dizzy. I had enjoyed the experience very, very much. Forced to write, forced to write using your wits at that moment was fun, interesting and inspiring.
I'm grateful for the opportunity, the experience and being part of some bigger project. I'd love to read the entire flow of different author's sections, see the changes, the movement, how and if it hangs together as a complete story.

I hope people around the city will follow this and also visit the Untitled Gallery. That is an experience worth finding out.

The Reading

Today between twelve and three I doing my slot as part of The Reading. A writer sits for three hours at a computer in the Untitled Gallery on Mount Street, reads the last paragraph left by the previous writer and then continues.
Whatever they create is screened as they write to screens in The Cornerhouse, the City Art Gallery, the Anthony Burgess Centre, MMU Library....

A View from a Bridge

Well, it was worth it. A View From a Bridge at The Royal Exchange was mesmerising. The direction, staging of the set, the minimal set itself, costumes, lighting, sound were spot on. But the script and the acting were what made it so stunning. I was stunned.
Beatrice stood out most for me. Her dilemma, shown so brilliantly. I'll look up the names of the cast. Flawless accents, totally believable and heartbreaking.
Eddie emitted a great deal of flying spray from his mouth as he punched out his words, so not sure what other cast members felt about that, but he was hunched and angry and frustrated and torn.
Arthur Miller's words from the lawyer were poetic but real. Wonderful to listen to and must have been a gift to speak. Then the family and the cousins. Tough, gutteral and painful.
Oh, and in places it was very funny. Good use of facial expressions.

I sat on the banquette (£9 - only available by phone or in person, not on-line) I'd had such an annoying time to purchase and sat spellbound. The auditorium was packed. One tip, don't sit behind the rocking chair!
Watching a story played out by people in front of you is far more effecting than on a screen. Yet again, the argument that theatre should be accessible for all - all types of theatre. Like last Friday at Digitfest at The Lowry, being part of The Rite of Spring. Such different 'live' experiences, but one that makes life so much richer. I understand more, I will forgive more, I won't be so angry about a theatre ticket.
And at the end, a woman stood up from the banquette a few places away from me and said to anyone who was listening, 'AND he was married to Marilyn Monroe!'

Apologies

Why is it people seem to have lost the capacity to say, 'Sorry?' What's so hard about it? You realise something is your fault, you apologise, it's quick, and everyone usually feels better. When it's meant.
But there seems to be a blockage in some people's brain. I hope they're not being obstinate on purpose as that is a whole other issue. I don't believe they are. It seems as if certain people genuinely think they've done nothing wrong. They can't see it.
A friend came round last night. A woman had driven into the back of her car. No apology. No damage was done and that was agreed. Eventually the woman barked, I don't really mean it, 'Sorry.'
Just now I tried to book tickets online at The Royal Exhange on their website. It kept coming up as an error.
I ended up phoning. Took ages to get through. I booked tickets. When I asked why I couldn't book online, he said because there are only bangquettes left and they don't come up online. I said, well I've got the page infront of me 'Banquettes, £9, and I've clicked for two seats' He said no isn't up there. I said yes it is, no it isn't, yes it is. Where did you look? Your website. I'd tried to say, just tell someone to put on the website you can only book banquettes on the phone or in person at the box office. He wanted proof I'd seen the page. He said it comes up as the seating plan, yes, and I said I'd clicked 'available seats.' He did, oh, yes, there are bangquettes advertised.......
'So you believe me now?' I quipped.
'Well, you went a different way.'
'It's on your website, maybe just tell someone.....'
In the end I said, 'I accept your apology.'
No comment.
What is so hard? 'Oh, yes, sorry.'
The customer is always right? I WAS RIGHT. Why on earth would I make it up?

Just say sorry, everyone feels a whole lot better and we can get on with it. I'm now ranting. I now want to complain about this guy on the box office. I want to enjoy going to see 'A View from a Bridge' because I've heard it is excellent. I don't go often to the Royal Exchange. This experience trying to book isn't encouraging especially when you are interrogated and checked up on and then left floating in the void thinking, 'what happened there?'

On The Wire - Digitfest, The Lowry

THE LOWRY - DIITAL ARTS WEEKEND
Last night, Friday was the dance day of Digitfest at The Lowry. I booked for the Workshop, On the Wire with Dora DaCruz (dance) and Tim and Amanda Simpson Photography (lights)
We didn't really know what to expect. There were ten of us. Each session was available for ten people. Studio 2.
I'm not sure about the title, but wires, electrics...fair enough.
I love the idea of mixing technology with the arts so was keen to try something I've never tried before. Everyone was unsure about what was going to happen, but seemed excited.
A 'camera' was set up near the centre of the room, a white wall, and a screen, printer, equipment on a table and music. We were welcomed and it was clearly explained what we were going to do. Dora felt drums were the best to bring out our inner warrior so that played. Felt right.
We took turns to spin across the floor holding some form of light, a long cylindar, two small pin like shapes, a circular space ship looking one. And immediately the streaks and images we produced appeared on the screen. It soon became apparant that the best images came from walking and moving the lights. It was the lights that needed to move, best slowly, rather than our bodies to dance.
To watch, it was more interesting to see dancing with the lights, to see the image on screen, it was best to have made the lights move slowly.
And so we learnt. The poses or jumps that were photographed at the end of each turn, following a trail of light were impressive. 3-D trails, coloured squiggles, glowing spheres injected in. Shadows were created, powerful poses, Jackson Pollock trails, sciencefiction type tubes.
Dora inspired, Tim and Amanda, the lighting photographers instructed and encouraged and everyone applauded. It was a safe, fun, interesting, inspiring, creative environment.
It left me wanting more. To take longer to explore moving the lights, playing with them, finding out what you could do.
Tim said there is no right or wrong. Dora feels the same. It was a new experience that I would happily repeat. All sorts of groups would benefit. The combination worked perfectly.
The pace of the hour never flagged so we kept creating. A definite recommendation.

Glasgow West End Festival

Look this festival up on youtube and flickr - Juba do Leao and the Glasgow West End Festival 2011.

To be part of something bigger than yourself is possibly one of the best feelings you can experience. Having said that, I am high, high up emotionally from the weekend we have spent in Glasgow (I'm not explaining it and should do and will do, but wanted to get something down quickly) - I love standing on a hill top, dancing, hearing a song sung from the soul, the sound of the sea in the evening, the smell of wet gardens and roses and orange blossom and bread and a foreign place and....but right now, today, the feeling of belonging is strong.

Inspiration

Tonight I went with a friend, by chance really, to 'Sam Brown's DJ night with Chanje Kunda at the Iguana Bar on Manchester Road in Chorlton as part of Chorlton Arts Festival.
The warmth (not from the heating) in the room grew and grew. Smiling faces, colourful dresses, rhymtic movements, words, words, words.
Poetry that wasn't about blah but that passionately spoke of the world, people, the world we live in, want to, have done, continue to do. About women not prepared to be used as bodies, that we have more to offer, that we want to use our thoughts and our minds and spirits.
About language and bankers about love and old style courting. And love. And politics. And love.

The movement of the lyrics and lines and verses flowed through the spoken words and moving bodies.
Songs exploring breath and sound and emotion. A harmonica and heartache. And joy throughout everything. A joy in the words and sharing. Everything flowed outwards nothing was taken back. Beautiful.

All the performers shared their words with facial expression, body ripples and lifts, eye contact, smiles, pauses, silence, sound and meticulous articulation. We heard the cleverness of the ideas and the rhymes, the passion of the emotion and the humour of the predicaments and the pain of the human condition.

And Chanje Kunda gave us her poetry and song and held the evening together, telling people they'd been on long enough, get off, calling people to the open mic and ending with a song. One Voice. She is on tour. Hip hop, reggae and rap. I've learnt a lot tonight.
Thank you to the Iguana Bar for hosting this event. Thank you to Sue for suggesting it. I feel inspired as a writer and a human being and a woman.

Seve Ballesteros

The Spanish golfer, Seve Ballesteros has died aged fifty-four. With my dad, I used to watch him play on television. He shone, both his golf playing and personality. People who knew nothing of golf knew about him.
He had brain cancer and I was still shocked to hear he was dead.

Living

Lizzie has been through the wringer. At first she was just out for herself. Then she was all over the place, one minute she felt this, the next that, who could tell what she'd do next?
When would she snap out of it?

There's supposed to come a point when we all snap out of it, isn't there? Everybody's turning point, moment of revelation, when we say, 'enough is enough' comes in our own time.

The difference is, Lizzie is a character in a book. She has to be real, but a distorted real. At some point in the pages she must change.

It has taken a long time to get to know Lizzie. I knew Tessa in 'Meeting Coty' immediately. Lizzie is different. She had no goal. She didn't have many redeeming qualities. She didn't have people around her who could define her.
And then there are people. Stangers who accept her immediately. And Jez who seems to see another side of her that no-one has recognised before.

Is that what all of us are looking for? Someone else to see where we sparkle inside? This isn't confidence I'm talking about, this is the recognition that we are here to interact. No show, no prestige, no one up manship, no gloss, just the basic needs we have.
I read a book years ago which I must re-read about a journalist who travels to the Amazon. He's an intellectual, he comes from a wealthy background, he thinks he knows everything. He meets a woman and this goes out of the window as only she and he exist in the Amazon.
He is happy just living day to day and then a rescue party arrives. He is elated. He can go back to civilisation. She doesn't want to go. He goes and almost straight away regrets his decision. He tries to refind the place where they lived. He cannot find it. I can't remember if he eventually does and she is living happily with someone else.
That doesn't make a bad ending, it's actually better because it shows that she lives by her needs and is happy with that. He was doing the same until his brain kicked back into gear.
So. And I've wondered this before. Would we be better off not intellectualising everything and just get on with living?
Ha. The irony.
I'm digressing too. I know what's going on in my head, well, sort of. And I'm wasting time talking about it. And making excuses. Start again?
No-one is an island as my mum would say. How do we become an island? Break off from the mainland? Mmm. Lonely. Where's that other island?

And then

Publishing

A discussion following the London Book Fair about how to get to writers before they take the self publishing route:

The final comment is that traditional publishing is dying and has been since the early 1990s.
The only way for writers is Print on Demand and then use a good marketing, publishing, new media company to get the book on phones and reading devices. Not the traditional book format. You will need to pay for this service.

All traditional advertising is to point people to your website.

And will you make a living? Another discussion.

A writer who went the self publishing route with a children's picture book took advice from schools and libraries and other resources. Kodak displayed the book at the London Book Fair. A follow up comment from a children's publisher invited this author to send him the book. As did another.

There are suggestions that many agents and publishers are rude and difficult to reach. There are some that are not. A few. One well known publisher usually rejects and tells you to buy her book on publishing. Briefly.

Contacts? Who you know? Become a 'celebrity' and publishers will ask you to write a work of fiction. A review of Dawn French's novel said it was good but went on to say that if it had been written by an unknown, it would not have been published.

That's the world - it's not merely moved onto electronic publishing.

It's not only that traditional publishing is dead because of its format, it's dead because for many it's a story that's written by someone whose picture they recognise.
And what drives this? Success. Success breeds success. And then the question, what is your definition of success?

One makes me want to throw up.The other fills me with joy.

May 1st

Four sides of York on May the 1st. Outside York Minster and in the Museum Gardens.

Odd

Disorientating feeling when you feel out of sync with those around you. Floating in a different reality, not understanding or being understood. Knowing something isn't right and wondering why when it seemed all right last week or even yesterday and what's wrong with you.
And words coming out of your mouth that aren't what you want to say. Trivial words not what you're thinking or feeling, but non-entities, banal and you wonder why you can't be yourself when everybody else seems to be. Or do they?
Like a cold, misty winter's day that never clears.

Coming to the end.

This is hard. I want to protect all the people in the Chalet Park and I can't.

Julia Child and French Cooking

Watched a film called, 'Julie, Julia' or was it 'Julia and Julie?' It was the story of two chefs. Both amateurs. Both loved food. In the 1940s, an American living in Paris for a few years, Julia Child co-wrote a book on french cooking for the Americans while studying french cooking.
In modern day New York, Julie Powell, who worships Julia Child, spends a year working through the recipe book and keeping a blog on it. This becomes the basis for the book and then this film.
Meryl Streep as Julia Child is funny and brilliant. Amy Adams is perfectly stroppy and charming as Julie.
I've been downstairs to fetch the DVD box. It's 'Julie and Julia.'

Stanley Tucci is excellent too. All the cast are.
It's a Nora Ephron film (Sleepless in Seattle, When Harry met Sally) and it has her touches and slants but less so than her other films. Just glimpses probably because the Julia Child character is so strong. Meryl Streep is so strong playing her. Her voice fills the air.
And the food. The food. It's made me want to go and buy the book, 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking' even though I know I will never make half the dishes, like dressed lamb and lobsters. That scene....I won't spoil it.
But there are other dishes I will definitely make. I know the first. Beef Bourginon. Done in her way. And butter, butter, butter. I love butter anyway, definitely Anchor Butter, but I'm going to use it more. The flavour is described in the film when used in sauces and to cover a chicken and to, oh, do so much. And closing your eyes you taste it.
Isn't it wonderful when your senses kick in? Like smelling coffee and fresh bread and the first cut grass of the year and the last? Like the aroma of delicate roses or jasmine? Fresh paint?
And the taste of fresh bread. And buttery cake.
I want to clear out the freezer of anything I haven't made. Only fresh food cooked well. And sitting round a table sharing it with friends and family. Isn't that what life is about? I've often wished I was that type of person, I think you have to be a genuine giving, loving, sharing person to cook like this. I'm going to try. Will it be like the chicken and the egg? Which will come first? Will they blend as I pulverise vegetables into a soup?! Or as I beat eggs for a cake?
Will this help find what is important?

Mmm. Thinking about what to cook tonight. I know it's soup (home made) and mushroom omelette and crispy roast potatos. Got to be light, Miranda has capoeira and I have Writers' group. Not sure why that figures, but it does. Sitting down you don't want to be full just as doing exercise you don't.
The windows are open because it's a sunny spring day. Lovely fresh smelling green shooted, bud riddled air.
Bon Appetit. Can hear Meryl Streep shouting that now.

Knowing ourselves

Was listening to the radio this morning and the presenter was commenting on a talk by the writer, A.S. Byatt. I'll summarise:
The rise of social networking, tweeting etc is to give us credence that we exist. In a world generally where God is not acknowledged we need something else to tell us our place and who we are.

The more we're noticed (from hits etc from tweeting and the friends we have and comments from social networking) the more we exist. Or feel we do.

However, the way we really find out who we are and our place in the cosmos is by being alone; exploring our thoughts, looking around us at our world, reading something that makes us take a stand, learning to know ourselves not through others' eyes, but through our own.

Who said, 'It is in solitude we find ourselves....?'

And where am I writing this?

Ash Wednesday

We had the best pancakes I've ever made last night. Small fantastic non-stick pan and a Delia Smith recipe. I think it was the added couple of spoonfuls of melted butter that made the difference to the mixture. Lemon dashed on top and then rolled. Delicious.

And then today is Ash Wednesday. A Christian man was talking on the radio about it. I love it when I learn something new as I did from what he said. Ash Wednesday is to remind us that when we die we turn to ash. Not that we go on to something else, but that we die. Only God is immortal. We are not.
When dying, people were often surrounded by family. Last wishes said. Nowadays in most circumstances everything is done to keep people alive. So often people die in hospital hooked up to a machine. Death is not considered part of the natural cycle by many but a challenge we must put off. Don't let it happen.

But we are not immortal. Death is part of the cycle. We die and we turn to ash.
Death is a reminder that we must make the best of being alive. Not waste it. Life isn't just a series of 'do this, do that, do the next thing.' It is about making the most of every minute, everything we do, how we do what we do. And the people we spend all these minutes living amongst.
Death gives an urgency to life. It gives life meaning. Today is a reminder of that.

So what wonderful thing am I going to do today to celebrate this? Sit here and write! Because I have to get it down. Tomorrow I may forget.
But I'm going to try harder this year to remember what Ash Wednesday is about and not merely about the first day I'll have a go at giving up something I like.

There's a Yeats' poem that sums this up. I can't find it at the moment, but I'll keep looking.

Coastal Erosion

The three part serialisation of "South Riding" concluded last night on BBC1.
Robert Cairn died when the cliff collapsed from under him and he and his horse fell onto the beach below.
This was in Yorkshire in the 1930s.

'Erosion,' set in 2011 and the cliff is still collapsing. A chalet falls. A couple are still inside. It crashes onto the shingle.

People still live on the edge. Has so much changed?

But the people living in the shacks in Erosion have had enough. What can they do?

"We trained hard, but it seemed that every time we were beginning to form into teams we would be re-organised. I was to learn later in life that we tend to meet any new situation by reorganisation; and a wonderful method it can be for creating the illusion of progress while producing confusion, inefficiency and demoralisation."
CAIUS PETRONIUS. AD66
(Ordered to commit suicide by NERO for being a trouble maker.)

WORLD BOOK DAY

It's WORLD BOOK DAY.

Read something that will inspire, affect, enhance, educate....and carry that with you.

Motivation

At the writers' group I attend, one of the members commented that he didn't get how the people in the chalet park could kill each other or themselves when killing yourself is so difficult.
The residents of the chalet park that is collapsing into the North Sea don't want to leave the place they have lived in for over thirty years. They have nowhere else to go. They have no savings, no money, no family, or family that would take care of them in their old age. They don't want to move from their homes that look over the North Sea.
They aren't young. They don't have commitments to others. They will not be missed if they die.
And for them some things are worse than dying. Rock bottom. When you're absolutely at rock bottom, it's a relief to lie down rather than stand up.

The only problem is Lizzie, a stranger is suddenly living amongst them. They must put on a brave face; she mustn't know.

I haven't got to the end of the story yet. They don't want to die without purpose. They have a further motivation. The test will be if this motivation is enough to satisfy the reader.

Robin Hood's Bay on the Yorkshire Coast.

Enjoyed South Riding last night. We have such good actors here. The huts on the cliff top smack of Erosion. Marshlands could cut a bit of the padding. The 80's sequences are the best for me, the actors have the best lines and are more dramatic. The original couple have the most heartbreak. Excellent acting again all round.

Right. Work.

Rants

ooh. Yesterday's sounded a bit drastic and not good writing either! Just got back from a funeral and as these events can do, it reminded me of dad. It said some positive things though and was a celebration of a long fulfilling life, but seeing young and very old in tears is always affecting.
And the service sheet I was told was easy to do as the deceased knew what he wanted. Knowing what we want... Wanting what we know or have....is that happiness?
Bit of a tangent there. I'm rambling. It seemed clearer earlier. Funny when we think we have everything sussed and then the next minute it alludes us again.

I'm waiting for the car insurance to phone back. I've left emails earlier in the week, three phone messages this morning. I can only speak to this one guy. I know he's obviously busy but I did explain I'm due to go away this morning and can't shift the car off the drive until I sort this. My fault, but he is my broker. Petulant child coming out. How is the insurance on a £200 car so high? And working with anything remotely to do with film is a hands in the air, horrified face, 'oh no! we can't touch you, you're bound to be claiming every second.'
It's to and from work, not running around with Colin Farrell.
This is funny, not funny, every time I bring up a new subject, it turns to a rant. Better give up and sit still and stare at the phone. The car is packed ready to go. My daughter itching to use the computer, she's staying here as is her dad.
I'm off to do jobs on my mum's house....eek another rant? No, not this time. Yet.

Over filled
Over piled
What happens
When it slides
Down the sides
Because we can't take
Any more?

Responses

A P Watt have just responded to my email.
'...I make a point of letting people know about unsolicited submissions as soon as I can rather than letting them wait weeks to hear. I rejected it as it simply was not suitable for any of our agent's lists.'

I'm impressed, honestly, with the prompt reply and not wanting to keep writers waiting. That's good.
Neither 'Erosion' the contemporary novel about coastal erosion or 'Sweet Scent of Success' set in the 1920's world of perfume were suitable. Of course, there's more to it than that. I'm being simplistic.

Unsolicited. Ah, now that's a word to play with.

Maybe as some writers have found out, it's easier to secure a deal with a small publisher than with an agent. We'll see.

Reading formats and Agents

Two things.
First: The Kindle. This weekend I saw two adverts for the Kindle on TV. I asked my daughter if she'd use one. She said what is it? I explained. She said, 'That's cool. Yes, I could read easily on the train and in bed I'd just hold it in one hand. I'd probably read more.' I said, you won't get an illustrated cover with it and she said that doesn't matter, it's the story that counts...

Second: Agents. Last Monday, about four thirty in the afternoon I sent off about six packages to agents and small publishers. First class post.
On Wednesday morning, WEDNESDAY morning, I received a generic rejection slip from Marjacq. Usually it takes three to six months to hear back. Wow. Turn around, read and evaluated within one day. In the package I sent there was a cover letter, synopsis and three chapters each of Erosion and Sweet Scent of Success. I know, two different projects, but because they're so different I put them both in. All read and assessed within one day. Efficient.

On Friday, the same from A P Watt.

Do I praise these agencies for their speed and efficiency? Their websites said they were open to submissions.

And I'm thinking about the Kindle. Unless it breaks, it does seem like a good idea. I'll miss the cover of a book, but as in films, plays, novels...the story is the central element.
I think it means even less money for the author, but hey, that's not why we write is it?

The Creole Choir of Cuba - Desandann

'Desandann means Descendents. The choir tell stories of their Haitian ancestors who were brought to Cuba to work in near slave conditions in the sugar and coffee plantations. Their mesmerising sound, jubilant dancing and deep spirit made them a big hit at the Edinburgh Festival, then the London Jazz Festival, appeared on Jools Holland, now a sell out tour.
Irrestistible melodies are driven by richly textured harmonies and shifting Caribbean rhythms. This is impassioned singing by a group celebrating roots, resistance and the rhythms of life.'From the RNCM brochure.

Miranda and I went to see them at the RNCM last night.
We were bowled over. Miranda had just come back from New York early that morning and was beginning to feel jet lagged. She did not fall asleep. She was energised.
It was uplifting, enlightening, encompassing, energising, embracing...spiritual. We felt blessed. If there is a heaven, these people will be the angels singing. They were filled with generositiy and joy that spilled into the auditorium and had everyone on their feet.
We laughed when two female singers squashed the smaller male singer with their voluptuous bottoms, we cried when their harmonies blended into one soulful sound. When they sang the Nat King Cole song 'Unforgettable' standing close to one another as a thank you to us. To us? To US???? Their songs could not be bettered. One took the lead after the other, the rest swaying and dancing as they sang their interweaving melodies.
We were taken to another place, no egos, no holding back; only emotion on the surface going right through past the bones to whatever is inside us and giving us the privelege and the joy of being embraced by it.
The sound was deep, rich and full of range. The movements telling stories, relaxed and rounded, and when they left the auditiorium, singing all the way, shaking hands with whoever they could reach and who wanted to be reached, Miranda and I cried.
We laughed and cried, crying not because we were sad but because we'd been opened up.
Thank you Creole Choir of Cuba - Desandann...
If you see they are appearing near you - do yourself a massive favour, treat yourself, this is something no-one should miss.
Tande-la is out now on Real World CDs.