Hunt the healer

Today a lovely friend Angela, whizzed me off to a Mystic Fayre (always authentic when spelt that way) in Penzance. It was also a chance to see another dear friend (Dee) in action as a clairvoyant, so I hopped out of my sick bed (yeah, right) and made for the gathering of all things mystical, magickal and slightly deranged.

Stiff, and imagining that I looked like the Hunchback's cousin, we wended our way through incense heavy air and perused a variety of stalls while we waited for a window of opportunity to have a quick natter with our all-seeing mate.

We passed a wizard and his Runes, a shaman and his rather nice hair, an painter of spirit guides and came across a guy not selling very many singing bowls. I wasn't surprised, these antique Tibetan bowls made from at least five kinds of metal were very expensive. They are played by rolling a wooden mallet around the outside rim which produces multiphonic and polyharmonic tones which very strangely sang straight to my back. There was no pain but the resonance was as at exactly the point of injury especially when he got close. It didn't look that weird, honestly. I was impressed, and had to be held back from taking out a second mortgage to take one of the big ones home.

Next we looked at aura pictures (pah!), passing quickly by Mr Man-Tan, a supposedly famous clairvoyant with dodgy taste in crocodile shoes and an appalling hair job, and then onto a stall selling prayer bowls.

"They are made to your individual needs" Mr I-Saw-You-Coming said.

Very clever considering that the tacky things were all mass produced in a factory.

We wafted on and found a delightful witchy stall selling all manner of, well, witchy things. We bought some bits and bobs and then refuelled with coffee and a tasty sandwich at the organic, free-range, definitely good for you, cafe.

I was just deciding on a rather nice cobwebby, lacey thingy on one of the many clothing stalls when Dee became free and we shot (hah, again) over for a quick hug.

"So, what are you feeling unsupported about?" were her first words to me.

I hate it when she does this because she hits the nail on the head every time. She believes that we only get ill because our emotional centres are out of kilter. She is not often wrong.

Dee was very, very busy, so after a hasty catch-up and promises to meet up very soon she pointed out a lovely Indian guy on a crystal stall who she thought could help me poorly back.

Chris tried to make me warm up with the help of some very pretty stones. The injury remained as it was but I did feel a tingle further up. He was lovely and did seem to know where all me aches were. I bought a couple of crystals and hung onto them all the way home.

As I got out of the car I realised that for the first time in days I hadn't grunted as I got up. The pain was still there but I was far less stiff and as we sunk to the sofa for a medicinal gin I felt relaxed and even managed a smile (just a small one!).

So come on, which one of you healing-type buggers was it?

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(picture - Earthmother 2 by Cornish artist Annieb)

If there be pain

I was going to write something incredibly intelligent tonight about writing, but have decided that I am feeling too self-obsessed to do much more than have a little grunt.

I DON'T LIKE IT.

Being incapacitated, that is. I am not often ill, rarely have diseases, fungal infections or missing limbs, and have not suffered the pox for years.

Woe, woe, woe is me. My spine has given up and left the building.

I am hoping that a cunning mixture of acupuncture and industrial strength drugs will get me vertical soon. In the meantime I am watching daytime TV and writing drug-induced drivel on blogs.

Please forgive me for I know not what I do!

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Vamped

Skint has done a brilliant job in re-vamping my website. He has also polished up Opening Chapter and the ordering page.
Please take a gawp and tell us what you think.

They are over there, under Aud ---------------->
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PEE ESS - the competition has now closed over at Clarity of Night. Please go and cast your comment

Endless Hour competition

Endless hours indeed - mostly spent carving down to 250 words, but trying to leave enough meat on the bones to make a rounded, readable piece which I eventually submitted late last night.
I find the measly word count a huge discipline for me and I used to avoid 'flash fiction' like the plague. Hardly more than a paragraph, the story can be little more than a snapshot of carefully chosen words.

There are some great entries already and to my delight some very familiar names are entered this time. Thank you to Jason, for once again giving his blog over to this competition which is growing each time he does it.
Go HERE to have a gawp at some wonderful interpretations of a very manky sink!


Anyway, here it is......

Coming Home.

“Another one” I said putting the phone down.
“It will be just another wild goose chase, you know that.” Margaret said.
She found it hard to leave the house these days, preferring to sit by a phone that hardly ever rang, and certainly never rang with the words she wanted to hear.
“Where?” she asked.
Our conversation from here on was an exchange that ran on auto pilot. I left the house a few minutes later to chase the goose.

One crack house is much like another. I sent another prayer thanking God that Margaret had stayed at home. Coming alone was hard but we had long gone past that point where the police are still giving over manpower to a lost cause. As parents you never give up, never.

The smell always hits first. A stench that I doubt will ever leave my memory. One day I may recognise it as the smell of my own despair, but now it only confirms that there is life here – if you can call it that. My hand confirms my only protection, shifting the cricket bat into a ready position as I chase the goose up the stairs, once again.

Like hell on a cold day, I glance at my watch, my fingers never leaving that place on the neck that tells me that hope is being tempted, coaxed into reality.
He is here, the nightmare and the dream, and he’s breathing.
He is coming home.

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Ramblin' old heap and the battle of the housework

"Yes, but wouldn't you rather have something new that doesn't require much maintenance?" a friend said today after I had just spent an hour moaning about cleaning the house.
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I know I'm a bit allergic to the hoover and I need a few gins to do the ironing, but as far as I know no one has ever died of dust poisoning. Every now and again I make a concerted effort and declare war on the house, spending a whole weekend with a cloth in my hand laying seige to every crumb, crust and crisp packet that tries to hide behind the furniture. This weekend I have removed every loitering cobweb and even, yes even, cleaned under the cooker with a natty little brushy-sucky thing that I purchased about five years ago for that very purpose. I have been Mrs Mop incarnate - the grates are blackened, the kitchen is gleaming, airing cupboard sorted (13 missing socks found) and I have even found enough money down the sofas for the Feckers dinner money for the next month. Whoo hoo!
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Having said all that I know that this house is a drain on my resources. Built in 1882 it still retains all its lovely fiddly features that requires the attention that a new house doesn't. We have the original glass in the windows, ceiling roses the size of tables and plasterwork that the Italians would sell their mothers for.

So, how about a new, straight walled, low maintenance, low ceiling, dust free, featureless box that I don't have to think about?
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And give up this?
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Nah! Not on yer nelly.

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Caption this...

"Bogey beak, eh. Not so funny now, is it sonny?"

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Endless Hour

New short story competition just hotting up over at Clarity of Night. Once again Jason is calling for offerings of 250 words on the theme 'Endless Hour'.

And please remember that Wandering Author is still after your lovely words for his very worthy project.

Write writers, write!

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Ripping yarns

Mutley has been listening to too much Radio 4. His passion for the National Short Story competition has resulted in this little demented parody. Please feel free to add to his/my efforts - I don't think he has copyrighted it - yet!


“Its was the falling of the petals from the first cherry blossoms of spring I always remember – like heavy snow down the track that lead to the farm and falling into drifts on the porch. Old Murgatgh was still living back then – and in the early spring sun he would sit like a polar bear on a berg wrapped in a fur on the old porch hand carving heart valve replacements from old pork bones. Them Bones! My old daddy was not one to let anything go to waste, he’d sell his pigs to the slaughter house and then late at night take his big old yellow pick up round the skips of garbage – in a fly blown courtyard round the back and he would get them old bones back!. Ma would boil them up for soup, or set them into a soup or serve with cherries and pistachios for delicious desserts. Oh how Mam loved those desserts – and old Murgatgh loved them too. Slurping down great piles using a spoon made from an ear, stitched to a twig. Like I said nothing was wasted in the Belrooville Cottage. At the end we would all sit a-lickin at them plates like a canoe full of Tasmanian Devils in a raspberry jam factory. Other nights a piece of meat dipped in dung to resemble chocolate would be devoured in communal silence and sometimes toads which brother Rodney caught behind the wood shed where he went for a wank. At the end of the road where Picking Petes Cottage stood obscuring the view with its seventeen stories of ramshackle building , the road forked and lead one way down into Scratsboro Village and the other up the hill, between already scorching fields full of pigs and lambs towards the main road.Of an evening when I was home from school that spring and Old Murgatgh was carving surgical accessories I would screech on my bike down past Petes do it yourself skyscraper and stare for hours up the hill with the dingy roofs of Scratsboro firmly at my back. If I knew then what I know now I would have just turned and bolted home to the pig infested farm, its bizarre guests and disgusting puddings, and the porcine embrace of my old Ma’s arms. Then I was just full of yearning. To get away, to travel that busy road and to see the big city. Sometimes Rodney would join me for a while, his jaw slack and his eyes puzzled as he fiddled with his todger. But he never understood my passion, nor me his, and he never did get away or alter his devotion to onanism.
Johannes Belrooville that’s my name sitting by the side of the road 15 years old and yearning for adventure, Rodney is already trailing back down the road hand busy in his dungarees and Old Murgatgh is playing the harp calling in the family and the workers from the pig fields for evening Robustimo Feast . To me the planchett tones of the harp recall the later works of Debussy, or maybe a Lynyrd Skynyrd Ballad . – He had no musical training Old Murgatgh but he could work a harp tune as well as any other Red Indian I had ever met. I haven’t told you about Pa Belrooville yet – but Robustimo Feast is a good place to start….and about how that fateful night set me – that shy sensitive 15 year old - off on my journey to Rwanda, Palestine, Tooting Bec and the depths of human suffering…”

Minx adds.....

The Robustimo Feast, ah yes. Its delights would linger in my mind, and haunt my nether regions for years to come.
It was a moonlit night, I recall, the beautiful, honeyed silence broken only by Mam's not-quite-dead rabbit stew and Rodney's endless, rythmic pumping from behind the wood shed.
I saw her first standing at the edge of the woods, her lithesome figure swathed in mechanics overalls, oiled and seductive. Under the pale light of the moon I could just make out the 'come hither' sweat stains that played across the grey vest that she always wore underneath.
It was best not to look at Lois Slagheap's face. Old Murgatgh had once declared, steeped in the after effects of Carnage (a local brew), that Lois had a face that that defied a single bag.
'You need two' he slurred, through lips swollen by the petrol additives in the latest batch of Carnage.
My youth had asked the question, a question that I should surely have kept inside until I was old enough to wear long trousers and old enough to know that Lois Slagheap's knees did not age at the same rate as her face.
'Two bags over her head' Murgatgh cackled, now dribbling uncontrollably from one side of his mouth 'in case one should break.'
Murgatgh had a pig bone sculpture of Lois on his mantelpiece. It had taken me years to realise the perspective he had taken, but here under the gibbous orb all became as clear as Mam's water soup. I knew that my time had come. I stepped forward, eager in my innocence, to greet my destiny, only vaguely aware that a second set of footsteps were following my own........

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We bring them into the world....

...we shouldn't send them out at the end of a gun.

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I'm a believer

I am a wicked devil worshipping pagan. I like me mixed bag of Gods and Goddesses (one for every occasion) and I am really rather partial to silver and the odd bit of black clothing. My beliefs root heavily in the natural world, the wheel of the year with a festival, and any excuse for a shindig, cropping up every few weeks.


Sometimes, just sometimes, I come across something that rocks my pointy boots and makes me question my faith.

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I see him. Can you see him too?

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(thanks to THIS)

Disclaimer - I am a witch - I have humour - no apologies!

A child without a voice

Red is a small boy. He has apraxia. In simple terms apraxia, for one reason or another, messes with the connections that connect brain and voice. When I read about him I wanted to jump on a plane and go and rip someone's head off.
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Why?
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Red lives in Alabama. His health insurers have decided that he is not covered for therapy during the school breaks and his mum will have to pay for this service that is vital to his wellbeing and development. I was under the impression that we lived in a caring, sharing, rich, progressive society that nurtured its future generations. No?
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This is close to my heart. I work with children who suffer from apraxia, dyspraxia, dyslexia and other speech related problems. Consistent therapy is VITAL at an early age.
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Can we help?
Yes, by doing something that we love anyway - writing.
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Wandering Author would like some help to produce a book of short stories on Lulu.com that will hopefully help towards the cost of Red getting what he needs. He may also need some help with legal stuff, artwork for the cover or general advice. If nothing more, then perhaps you could highlight this project on yer blog.
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I can't get the link to work with the button so please go HERE for more details.

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An interview with a ghost

L.Lee Lowe has a blog, Lowebrow (HERE) and is the author of the superb YA novel Mortal Ghost (HERE).

A short interview, but very sweet!

1. Why did you start blogging?

To see what it's like.

2. When will you stop?

When I've found out.

3. What is your favourite kind of post to write?

More snark than bark.

4. Give some examples of the diverse range of links on your blog.

Sorry, I don't link to mature sites. Wait a moment, that's perverse, isn't it?

5. You can have 5 bloggers over for tea and cakes - who would you choose?

You mean bloggers are real?

6. You have the power to blow up one blog - who?

I prefer to leave the pyrotechnics to Jesse. (What do you mean, who's Jesse? Shame on you!)

7.What colour underwear are you wearing?

Ghostwriters are incorporeal.

Oh, cross now!

I hate being cross, it makes me cross. Just had one of those days when it feels like you're wearing a coat of negativity.

1. The cat is sick - I stand in it with a bare foot.
2. A pair of blue shorts escapes into the white washing.
3. Late for work I fall over trying to get me drawers on and bash me knee.
4. The car takes on a 'Christine' type persona and locks me out. Have to sneak in the passenger door to fool it.
5. Making cakes with children at work and find some twat has pinched all the sugar and not replaced it.
6. Run to supermarket where I am attacked by a trolley in the back of the ankle. I refrain from headbutting my attacker as she has a scary child who is chewing the trolley handle with her gums.
7. Make cakes and then burn them. Cover with chocolate that behaves strangely in the microwave - coming out harder than it went in.
8. Workman sets alarm off and I can't find reset procedure - answer 5 calls from police ( an hour later? Well, thanks).
9. Come home to find dishes up to ceiling and lazy Feckers still in bed and a note saying that we are out of milk.
10. Attempt to lie down in darkened room but mad mowing maniac next door has other ideas.

Will try to complete my day without more mishaps. Surely I have had my fill of Friday the bloody 13th? Trying to smile now - through gritted teeth.

Mad Dog Pundyman.....

...is having another party (in his absence, as is tradition). Go HERE with wine, spirit, song and sheep.

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Fish supper

By the time I finished work I was starving but the thought of going home and cooking dinner was making my feet ache.

I am not very good at take-away, I would rather leave-it-there, but my laziness got the better of me and I went off in search of ready cooked food.

My town has the usual sprinkling of fast food, well, not so fast in the case of the Chinese, I think they probably wanted my order last Wednesday week so I crossed them off me list.

MacDonald's? Absolutely not. Kebab then. No, can't do that either. I can only face the pole- dancing lamb shavings when I am on the way home from a night out

Next to the Kebab shop is the dodgy looking 'Chicken Shop' run by the Turkish owners of the Kebab shop. The smell of all that fried chicken usually makes me want to heave and I send in one of the Feckers to collect the order but with no Fecker in sight I was doomed. The strange little hovel that sells Mexican thinks that no one eats before nine and the pizza place had a queue halfway down the road.

The trouble is that when you are vegetarian, takeaway food sort of loses its appeal. I really fancied an Indian. They do gorgeous veggie food but the Multi-Balti had a mysterious kind of fire and has been closed for six months. It was no good, I had to settle for a good old fish supper.

Our chip shops are all traditional, meaning traditionally you can only purchase food that has been deep fried, or kept warm for four hours. This includes sausages (naked or dressed - meaning in batter or not), pea fritters (peas in batter), cod (fish in batter), deep fried chicken (tasting of fish) and anything else that can be safely dipped in vats of boiling oil. I am thankful to say that a Glaswegian Mars (deep fried mars bars) have failed to catch on, but it is said that you can order one on the quiet.

To take the edge off your fried delights you can have a pickled egg, gherkin or a saveloy to help the whole meal down. Personally I prefer a cup of tea without the meal.

I ordered two portions of cod and chips and a side order of mushy peas for the meat eaters. A veggie burger for the Big Fecker who can stomach those frozen cakes made of unidentifiable beans. And me? I made do with a portion of chips as I think I had already inhaled enough fat to last my hips a lifetime.

Happy Easter

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Have a good weekend. I am going camping - yes, that's what I said.

There are some interviews below to keep you amused.

A Novapulsian chicken and a real, live talking dog.

Atyllah the hen

Atyllah is on mission, never quite sure what it is but she blogs HERE with tales from the chicken coop

She says...

"I can't tell you whether you'll get the truth or not... you'll just have to take it as it comes..."

1. Why did you start blogging?

For fun, as an exercise in marketing... oh, no, sorry, it was because High Command told me to!

2. When will you stop?

Probably quite soon. There's just so much snarking one can do at humanity before we're all bored to tears. But I might start another blog... (oh Goddess help us!)

3. What is your favourite kind of post to write?

Observations of human antics - usually those in the gym...

4. Give some examples of the diverse range of links on your blog. What do you mean they're not diverse?

No, no no, this is too taxing for a brain that has been on holiday for a week! Off the top of me head.... The Spine - satire. Confucious T - funny. The Inner Minx - yeah, welll, no comment. Miss Snark - snarky literary agent. Daze of our Lives - thoughtful. Wilf - fictional blog. Anna, wonderful poetry. All right, enough already.

5. You can five bloggers over for tea and cakes - who would you choose?

Mad Baggage (Cheryl), Debi Alper, Minx, (go on, you know you wanna come along), Skint, Wilf (Addy), Anna - yeah, I know, I can't count. (I know, not enough toes)

6. You have the power to blow up a blog - who?

I categorically refuse to say - it would be most impolitic! (I don't believe you just said that)

7. What colour underwear are you wearing?

Red. (what else?)
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Mutley the dog

Not much to say about Mr Dog but if you like your humour off the wall, near the knuckle and served with a large helping of nuts then go take a look. The hound blogs HERE.

1.Why did you start blogging?

Last summer, this blog last October. (what was the question again? Dogs must make up their own interview rules!))

2.When will you stop?

No intention to right now! Don't know.

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3.What is your favourite kind of post to write?

Funny/ clever witty or preferably all three! (laced with codswallop and lovely rubbish!)

4.Give some examples of the diverse range of links on your blog.

Humour, broad and adult, wry and daily life, porn. (howler monkeys, beetroots, puffins and moustaches!)

5.You can have five bloggers over for tea and cakes – who would you>choose?

You, obviously, Miss Smack, Lonie Polonie, for something a little harder than tea(!) Beast, Frobisher, Hammer (would that be gin?)

6.You have the power to blow up one blog – who?

Tim Ireland (I so admire honesty)

7.What colour underwear are you wearing?
Stained (gonna be sick)

So what exactly do you want me to say then?

I once had a piece of work (this one) critiqued by a writing class.

"I'm sorry," a classmate said "I don't know what to say. I hated it. Absolutely hated it. It made me cry, and it upset me for the day."

I was delighted and I told her so. It was my first piece of writing that had brought someone to tears. She had believed in it - I was very proud of myself!

"But I'm supposed to say something nice." she said.

Why? Why should she feel that she had to say something nice? Isn't it far better to speak from the heart no matter what?
I have recently posted two pieces of writing and a couple of commenter's have made a sort of apology for just saying simply that they liked it. Surely this is what we should go by, gut reaction, our first instincts? When I first listen to a new piece of music I sort it into a 'mmm' or an 'ugh' - not the stuff of eloquent critique, but one that leads me on to further listening, or stops me in my tracks.

I am linked to a number of poetry sites. I like poetry and dabble about a bit, but sometimes I look at my comments on those sites and think 'what a twat, how stupid does that sound?'. I even confessed a few days ago on Wordcarving, that I didn't always have to the right words because his poetry often elicits a noise from me. The strange thing was that other people agreed (can I just say that this is a very positive kind of noise - a kind of satisfied grunt! Oh shit, that doesn't sound right either, sorry John).

As a writer I am still very tickled that anyone wants to read my words and if they say anything, anything at all, it is like a hug, a kiss, a pat on the back, or a confirmation that I am doing something right (or wrong - here come the comma police!). It also means that I have touched something, made them believe something, made them think about something even if that something was not very nice.

This is not a request for compliments, but a request for you to speak from your heart. If you like it, love it, hate it, loathe it or wish to rip it into tiny, tiny pieces and laugh in my face - then say it.
The word 'critique', is a bit snobby. Maybe we feel obliged to think up some witty, informed and educated diatribe that will make the writer think that we know what we are talking about.
I say, when in doubt, use the 'Brussels sprout' rule - either you love 'em and can't get enough of 'em, or you hate 'em and they make you feel sick.

Too black and white? You decide.

Just Lily

Yes, I know, lazy trollop......

New story up on THE LITTLE MINX.

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You won't thank me - it's as miserable as sin!

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Whoo-hoo, it's the holidays.

Yes, I know, most of you with children dread this time of the term - can't help it, I love it.



Gone are the days, in my old job, of struggling with the constaints of the National Constriculum. A constant battle of what I knew was good for children and what I was expected to churn out weekly. No observations, profiles or squeezing in one last task before they go home.



Today is start of Holiday Club and yes, children are in the club because their parents have to work, but do you know how different it is? These children haven't come to work, there will be no expectations of their performance - which leaves us open to have, errr, FUN.
This morning I shall be surpervising the building of a pirate ship, cooking 'me-hearty' biscuits, laying a treasure trail and being face-painted by a bunch of children who are free. Sounds like a holiday to me.
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The Last Post

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Bye then.....

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Here come the girls - Keris, Maxine and Marie

Keris Stainton



Keris Stainton, a freelance journalist, has apparently been vomiting sunshine since '71. Keris blogs HERE with a mix of rapid book reading and her take on life as a working mum. She also has an unhealthy interest in TV!

1.Why did you start blogging?
Because I read Jennifer Weiner's blog and thought "I could do that". And because I like to blether on about stuff and, after 11 years, my husband doesn't listen to me anymore.

2.When will you stop?
I don't think I'll ever stop. I'm like Madonna in In Bed With Madonna when Warren Beatty says, "She doesn't want to live off-camera." I don't want to live off Blogger (I actually use Typepad, but that doesn't fit as well).

3.What is your favourite kind of post to write?
They're all the same to me really. I like a rant, but I also like enthusing about something I've discovered. Even if it does turn out everyone else discovered it years ago.

4.Give some examples of the diverse range of links on your blogs (lit, arty, funny, stupid etc) – what do you mean they're not diverse?
No, not diverse. Generally writers and book-related with the odd Buffy and Simpsons link thrown in for good measure.


5.You can have five bloggers over for tea and cakes – who would you choose?
I'll limit myself to one celebrity blogger - Meg Cabot (http://www.megcabot.com/diary), because she's hilarious and incredibly talented.
Lisa Clark (http://lisaclark.blogspot.com/) since I'm going off to New York with her in November and I haven't even met her yet (and also because she's fabulous).
Steve Almond (http://www.babble.com/CS/blogs/babydaddy/default.aspx) because I fell in love with him reading his book Candy Freak and now he writes a baby blog; we could bond over chocolate and babies.
Caroline Smailes ( http://insearchofadam.blogspot.com/) because her posts make me laugh and cry and I want to meet her now before she becomes too famous to bother with the likes of me. And last but certainly not least Ms Mac ( http://ms-mac.blogspot.com/), because she is the best blogging friend that I haven't met yet.


6.You have the power to blow up one blog – who?
If I don't like 'em, I don't read 'em, but I'd be happy to see the back of anything hate-mongering.


7.What colour underwear are you wearing?
Pink. Thanks for asking.

Maxine Clarke

Maxine works for Nature magazine and blogs HERE. Apart from Petrona, Maxine runs a number of other blogs covering science and crime fiction.

1. Why did you start blogging?

So that I'd have someone to talk to

2.When will you stop?

When nobody answers.


3.What is your favourite kind of post to write?

One when I think I know what I'm writing about.

4.Give some examples of the diverse range of links on your blogs (lit, arty, funny, stupid etc) – what do you mean they're not diverse?

Lit: Books, Inq.
Funny: Dilbert blog
Stupid: not telling
Science: Sceptical Chymist
Medicine: Spoonful of Medicine
Lit-Sci: Keeper of the Snails
Sci-Lit: El Gentraso
Tecchy: Content Matters
Puzzles: the deblog
Libraries: Good Library blog
Crime fic: Eurocrime blog
plus about 200 others. Please attend my blogroll for URLs of the above and further reference.


5.You can have five bloggers over for tea and cakes – who would you choose?

Viggo Mortensen (does he blog?); Ian McEwan (ditto?); J K Rowling (ditto?); Keira Knigtley (ditto?); and someone who can make the tea and bake the cakes-- Nigella Lawson (ditto?).

6.You have the power to blow up one blog – who?
Does Ayatollah Khomeni have a blog? Would not mind blowing up his, if so.

7.What colour underwear are you wearing?
White, naturally. (Just in case.......you know the saying.)




Marie Seymour

Marie lives in London and is currently writing a vampire novel. Marie blogs HERE.
1.Why did you start blogging?
For self-promotion and to connect with other like-minded souls.

2.When will you stop?
When I've run out of things to say. Though I don't think I can stop as it's so addictive.

3.What is your favourite kind of post to write?
I suppose my fave type of post to write is one that is informative and entertaining at the same time.

4.Give some examples of the diverse range of links on your blogs (lit, arty, funny, stupid etc) - what do you mean they're not diverse?
As you would expect, most of my links are writers and writing related. I've got a few agents as well. Then there's some artists, historians, poets, as well as some music links I also like to link to any sites that I've come across during my research for the novel I'm writing.

5.You can have five bloggers over for tea and cakes -who would you choose?
Debi Alper, Caroline (In Search of Adam) Ces (Ces &Her Dishes), Menchie (TIMEOUTS) and you of course,Minx! But I'd rather have wine than tea and cakes.

6.You have the power to blow up one blog - who?
Anyone nasty.

7.What colour underwear are you wearing?
Black.