The F word

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They built a camp.......


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.....and then they put signs up and wouldn't let us in without a pass.

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"It's your fault." a colleague said "You told them they could do what they liked within reason, and now look"

I looked.

Heh. So they were.


Six weeks ago I embarked on my first holiday club. Twenty-five years of working with children within a curriculum framework was about to be put to death. My new buzz word was 'FUN' - how weird is that?
It would have been easy to plan a whole bunch of 'fun type' activities but I never seem to take the easy route and my staff looked on in horror as outlined my ideas and turned an already established club on its head.

'No plans, let them lead'.

In six weeks the kids (a wild bunch of assorted problems) have built camps, made passes, dug pits, decorated totem poles, written a play and designed hats, clothes and furniture.
They elected to ban the PlayStation and other electronic entertainment after 9.30am, made a picnic area, cooked their own snacks and lunch and worked all day on completing projects of their own making.
They have also planned, written and edited three newspapers and taken some truly stunning photographs.
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Maybe we went back to yesteryear, when children made their own fun and spent their days mostly wet and muddy- a strange concept.


And the greatest fun? £2 of tarpaulin, a bottle of dish detergent and a hose.


Will they remember it?
I hope so

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(photographs taken by J aged 9, P aged 7 and L aged 4 - his is the spiderman face)


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UPDATE

The Mignoids invaded. We were prepared - phew!

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The Fridge

Once there was a lonely shelf

enough to hold some cheese

a pint of milk,

a couple of eggs,

and a tiny box

in which to freeze

a loaf of bread

a packet of peas

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One became two,

enough to fit

baby bottles

and all the kit

that extra feckers

need to squeeze

in growing bodies

that grew more than a bit

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A two-storey cold house

we managed to kill,

pack lunches,

leftovers -

no where to chill

the half eaten sandwich,

a half drunk drink,

that bottle of wine

that remained half filled

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We blew up one fridge

and then another.

Cling-filmed dishes

were threatening to smother

more than ketchupped chips

(now covered)

drowning in snacks as

the food took over

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Then, one day

the Goddess sighed, and

five foot three of

storage arrived.

Enough to house

an elephant steak

two horses, a rhino

vegetables of size.

Beautiful too

a froidian winner;

I love my fridge

and all that’s inner.




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Houston, we have a problem

Warning - we are approaching critical

Verilion's post today (here) reminded me of something that I have been meaning to blog about for a while. V asks when is critique useful and does editing have to be done by someone you know and respect.
I realised very quickly that to comment on her blog in full would mean taking up a whole page - I have lots to say....

I have attended quite a few writers groups and courses, most of which I found to be completely fucking useless. People attend these groups for varying different reasons and I often found myself wanting to strangle them (not all, but most) because they appeared to take huge delight in ripping someone else's work to pieces for no other reason than to make themselves feel better.

I have strong feelings that a critique should be of some benefit to the writer, a fresh pair of eyes that can say honestly what they liked/disliked, how it made them feel and whether they enjoyed it, or not, what worked and what didn't. Critique should make you look at your writing, does it flow, make sense, and in essence is it readable? We all like to think that we are going to produce the next bestseller but writing is a craft, a craft that carries its own self-apprenticeship. Criticising at this level is about the help and support of fellow writers.

Editing is a completely different bucket of worms. I learned the hard way and in retrospect my writing would have improved far earlier if I had known someone who I could trust (yes Verilion, I think trust is very important) to set me on the road to good writing habits. Many of my friends read my first attempts and of course were all very kind, but lovely as they are they were not the people I needed to impress.

An early trip to the book doctor can save all sorts of later embarrassments, it can help to keep a manuscript on its toes and avoid some of the plot pitfalls that snare a lot of writers. A fellow blogger recently said that they thought that editing should be done entirely by the author but I am afraid I have to disagree. I think that self-editing can, and must, be done as far as one is able and by that I mean as far as one can see, but we cannot see everything.

A few bloggers, err, have lately felt the impact of my drippy red pen and so far no one has taken out a contract on my life. I am probably as surprised as they are but as with all parts of my writing I have analysed this and come to some conclusions...

1. Editing should be mutually beneficial to both parties. We never stop learning.
2. It should be a positive experience even if the truth (as the editor sees it) is not always kind
3. Editing should not touch the core of the work, nor the style of the writing. It should enhance, support and drive the work on to better things.
4. A good editor offers suggestions, solutions and advice, whether you take them is entirely up to you.
5. An editor should remember the journey. No one starts at the top.

One of the phrases that went thorough my head when we were copy editing and proofing Coven of One was "oh fer Gods sake, why didn't I see that?" - but I couldn't, I was too close, too in love with my own words, and it took a fresh, experienced and supportive pair of eyes to give me a sharp prod with a pointy stick (she lives here).

There are many levels in the editorial process, be it checking for spelling cock-ups, or chucking out half a book, but all should add up to one thing - the goal that you have set yourself and the belief that you can get there. Writing the damn story is only the beginning, the rest is grafting until it is the best that it can possibly be.


Now, red pen anyone?

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Petit fiction - Spindrift

Rock offers no comfort to my heart and the hours have neither sorted my head, nor cushioned my ass.

The surf reaches to grasp at the land, echoing my rolling thoughts. The turn of the tide, the call of the moon, where ebb and flow of the constant sea lick futilely at a lollipop that may never diminish. Like the shoreline granite, I hold my own and wait patiently for the answers.

Surfers have names for waves like these. Caught between time and colour, these insubstantial wisps leave salt on my hair and lips, the softest of elemental kisses that only hint at the love beneath. I search for the grey green of your eyes and find it being dragged back out to sea, even the gulls call your name and laugh at my need. You are out there, somewhere, like Lyonesse, hidden between worlds of 'should' and 'must', where 'want' and 'need' cannot gain the substance they so require.

We are hopeless souls, you and me. Bound to others by promises of undying love that somehow managed to sicken and fade, leaving us high and dry on our lonely islands. Wave after wave of relentless life have deepened and widened the sea between, that neither sailor, or selkie can cross.

The horizon gives no hint to your presence and yet I feel your skin on mine as if you were sharing my rock. The sting of our enemy is welcome on my face, reminding me that some things are worth waiting for and I know you would be here if you could. A mere ocean cannot drown a knowledge that was made elsewhere.

You are my love, but for now, like spindrift, I will continue to find a way to you on the wind.


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Ouch

I am never been fond of feet at the best of times. I am even less fond of my own foot now it has become a member of a North American tribe.
Last Monday I had a totally unprovoked fight with the hoover at work, resulting in my new status as honorary Blackfoot.

By Wednesday I had to take the horror to The Minor Injuries Unit being as it was a minor injury (makes sense really). The foot was still attached to me ankle but was starting to resemble an over stuffed pillow and my toes were disappearing.
The MI unit also claims to deal with your MI faster than the casualty unit 12 miles away where you could get lost for days.

After filling out enough paperwork to slay a forest, the nurse poked and prodded the large object at the end of my leg and the told me I would have to go to casualty for an x-ray.

"But you have an x-ray wotsit here" I said.

She gave me a look.

"Oh no, we couldn't possibly get that great big fat foot in our dear little machine. You might break it".

There was no time to write goodbye notes to the family, I had to be back at work in two hours, so I jumped (well, no, not really) in the car and broke the speed limit to Truro.

The casualty unit was as busy as it could be, with two people waiting in front of me. I was doomed.
There followed a long, boring saga of out of date magazines, a broken vending machine and being locked in because of a helicopter landing outside the main doors, before I eventually made it to the hallowed x-ray halls. Here they managed to get the horror in their machine and promptly (no, stupidass, not promptly) told me that I could, maybe, there was a possibility that I (the bastard hoover) had cracked a tiny bone in the top of me foot.

I had already projected forward into choosing the colour for a bone mending plaster and was wondering if I could still hobble dramatically about at work when I was informed that it was probably best to rest it!.

"What? No purple plaster? No stylish bone fixings to encourage sympathy and small but appropriate gifts?"

"Oh my God, no." the x-ray person said "Do you honestly think that we could let our plaster technicians be exposed to that thing? You might break them."

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(today the swelling has gone down but please note that varnish was chosen to match temporary skin discolouration.
Small fluffy toys, confectionery and 'get well foot' cards may be sent down the intertube. )

The Divine Comedy of Writing

Does writing bring out the best, or the worst in us?
I would argue (if you want a fight about it) that we need both in order to write, but the mortal sins are what give us an edge.

I have long been fascinated with Dante Alighieri's poem of his journey through the rings of Hell. In the epic 'Divine Comedy' the poet encounters, studies and reports on the human condition in Purgatory. Surely it is human nature to have a fair sprinkling of all seven of the deadly sins, especially if you are writing about it?

Invidia (envy) gets us going. If that twat who is currently at the top of the bestsellers list can do it, then so can I.

Superbia (pride) - Look at my bright shiny, sparkly words. Don't you want to buy them?

Ira (wrath) - anger at self (and the twat) sharpens the pen and improves style and technique.

Avaritia (greed) - no point in writing unless you are hungry for words, for completion, for success of the piece you are working on.

Gula (gluttony) - no chapter, no chocolate - therefore writing quicker = more choc. Yum! (err, maybe this is one of my rules)

Acedia (sloth) - all writers are experts at displacement activity. We would far rather lie on the sofa with a pound of grapes watching daytime TV than pound out the next paragraph.

Luxuria (lust) - the old meaning is 'extravagance', something that I often feel that my writing is. The rest of my life put on hold while I attend to my habit. And of course, where would any novel be without an intimate knowledge of a good juicy bit of lust!

I would add my list of contrary virtues but they don't slip off my fingers as easily as the sins. Funny that.


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Jolly, his Bottom, and a pile of un-interesting rocks

(so don't drop off the end)

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Have I mentioned before that I love names? Place names and people names, their origins and histories can have me glued to a book, or a web page for hours.

A friend lives at Jolly's Bottom. I have often wondered who Jolly was, and why his bum became a very pretty farm. Skinner and his Bottom End are just a couple of miles up the road and it drives me mad that I can't find out why these Bottom's are where they are. Cornwall, probably like most counties, is soaked with odd names and many Cornish place names are all tied up with the original (extremely confusing) Cornish language.

I live near a hill called Carn Brea. Carn means 'rock' and Brea means 'pile' - imaginative lot those ancestors. The Cornish didn't appear to name places after their founders, or any significant local person as many English towns do. Marazion (an interesting seaside town) means 'Thursday market' and Zennor(wild and beautiful) means 'dwelling at the entrance to an isolated place' and we probably shouldn't ask about Prospididnick.

Other names that tickle my fancy are Shoppa, Joppa, Portwinkle, Perranuthnoe (try saying that when you're pissed) and Cripplesease. Names here are born in Celtic roots, bastardised and modernised leaving some weird and wonderful one house towns called Nowhere, Nine Maidens and the very peculiar Botusflemyng.

I suppose if I was going to choose a place to live it should be Crows an Wra (pronounced Crouse n' Raa) which simply means 'Witches Crossing'.

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Waxing Gibbous (love and light)

Here I sit with natural black

obsidian, polished, to find the lack, for

one who doubts her glowing presence

reminding us in opalescence

all is never as it seems and

life is naught but solid dreams

This schoolroom, where we choose to be

(contracts signed, souls are free)

making choices, those are ours

lit by moonlight, sunlight, stars

guided by the gentle hand,

a musing Goddess with a plan

Written deep, the orb above

a message of enduring love

for you and I to try and reach

So while you wander sans la lune

I will endeavor to try to teach,

the art of

"Drawing down the Moon"

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Stuff that blows my stripey socks off

Someone asked me the other day what one book blew my socks off. A fairly innocuous question and I suppose I should have had a a prepared book title, or possibly an eloquent list that stretched far into the distance.

'Can't do it' I said, looking a bit sheepish.

I suspect she thought me an idiot - a scribbler of books who couldn't pick out those she liked best.

'What about music?'

Oh dear, same thing. How could I reel off just one piece of music when my tastes change from day to day, and favourites tie in with an event, a feeling, a single moment.

Ah ha, that was it. It is the same with books. A favourite was linked to a period in my life when a particular book meant something, and strangely, music was often involved in the same process.

For example when I was growing Big Fecker, I read a book called Death's Master by Tanith Lee. It is a fantasy novel about finding yourself and the main character changes sex half way through (neat!). I remember lying on the sofa, gazing at the huge lump of stomach in front of me and trying to imagine the changes that were going to happen to me. 'Smells like teen spirit' was blasting out in rebellion to the conformity I was facing.

"I'm worse at what I do best
And for this gift I feel blessed
Our little group has always been
And always will until the end"

The book, and the music are not classics (I am crap at reading, or listening, to something because I ought to) but both still sit on my shelves along with others that have had a profound effect on me for one reason or another. Some of my so-called favourites have made subtle changes to my thinking (Emmanuel's Book), others have just made me laugh when times were dark, or corresponded with my emotional needs at the time. Weirdly, none have ever been chosen because they were well written or by someone who could be considered 'an education'.

Incidentally 'Smells like teen spirit' still seeps out from Big Fecker's room regularly and that is probably another subject to ponder upon.

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Pssst

You know when you read one of those blog posts, where there is a huge debate going about why people blog. I get so annoyed when some people accuse commenter's of being sycophantic because they choose to visit a certain blog.
I've visited a certain blog for a long while now and over the last year or so I have got to know a very special woman.

I can't remember who commented on who first, I just remember that I liked this woman's writing voice. A couple of months later, she came to Cornwall and we met on a beach and spent six hours talking. Later in the year she dragged me kicking and screaming through the editing process of Coven of One and came to the Cardiff launch, and then organised the London one for us!

She is a friend that came via the blogs - how cool is that?

And yes, whooo hooooo, she's here again - DEBI ALPER IS SLEEPING UPSTAIRS IN MY HOUSE!


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Heh.

Lovely, lovely, sweet, gorgeous bloggers have given me this - all on the same day!

Thank you Marie, Vanilli and Scarlett

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However, I have never really thought of myself as particularly thoughtful and along with a "Too lazy to move" or a "scoffs all the chocolate" award I thought (thought?) this one might be more suitable. .......

The Black Stocking Wanton Sex Goddess Without Any
Meaningful Thoughts In Her Head Really
blogger award

Maybe we should all start giving ourselves some awards, after all we know what we're really like. Heh, heh.


pee ess - the guilt always gets me as well. "Give this award to 5 bloggers that deserve it" always gives me a chill. What about the others? Will they hate me? Will they suffer award envy, or worse?



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It's been one of those days...

(when it feels as if yer nuts are on public display)

(when all you want to do is cry)

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( even the sweetest things seem ugly)

( you want to be able to find your own personal shangri-la)

(but everything you say comes out wrong)

(and you just wish that everyone around you would take a fuckin' chill pill and enjoy life)