The Royal Drawers

Sometimes in my quiet times
I have to stop and pause
and wonder what the queen is wearing
- especially her drawers

Does she own some special underthings?
(I imagine they'd be decent)
For outings such as Ascot
And the opening of parliament

I'm sure she'd have some tartan ones
with all the Scottish reeling,
and ones with yappy corgis on
it may be just a feeling, but

does she have some riding ones?
Adorned with horse and hoof
and frenchy ones for holidays
I suppose we'll never know the truth

Black lace, of course, for funerals
with matching royal hose
and an order of the garter
(Philip rather fancies those).

And what about the Knighthoods
presenting prizes to the winners
I expect she's got built-in pockets
with mints for after dinner

And she must have special 'sailing' drawers
QE2 pants, oh so cute
and matching 'fliers' to include: a place
to hold a parachute

There is one thing I think she would not own
no rubber, and no thong
and the queen in printed tiger skin
is a vision that is wrong

I think she would have pastel pants
in pink and palest peach
except for her seasonal ones, red,
to deliver a Xmas speech

Did Norman Hartnell match them
to all her splendid outfits?
warm and snug
a royal hug
to cover all her bits

I really must control myself
my mind it does just flicker
on all those less important thoughts
....and poor old Queenie's knickers.

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Saucy Minx

Whoo hoo - I'm a caution!

I was hoping for a "No kids allowed, never, ever" but apparently I only said "pissed" (twice), "bitch" (twice) and "gun" (just the once).

Complete fuckery - surely I must have come up with some more interesting words than those?

Clever Debi found this. Click on the pic to find your own blog rating.


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A quotable dinner

Well, I've just packed the last of my dinner guests off to bed. Phew! Writers, what a bunch they are....

"So, Minxy babe, how goes the writing?" Tolkien asked as I heaped more prawns on his cocktail.

"Well...."

"Every writer I know has trouble writing" said Joseph Heller.

"I asked Ring Lardner the other day how he writes his short stories" Harold Ross said with mayonnaise dripping down his chin "and he said he wrote a few widely spaced words on a piece of paper and then went back and filled in the spaces".

"Sounds good to me, Harry" I said.

Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. Don't you think, Minx?" George Orwell asked, helping himself to more spaghetti.

'I'm pretty sure I've never....."

"Oh yes," Kafka chipped in "Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself."

Goddess, best get the beer out, before they all get too melancholy.

"Easy reading is damn hard writing" Nathaniel Hawthorne said, flicking a pea at one of the Bronte's.

"Yes, yes, don't tell me the moon is shining, show me the glint of light on broken glass" Chekov slurred, burping loudly.

I just hoped it wasn't going to be me best glass, I thought as Lewis Carroll lit another joint.

"When you are describing, a shape, or sound, or tint. Don't state the matter plainly, but put it in a hint." he said "And learn to look at all things, with a sort of mental squint."

Mental squint, that's good coming from you, I thought. Were any of this lot going to offer any sensible advice about writing?

"As for my next book," Virginia Woolf declared, waking from a timely nap "I am going to hold myself from writing it till I have it impending in me, grown heavy like a ripe pear, pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall".

She should have married Joycey, I thought, they would have made a good couple.

"The best time for planning a book is while you are doing the dishes" Agatha Christie said, nudging Twain in the ribs. I could see her mind was working overtime about the twelve people sat around the table. No doubt she was killing us all off one by one over the dishes!

"A story should have a beginning, a middle and an end, but not necessarily in that order" Jean Luc Godard giggled.

"I try to leave out the parts that people skip" Elmore Leonard sniffed.

"That makes sense" I said, sniffing myself.

"Oh no" said Ray Bradbury "you must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you".

"Well you lot are getting pissed on my best wine and I really have no idea what I'm going to write next. " I said. "I thought you would be some help - obviously not".

"I never think when I write." said Don Marquis "Nobody can do two things at the same time and do them both well."

There was a prolonged silence as his words sunk through the lake of alcohol that my best spaghetti hadn't soaked up.

"Well Minxy darling." said GK Chesterton thoughtfully "You could compile the worst book in the world entirely out of selected passages from the best writers in the world."

Now, I thought, there's an idea!

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Showtime?

In a one-off comment in the last post, I have received a couple of emails and a hands-up from Cailleach and Jon M to an idea that I threw out into the blogosphere.

Competitions are lovely but they often give us no idea as to how we are progressing. A writers life is lonely and we all need, encouragement, help and support - so this is my proposal.

1. A monthly showcase of writing to be hosted on a different blog each month,

or

2. Setting up a new 'central' blog to which the contributors have the passwords. There could still be a different host each month.

3. Each host could decide the theme in advance.

4. Open for all types of poetry and prose (but with a limited word count).

5. Allowing for the possibility of individual, private critique, or help with editing.

There are lots of things going around in my head but now it's over to you. What do you think?

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But someone has to win!

Results.

Firstly, thank you to all those who entry me little competition. The solitary prize really doesn't justify the standard of the entries. I will tell you that picking a winner gave me a headache but I may just have come to a conclusion that will puzzle some of you.

Two excellent stories stood out from the others, well written, tidy, grammar all present and correct - two complete packages you might say. So why didn't I choose one of them?

As I looked through them all I realised that another two stories were vying for my attention and appealing to my sense of interpretation. These two had taken the picture and made it their own and because I couldn't decide between these two I have decided to send a book to each.

Well done

Canterbury Soul and Mutley the Dog,

you shook me tree. Please email me an address.

Thank you all again. All the writing was excellent. If you would like a personal critique of your story please email me.

Btw, I have received a late entry from Mavis Crapthrottle for the competition. Because I am a fair-minded Minx I have decided to post it here as a future warning to all late comers.
Mavis is a numpty who should know better! Here is her story.

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Sunday, bloody Sunday

There is a war of a different kind. This one doesn’t get reported on national television. No government is involved, no religion threatened, no rioting in the streets and there is no real loss of life.

I cup my hands around the hot mug and watch the explosions lighting the night sky with a mild interest. The voices on the street below are soaked with alcohol allowing the argument to drift through the open window. He had been looking at another woman apparently, and she is determined to let the whole street know. He is still pleading his innocence, promising undying love and total adoration of her ‘great tits’ as her shrill voice frogmarch's him into the distance. They may survive their war - if she is strong enough, that is.

I close the curtains on the birthday fireworks. It is nice to know that someone is celebrating a victory of some sort as I turn to the war zone in my own bedroom.

He has buttoned his pyjamas all the way to the top and has that look in his eye reserved for road rabbits. I know what he’s thinking.

It’s Sunday. So what will it be? Sex, or cocoa?

I haven't decided yet.

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Thankfully Mavis Crapthrottle has no blog.

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A small but perfectly formed competition is closed.

There are 12 stories up on LITTLE MINX - thank you all for your entries.
It seems these pictures stirred the 'darker' side in most of you - I hope it was a good exercise!

I will post the winner tomorrow because at the moment I am completely undecided (as usual).

OPEN TO EVERYONE
I have decided that there will be a second 'Coven' prize, but in usual Minx fashion this will have a condition.
This second book needs to go on a journey.
If you wish to have a copy then write a 'PLEASE' in the comments box (an original kind of please will do the trick). All I ask is that once you have read it you must pass it through your blog to someone else!

It will be interesting to see how far we can get it!

Now get on and woo me!

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Summer solstice

Love and light for Litha.

We have no more serious business today than watching the clouds drift by.

-Edwin Way Teale

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(the fractal is by Gedeon Peteri)

Lerts

I am suffering from a bad case of 'Lerts'.

Having just been very brave and swapped over to a Firefoxy browser (all by myself - she said smugly) I was hoping that my lerts might clear up, or that I would at least get them under control. I was mistaken.

The lerts start in the morning. As soon as I switch on the pooter it lerts me that it is clean and healthy and ready to go. I don't mind this lert. It rises gracefully in the right hand corner, a mellow yellow informing me that my little Panda has blocked nasty intruders and repelled any aliens.

The big lerts start as soon as I open up my browser. Google sends me red M's to say that messages are awaiting my attention in my mail bag. Skype then zooms into action dropping flaglerts all over the place that tell of a missed chat or call. Spybot and Tune-up give me a wave in amongst all this to inform that they have disinfected the engine overnight and then googlelerts warm up and tell me who has been lurkin' on me blog while I've been asleep.

I don't mind the lerts really. They keep me up to date and inform me when someone is around when I am busy in another programme. What I object to is the sounds. I often wear headphones when I am working/writing and my music is interrupted with pings, whoops and boings which often translate as "Oi, dimchick, message, inbox, NOW!".

So what I am after, (and don't tell me to switch them off, I am a technobabe now and couldn't do without) is Sean Connery, who whispers quietly in my ear and gently says.......


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Competition update:-

6 entries now up on Little Minx
Please go and read. Supportive comments will be tolerated, but if you are mean I will chop yer fingers off!
Details way down below.
Closing date 22nd June. Get on with it!

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Cruden's (Completely Mad ) Concordance

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Yes, I know, strange book for a witch to have as a favourite but it no doubt helps that Mr Cruden's potty bible belongs to an equally potty family.
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The bible was given by the community of Ishpeming, Michigan, US, to my Great Aunt Amelia Cornish and her new husband ( lay preacher and miner) William Taylor in 1883.
Apart from being a comprehensive biblical dictionary, this copy also contains most of my family history that has been added to over the years. It holds pages for births, marriages and deaths, all of which have been diligently filled out. This is Amelia and William's marriage certificate which is incorporated into the book at the end of The Old Testament.
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(you can click on the pics for a better gawp)

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After their wedding, Amelia and William moved to Dakota to pan for gold. Family stories, probably well decorated, say that Amelia used to hide down the well when the plains Indians came, but at some point they must have had contact because there was a full Indian headdress in the family for years.
The book is a mine of information, not only explaining every single word of the bible but also showing plates of the flora and fauna, maps and landscapes of biblical times. As the bible would always have been open in the house, I often used to wonder if the local Indians ever had a glimpse of it!
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In 1898 William and Amelia returned to their home in Cornwall, England. On their way into Liverpool they were shipwrecked off the coast of Ireland and lost everything.
With the help of their family (who lived in Greensplat - gorgeous name, and about 15 miles away from me) they furnished a home and settled back into Cornish life.
Five years after their return an Irish tinker turned up on their doorstep with a trunk. Inside was the headdress, some gold earrings that William had made for Amelia, various other bits and pieces and of course, the bible.
Amelia was said to be irate at William for giving the tinker five guineas for returning their stuff. This sounds fairly typical of Amelia, a feisty woman who has been one of the stars of my family. I'm glad he did, and especially glad that Cruden's Completely Mad Concordance lives in an equally mad house now. I think Amelia would have approved!
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(The book looks deceptively small here - it is 15 x 12 inches and 5 inches in depth)


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AND DON'T FORGET THE COMPETITION
BELOW BELOW
YO HO HO
6 ENTRIES UP ON LITTLE MINX
CLOSING DATE IS FRIDAY 22ND JUNE
SO GET YER ARSE IN GEAR

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Deja blue

A year ago I sat in the same place - here. There were only sixteen candles on his cake then and his facial hair barely needed tending - how much has changed.

Thankfully, Small Fecker, who hit 14 last Monday (yes, I know, bad pregnancy timing) is a few years away from the beach party. He is content to spend a day with his mates playing football but I know that they are both nearly out of my hands.
Tonight I watched Big Fecker and his tribe making their way down the cliffs to the beach with armfuls of booze and then turned my gaze out to sea.

I think we have done our best as parents. Some would consider my morals to be a little adjustable and that Nirvana was not a good band to lull them off to sleep. As I have said before, they don't come with a manual - you make it up as you go along and fight the guilt when they fall by the wayside.
I think they know how much I love them- despite their foul habits and a need to write 'Owen is Gay' on my beautiful retro fridge in permanent ink (that was this morning by SF - Owen is our cat btw). Thoughtless rather than malicious, but I sometimes have to fight the urge to beat them black and blue and remember what a complete numpty I was at that age.

I look out over an aquamarine sea. They are good kids really, one year older and one year funnier, smarter and brighter than they were last year. They can walk when the car has broken down, talk into the night about things they shouldn't know about and argue like politicians. They are shaping up just fine and maybe, just maybe, I had a hand in it, somewhere.

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Don't forget the competition two posts below.

There are now five entries up on LITTLE MINX.

Letters to the world

Dear Mr Postman,
it appears that you do not always ring twice and this morning I am fairly sure that you did not even bother with the once.
I came down to find a note from you. I was a little touched that you had thought to write to me but your words were scrawled all over a piece of junk mail that was just about to be filed in the bin. Your lovely words told me that you had left a little something for me behind the grey box. Again I was touched, although it has to be said - a little confused, as most of the time you leave parcels out in the fresh air or worse - with my demented neighbour Irma Geddon.

I scanned the garden for a grey box and found to my dismay that there was not one. I hunted high and low and eventually found my parcel by the bin. Can I please point out that a bin is, yes, grey, but is cylindrical in shape and that these 'boxes' are usually receptacles for rubbish. The bin technicians (is that PC?) are also 'box' challenged and I was lucky that they hadn't whisked away my parcel to the Land of Dump.

I am not even sure why the parcel ended up at the binbox as it fitted quite neatly through that special hole that I have in the door. Goodness knows you have forced entry with far bigger items that would have required a return to the post office, squeezing and squashing them until they are no bigger than the stamp they were sent with.

I know I have frightened you in the past, greeting you at the door in my comfy bed attire and less than prepared 'morning' face, but it has to be said that I find that you have legs that were not designed for public consumption. Whoever decreed 'thou shalt wear the short shorts regardless of unattractive knees' ought to be hung up by their postal bags and left out in the rain.

So in future, if you wouldn't mind, please leave parcels in the blue box provided to the right of the front door that says 'parcels in here'. I have added a neon sign, bells and alarms to aid this process. In return I promise not to answer the door half nekkid and will refrain from staring at your less than adequate knees.

Nearly sincerely

Mrs Minx

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DON'T FORGET THE COMPETITION IN THE POST BELOW!

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Entries now up on LITTLE MINX

Skintwriter

Theonlygolux

Wanderlust Scarlett

Jon Mayhew

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A small, but perfectly formed competition

Following on from yesterday's post I realised how much Vettriano's art has inspired my own writing (HERE and HERE).
Does it inspire you?

I hope so.

Below are three pictures that, for me, evoke a range of ides and emotions and I would like to invite invite you to share yours.

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Picture one

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Picture two

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Picture three

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In no more than 500 words of prose or poetry, pick a picture, write the words and send your thoughts to:

innerminx at googlemail dot com

no later than Friday 22nd June.

A simple 'word doc' attachment should do the trick, along with your name and blog and the number of the picture you chose.

I will showcase each entry on The Little Minx (my short story blog) and the winners will receive a copy of me infamous novel 'Coven of One'. Should you already be a proud owner of the purple peril, then I will find a prize tailor-made for you!

Update!

The first entry is up on LITTLE MINX

PLEASE NOTE

If you wish to sway my decision, then please leave your comments in the box provided below each enrty. However, if you go beyond the remit of 'constructive criticism' I will chop yer hands off.

Jack Vettriano

Jack Vettriano is one of my favourite contemporary artists. Condemned by many as being too unimaginative, and even vulgar, he manages to capture a timeless era when women were women and men were mostly butlers!

(The Singing Butler)

Born in Fife, Scotland in 1941, he took up painting in his twenties after a girlfriend gave him a set of watercolours. It was not until his mid-forties that Vettriano came to the fore and he went on to become one of the most commercially successful artists that Britain has produced. Jack Nicholson and Terrence Conran are two of his biggest collectors and the original below sold for £98,000.

(Embracing)

In an artworld teeming with un-made beds and pickled cows, can we honestly dismiss Vettriano's work as vulgar.......

...when his men convey the aura of a film noir......

(Card jack)

...and his women, the wistful, thoughtfulness that we can all find within.

(Beautiful Dreamer)

Whatever your opinion on art, isn't it nice to find something that makes you feel.......

...at the end of the day?

Weekend guest spot (Minx is lying down)

Dirty little secrets

LM asked me yesterday about the importance of word counts and the rules of writing. I could ask her the same thing - what are the rules of painting and sculpting?

The trouble is that there are rules that apply to writing, if not to the process then definitely to the finished piece. These rules are set by the Gods of Publishing and concern layout, house style, gutter depth etc, but give no clue to the magick formula of writing a novel.


I am not very comfortable talking about my journey through writing a novel but I will attempt to share some of my unsavoury habits as clearly as I can. You can decide whether they are useful to you, or condemn me as off me trolley.


In the beginning....
I start with a sniff of an idea which I carry around in my head for days/weeks/months. As soon as the idea has a shape that I can recognise I start to write. The first thing that goes down on a word doc is the last sentence. This is my eventual goal - the finish post, but how I get there is often a mystery to me (oh dear, no help there then!).


Harry Plotter....
I am the world's worst plotter. No one told me in the beginning that plotting was the thing to do but after I enrolled on a creative writing course (after I had written two novels) I found out that I was a bad, bad person.

"Plotting a novel in detail stops writers block" my 'dull as ditch' water tutor informed the class.

"What's writers block?" I asked meself, immediately thinking that I was due for a dreadful bout of constipation. I am not going to say that I will never suffer from word blockage but when I feel that I have come to crossroads I stop and go and do something else for a couple of days until it becomes clear where I must go.


Drafty in here.
What is a first draft? For me it is the result of my 'vomit' style writing. No editing, barely spell checking (unless one irritates me) and often a sentence or a paragraph is dotted with stars to remind me to fill something in later. I make notes as I go along, adding thoughts and ideas to the prow of the next chapter.


In search of the grail.
I don't spend months researching my subject, I do it as I need to know. Saying that, I can get stuck in a particularly juicy bit of information for days and have recently been trawling the net for suitable house building materials capable of withstanding temperatures of -50 degrees.


Counting the wordies.
A useful tool to see if you have progressed any. Why bother with something that is going to put constraints on your writing? Let it run free and worry about it afterwards. Some writers like to set a goal of words a day. I think I would have trouble with this and cause myself undue mental problems. When I get going I write very quickly (the first draft of Coven of One was finished in 3 months). If I worried about the words then I might not stay up all night to finish a chapter and then where would I be?


How long is a piece of string?
How the fuck should I know? This is my piece of string and that is yours. Coven came in at 120, 000 words. By the time the editors (word executioners - Debi and Skint) had ripped it to shreds it was down to 110, 000 wordies. This is a fairly standard length I think, and the editing process weeds out all yer useless decorative touches (Debi, if you mention the word 'had' I will dig yer eyes out with spoons). I have never had a word count goal - the novel finishes where it does, hopefully somewhat longer than a poem.


My tool box
I started writing just over six years ago. I have learned a lot in a very short space of time. No one can teach you how to write, or how to acquire style and my advice would be:-
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Read everything you can lay your hands on.

Study and compare styles of other writers.

Talk to anyone who will listen.

Share your work.

Write gooder English.

Believe in yourself.

Question everything you write.

If you don't love a character then chuck them out.

Write every day (my only discipline).

Relax, enjoy your writing.

Live the book.

Drink gin, eat naughty biscuits and sing, frequently.





Questions may be asked in the comments but I probably won't answer them as I am hiding behind this bush.




Pee ess-

Maht, at Moon Topples, has a relevant post, revealing his own thoughts about his first novel.

Fairy tales and naughty biscuits

After a small break from writing (novelwise) I am now writing like a demon into the night. Every time I have a break I go through the same process as I get back to full steam. It is a process of self-flagellation (think mentally here please) as I work my way down a menu of self-doubt, lack of faith and general scoffing that I ever thought I could write in the first place. As I work through the next chapter I gradually allow myself back into Fairyland where the hoover gathers dust and the dishes pile up in the sink.

With one fairytale already published, and five already written, I thought that this process would die a death and I would feel more confident. Hah! Maybe this feeling never goes away and the only thing that I can say with certainty is that I know that I can write 120,000 plus words! Maybe this feeling is the thing that keeps me going, the thing that wakes me up in the middle of the night and drags me to the keyboard before my eyes are open. A pointy stick that keeps me sharp and drives a novel to its eventual conclusion.

So, I'm back, churning out words like a hellcat and once again blogging has become my naughty biscuit. A treat at the end of a chapter, a paragraph (a sentence?) - a fairy cake reward for a fairytale novel that I may never quite believe that I wrote all by myself!

Natural Magick stands at 55,000 words - is my chalice half full, or half empty?

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Shopping, shouting, drinking, and other things that happen on a Saturday morning when you are minding your own business

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"TEQUILA!"

"Oh yes please." I thought. I bloody hate grocery shopping and a tequila would be just the thing to get me through it, even if it was a bit early in the day.

It took me a while to realise that Tequila was in fact a stray child who I found a few minutes later trying dismantle a display of chocolate biscuits. I couldn't blame her, she obviously hated shopping as much as I did. Just as she was about to loosen the one box that would have brought the whole mountain down, her mother caught up with her and spoilt our fun.

As I watched Tequila being dragged off clutching her ears against the twenty decibel assault, I wondered what had possessed someone to call their child after a drink with a dubious worm in it. Did she have sisters named Martini or Sambuca, brothers, cousins with monikers enough to confuse a bartender?

I tried to imagine a 'Grandma Tequila', 'Great Aunt Tequila' and failed miserably. Did people think about the consequences of carrying around a name that could be ordered?

So what do names say about us? Naming a child is never easy - I know from experience. I like a slightly unusual name but working with children had put me off some. We had settled on two names for our planned only child and, umm, when our second child made his debut luckily the spare name was unisex.

Both the Feckers like their names but I know a number a people who have changed theirs as soon as it was legal ('Texas Bluesky' became a 'Leanna') but I have always been quite content with my own. I could have had fun with a more authorly name but someone had already bagged Mingus Windbottom and besides I have enough fun choosing names for my characters which is a far more logical process. I know these people before I name them. They are fully formed in both looks and personality and the name usually just plops into place.

So, anyway, I will not be applying for a job as the local registrar.

"Have you really thought about this? Do you think he looks like a Calvados Amaretto the Third, or were you just pissed out of your head when he was conceived?'.

"Axl, Axl? Are you mad, Mrs Rod?

"I'm sure 'Flight 291' was significant for you - but it may be a source of embarrassment to him when he is about 16."

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Pee ess - the chocolate biscuits collapsed in a heap a few seconds after I passed and my Minx toe had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all!

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