Fey thoughts on a Sunday morning

(look, he doesn't want one either!)

I will never say never, life is far too short to ignore an exciting opportunity when it comes but I might say that I am unlikely to -

• win the Nobel peace prize
• sail without fear
  
• have another baby
• learn to love my hair
• write a work of great literary fiction
• wear beige when I'm old
  
• invent anything useful
• put money before love
  
• look back with regret
• give up my nasty habits
• be complacent
• feel comfortable around a maths genius
• own a gun
• be known as Dame Minx
  
• go out quietly

This list may continue - if you can be bothered.......

That's good, someone turned the lights on again

Okay, okay, I'm a witch but I can't see everything coming. There is a change on the wind, you can hear the buzz in the air if you listen carefully, feel the vibes, and they are good.
This morning with a hundred mundane things tramping through my brain I picked up a package from the front door. Inside was proof, lovely, lovely proof....Barbara Smith is a real live author and her poetry book 'Kairos' is a small pot of gold.

In between the tongue in cheek 'Do mad people have gardens?' to the very beautifully sad 'Alice's Boudoir' , Babs has woven a fine trove of poetry that reaches far down into her Irish roots and beyond.
It is a joy and its neat size mean that it can be slipped into a handbag and whipped out during the boring, tedious moments at work - and I will!

Twelve months ago this wonderful woman jumped on a plane and came to my launch in London. 'I had to be here' she said. We stayed with Debi Alper and the three of us, like some mad literary coven, sat talking into the night - the published, the newly published and the yet to be published. I looked at us, all coming from completely different backgrounds, each with a different slant on life. What bound us together, for I count these women as lifelong friends?

Well, we are risk takers. Out of the darkness someone offered us a chance and we switched the light on to see what was going on. It is not enough to merely write, anyone can do that to some degree, I would say it means grabbing that swinging rope and hanging on for dear life.

There are lights appearing everywhere. Derec Jones, who brought Coven of One to life has just started the wonderful new magablogazine Opening Blag and Bill Liversidge is proudly going forward with his self-publishing project for A Half Life of One.

Life is for living, chances are for taking, and if you take away the fear then all you are left with is a brightly lit room in which to grow.
I am reading, and editing, good stuff from a number of bloggers who have a risk taking gene stashed somewhere about their person. I wonder if they will flick that switch when their moment comes?

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Opening Blag

Yes, yes, finally.
Derec Jones (former blogger Skintwriter) has emerged from the hinterland to bring us a brave new experience. Join me in celebration of the launch of......

THE OPENING CHAPTER BLAG

Filled with lovely treats, this bl(og) + (m)ag(azine) is an on line literature and arts magazine. Go and have a gawp, the gang are all there and you could be too.

Got something to say? Then check out the submissions guidelines but not before you have savoured the words of some of the best writers on the blogs (and, err, me on A sense of Place).

The Opening Chapter Blag brings us an insight into the world of the contemporary artist, poet and writer, smart words from some very smart people.

Please, please, nick the 'I'm a BLAGGER' button, pop it in yer sidebar and keep a beady eye on it. The latest article could be yours!

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Defending the lentil

(look, look - lovely, lovely lentils)

Diet is a horrible word. It sort of conjures up images of desperate, chocolate deprived women busy calculating the calorific content of a baked bean. I hate the word, and the thought of depriving myself of anything sends me on a raid of the fridge that would outdo the SAS.

However, I do have to stick to a diet. It requires that no meat shall pass my lips or dreadful things will start to happen in my gut. War breaks out, there is pain and suffering for days on end and this has simply been eliminated by the removal of dead flesh from my eating habits.

In a house that is divided by 'eyed' and 'eyeless' food I am a reluctant vegetarian, and one who often loiters over the frying pan when a piece of bacon is sizzling. Having said that, I do believe that not only is a mostly vegetarian diet better for you ( I am the right weight for my height, if there is such a thing) but that it makes you more creative in the kitchen.
It is very easy to throw a slab of meat on the plate and tuck it in with vegetables and a plop of gravy. Meat is convenience food, mostly pre-packaged and pre-ordained to become just like the one in the recipe book. I think society has become obsessed with fast food for our fast lives and we have forgotten the art of cooking from scratch.

To be vegetarian you must have a diet that is varied and balanced. I often think that humans survived this far because we can eat everything and I believe that a little meat in the diet is good for you - moderation with all things. Don't get me wrong, I am not adverse to a nut roast or the odd bit of quorn, but I am not a bleeding heart bean eater.



And lentils? I bloody hate them!

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Other newsy things....

Shameless has posted a new communal writing project and please pop over to Wordcarving to see John's interpretation of the true story of Charles Tombe, his 'wife' and a rather good meaty meal. The plastic bag theme continues......


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A rubbish poem

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Crow sat above fields of corn

A black knight of local kin

surveyed his kingdom all alone

bereft of crowish, larking din

I sat and watched his bi-valved form

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Crow dipped his head to spy a thing

cornfed cricket, or fieldmouse husk

carriage bent with beaded eye

feathers mussed by a sailing gust

that caught his mizzen-masted wing

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I smiled to see his Fagin rags

tatty head and spoiler beak

He turned, caught me, laughed aloud

at glasses, lost, and ego piqued

The crowing was a plastic bag

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(idiot)

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5 strengths I have as a writer

Oh joy.

Thanks, Scarlett. My 'love' of meme's is well documented, but here goes......

1. I am a storyteller.
In days of old when knights were, well, an organised bunch of hooligans really, their lord and master kept them all on the moral and spiritual path by employing a bard to sing and tell them stories. Through the ages this was how messages/lessons were passed on when the printed word was nothing more than a few religious words painstakingly copied by monks with bleeding fingers.
I am nothing more than a latter day teller of tales, a bardess, who can commit words to paper in some sort of order.
Therefore, I am a spinner of yarns

2. My second strength lies in my strong physique.
I have an uncanny ability to stay in one position for hours on end and have developed a bottom that could crack walnuts.
Therefore, I am a professional lazy cow.

3. I am crap at maths but I can see patterns in words.
I spend a lot of my time looking at the lovely words, stroking them, tweaking them, gently moving them around and making them into neat little lines.
Therefore, I am obsessed.

4. I can lie convincingly.
I would like to think that I can make you believe that I know what I'm talking about. Some would call it bullshit, but I prefer to think of it as embroidering the truth.
Therefore, I am a liar.

5. I don't live in the real world. I mostly carry some other world/place around in my head all day long. It is more real to me than anything else and there is really no point in talking to me because you really don't exist.
Therefore, I'm nuts.


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I am supposed to tag, so I tag everyone in my blogroll, so there!

Absolute gems

Absolute Vanilla (and that damned hen) posts a review of Coven of One

HERE. Thank you!

More good news
Pundy is doing his book thang
HERE


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Beat me up, baby.

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It has been said that many writers are just lazy, happy to spend hours each day gazing into nothingness and letting their rear ends take on the shape of a chair. This is true. But is all that lazying around looking louche a good way to relax?

I would disagree. When I write my brain is in overdrive, as sharp and as honed (mostly) as if I were at work. My job eats about 35 - 38 hours a week and can also be extremely physical (think small, awkward people running around at 50 miles an hour). Couple this with running a home and a national average family and it is probably a good thing that I need very little sleep.

I have always been aware that it is very important to feed yourself as much as you feed others and for twenty years I played sport. I also introduced 'fend for yourself Friday' (no cooking for me) and made sure that I spent some time on my own.
A very nasty dislocated jaw put pay to my sporting life and it soon became obvious that I needed something to fill the gap.

There followed a long career as an evening student at the local college, trying everything from singing to yet another tedious writing class. Nothing satisfied.

Okay, no laughing, here comes the solution and the best way to relax that I have ever found.

I joined a Samba band.

You may stop laughing now.

Every Tuesday I go and beat hell out of a rather large drum. The rhythms of this Brazilian batucada music get deep into your soul and the hypnotic beat of the surdu drum allows the head to escape and the muscles to relax.
For a hobby that requires a pair of earplugs during practice sessions, it is amazing that it is good for blood pressure and tension related ailments. I love it, and can you think of a better way to beat all those negative thoughts out of your head?

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Fantasy

Today I have been mostly thinking about sex.

Okay, now I've got your undivided attention let me elaborate.

Sex in books. Do they, or don't they?
I am at a particularly moist part of a chapter and the scene can go one of two ways. Do I allude to the sex, or go all out, full frontal so to speak? The life and times of my characters allow for a very heavy duty romp, but is this the right thing to do?

My personal choice is allusion. In real life I find certain clothing/fabric far more erotic than full nudity, and a male friend recently stated that thongs were the most disgusting thing that had ever been invented. I can understand this, why tie a piece of string around a chocolate cake?

How much does fantasy need to be fed? How much do you need to get the picture or am I just giving you a cheap thrill? There is also a possibility that I could end up with a Bad Sex in Writing Award if I don't do it properly.

So, what to do? My instincts are leaning towards the big hint, but my naughty side is itching for a little minxy action!
It could be fun and I could wipe it all out afterwards as if it never happened. Maybe I should lie back and enjoy it - after all I am a fantasy writer!

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Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie

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And the remedy lay in running away to the heart of England for a few days......


To sleep, perchance to dream....
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..not much perchance though. Ye olde world mattress did not fit ye olde world bed! This was probably the wonkiest pub in England but they did serve up possibly the best Glamorgan (leek) sausage I have ever tasted.

This was in Evesham, home of the 14thC Almonry (below) , where the Benedictine monks
distributed alms to the poor, and in later years where bread-stealing criminals cooled there heels in the stocks (which are still there, be warned louts with skateboards) ......
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Also the very beautiful Evesham Abbey that began life in 702AD after Eof, the swineherd, had a vision obviously other than the pigs in his care (clever Eof).
Evesham was also the place, in 1265, where Simon de Montfort (Norman cad) had his ass wopped by the forces of Henry III.
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All the world's a stage...
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This is the childhood home of William Shakespeare in Henley Street, Stratford-upon-Avon. I imagine that Mr Shakespeare would never have envisioned his house overrun by tourists nor that I would be accosted by Babs and Barb, two labelled American ladies, who thought I was nearly as cute as the Bard's birthplace (23rd April 1564).
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The Elizabethan buildings in Stratford are beautifully preserved. This is The Garrick Inn, one of the oldest pubs in the area. Shakespeare once lived opposite and Starbucks was very handily just up the road.
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The play's the thing
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The Royal Shakespeare Theatre, in Stratford, was the first theatre to be built in honour of His Wordiness in 1879. Most of it (except this bit) was destroyed by fire in 1926. Judging by the amount of building work going on they are still trying to put it right.
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Let every eye negotiate for itself
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My eye negotiated the map and found our next sleeping place, Bourton-on-the-Water, to be the fairest village in all the land (nice pub too). We were a little worried as Bourton lies between Upper and Lower Slaughter (I didn't ask).
We stayed in a guest house and were probably the youngest people there by about fifty years.
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Eye of newt and toe of frog
.

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Glastonbury Tor. The windy tower that lends itself to Arthurian legend, ladies in lakes, solstice shenanigans and earthy pagan rituals. No self respecting witch could pass the Somerset Levels and not call in to the spiritual home of all things mistyk. Glastonbury town is saturated with shops dedicated to the Gods, Goddess's' and a very tasty cake called Torsy Moorsy.
Did I shop?
Need you ask?

Home again. Thanks for the emails and no, I ain't dead. I just needed a break.

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Cockles

We stood in trust on tidal bay

our youth laying fear to waste,

a-cockling was the sport of days

but never, ever, done in haste

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As waters fell, we made advance

our small feet lightening mud

Trousers rolled on rubber boots

to cleave what once was flood

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Lizzy, sister, sturdy picker

and me with giant’s bucket, faced

the steam of leaving banks in time

to join the local cockle race

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We watched with keener eyes than most

for motes that pointed there

the smallest nuance, the bravest dash

that would bring our quarry near

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Our dad said “there”, (he knew these things),

his childhood passing from

a time well spent in freedoms realms

and one that we take on

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We dug the mazing, cloying sludge

For Scappies, Dawgs, and Jans

I preferred the Brownie chaps

Cooked in sea-glazed, floured pans

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The hours ticked, and silently

we listened to the knell

of tiding clocks that struck the end

of hunting the barbarous

cockle shell

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50,000

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Fifty-thousand is a lot of anything and I find it quite hard to picture this number of things (apart from words, that is. Numbers never were a strong point). Here are some facts about this rather gorgeous number.

* Western Samoa ordered 50, 000 condoms to be available during the Pacific Games (saucy bunch)

* Each year as many as 50,000 species disappear (or have they gone on holiday?)

* 'Gadsby' was a story of 50,000 words by Ernest Vincent Wright that didn't use the letter 'E' (should that be Rnst Vincnt Wright?).

* Parents will pay £50,000 more than average to be near a good primary school. (snob money?)

* Malaysia has slaughtered 50,000 pigs this year because of smell pollution (poor piggies)

* Valerie is the 50,000th bus pass holder in Swansea (well done, Valerie)

* 50,000 dollars worth of broccoli was stolen reported the Chicago Tribune (why?)

* Admiral Dick offers 50,000 movies of dubious content for your late night perusal.

* Since May last year The Inner Minx has had 50,000 people trooping through her blog. It is probably more but I wasn't bright enough to obtain a stat counter at first.



I find it a bit impossible. There can't possibly be room for all of you but at least now I know where all the crumbs come from.
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Anyway,

THANK YOU

I'm very proud because some of you have even come back for a second visit, so well done.

Now, if you all squeeze up a bit we can maybe fit another small one in!



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(here are fifty-thousand pennies that some boring twonk made into a cube)


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Munctious snogweasels and other irritations

I have an unremiteral hatred of people using the English language to try and gain social upstandiness with a word that they have plucked from some obscurious cell at the back of their socially inviolet brain. Nothing cloyds to my nerves more than hearing some complete twonk utter a sentence that is litterated with words that make the ears plead for understanding. Words that died a torvide death in 1492, or ones that no living creature has ever been able to master tonguewise with plausible missilitude.

Call me wicked, but there is a kind of persnivious joy in laying blent to people who think themselves betremental than you. Nothing beats the sheer upshoyedness of dropfiliating a snagbinding word into your bank manager's bulbantous vaultum just as he has denied the raising of ones overdraftation. Purviolators of glazing and toadylating sellers of insurance should be treated in a likewise manner.
The same can be applied to the munctious snogweaseling supplier of telephonic services when the tit refuses to allow you to wriggle free of the hockbound contractum that he caught you so gutterally with in the first place.

So try it. A carefully placed blitch of a word will soon have him grobulating at ones feet, offering grapes, and similar items of luxurial empelishment, honouring your vast brainial cavity and worshipping the very eartherial blanket that you perambulase upon.

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(disclaimer - no proper words were hurt during the making of this blog post)

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Cheeky Minx!

Could I make a request to readers of the 'Purple One'?

I am woefully bereft of reviews on Amazon (HERE). If you read Coven of One and feel love, hate, warmth, passion or general indifference, please could you go and say your piece!
Sales are steady but could do with a boost.

Coven of One is also available at Opening Chapter - the link is over to your right-------->

If you haven't indulged so far, then I recommend a copy of your very own - you know you want to!



PEE ESS - in answer to Cailleach's choccy advert, here is my own current favourite. Funny, but the chocolate has a purple wrapper - how cool!

go HERE
and feel the joy!

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