The London launch of

'Coven of One'

*

The second national Blogmoot

*

Guest appearances

*

Books to buy

*

What more do you want?

*

Oh yes, where to be....

*

Bookseller Crow on the Hill

50 Westow Street

Crystal Palace

London

SE19 3AF

*

Saturday 9th December 2006

6.30 - 9.oopm

***

Sex talk

There is a more than interesting post over on Shameless Words on the merits of a well written sex scene.

When the plot calls should we go all out and write a sweat laden, no holds barred, full frontal or is it better to allude to intimacy, drawing a veil of the sordid details?

According the the 'The Bad Sex Awards in Fiction' over at the Guardian Umlimited there are a number of writers who get it wrong (not for the faint hearted btw), but what makes good sex in fiction?
Interestingly there were more women than men commenting on Shameless's post, does this have relevance? I would express a preference that if it is going to be done, then it should be done as realistically as possible and should be in line with the plot. The trouble is I think that it is one area where writers can fall down badly. Those poor writers up for an award must be cringing in their un-sexy boots! The point is, do you have to be good at it, to write about it?

I call for a vote

In a last ditch effort to win the attentions of our Great Blog Leader, and push myself finally into the ranks of an F-list blogger, I call for you to vote on.....

Pundy of the Pundyhouse - a man of our times.....

Pun DeGaulle
Winston Pundy
Pundychov

Oh and nearly forgot - the man himself - Papa Pundy!

pee ess - don't forget to have a look at our great leader below in some more of the other leaderships he has selflessly undertaken over the years.

pee pee ess - in case this doesn't quite go in my favour I want you know that a certain American poet is responsible for these glorious (scandalous?) pictures of GL Pundy. Thank you.

Our Great Leader

It has come to my attention that our great and revered leader has been hiding himself under a bushel! Not only has he bravely taken on leadership of the Blogosphere but has, amazingly, been part of our national heritage for many years.

Let us not forget the triumphs of King Pundygeorge V.

Or Pundoleon di Pundyparte, that small, French rascal, and his first taste as Emperor.

And of course, the abdication of Queen Pundy has paved the way for our glorious new empire right here in the Blogosphere. Who would have thought?


(I know - blown all me chances haven't I?)

My leige

In a thinly disguised bid to curry favour, and so win a prize of great merit, I have taken it upon myself to issue the first picture of your new lord and master.

Behold - The Emperor Pundias I

Winter is here, come sit awhile.....

When you are old and grey and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book
And slowly read and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep

- WB Yeats , 1893 (a few years younger than me fireplace)

Knowing your onions

Yes, I know my onions (look here).

You, as ordinary people, have no knowledge of onions and don't dare think that you do. Even though you may use the onion everyday it does not give you the right to express an opinion about them.

My thoughts about onions are well publicised, printed in all the best culinary books. I mix with the cream of onion appreciators, talking onions all day long, whilst you dabble about with the inferior shallots(here) and pickling onions(here). Do not possibly think that you know more than me about the revered allium - I have degrees in the subject. How could you think, or even contemplate, that you would know more than me, or share my enthusiasm for them?

I am skilled in the onion department and you know this now because I am telling that I do. Do not try to form your own opinion and please refrain from talking onions with any other amateur enthusiasts - it can only lead to onion revolution.

Find out more about 'Knowing your onions'

You wouldn't?

Maxine called a meme a few days ago - here it is.....

I would never....

1) Go out in underwear that didn't match

2) Behave myself

3) Stop writing everyday

4) Use up my energy on jealousy or envy

5) Leave the house without make-up or jewellery

6) Hex in malice

7) Behave myself

8) Have my humour amputated

9) Forget that love is at the core of everything

10) Lose the determination to enjoy this life!

Little Minx

Shameless has called for pictures to explore your inner child.

Well, here's mine - The Miserable Witch!

Taken in September 1963 (I was 7 months old - fatso). I was not only peeved that my more than adequate thighs were on show but that some dimwit had neglected to furnish me with shoes! How crass.

Here I am in June 65' and still holding on to those sturdy thighs. My sister and I hated each other until we were older and I was no doubt angry that we had been forced to submit to the wearing of identical swimming attire. I was also probably just about to clump her one with me spade for wearing a lampshade on her head!

The Gin Co-op - a coven of sorts!

We haven't done it for ages. Life, jobs and a summer spent on the beach have kept us apart, but this morning the evidence was there. A table full of empty wine bottles told me that I had been 'Ginned'.

Historically it started with tea. The girls and I got together on a Saturday afternoon to escape from the football that was either being played, or watched, by our menfolk. Our children were small, needy and unable to withstand the rigours of shopping that had dominated our Saturdays BC. We huddled around the teapot, exchanging moans whilst our offspring played together and our men went off to bond in shorts!

As the children grew we swapped the pot for a bottle, and the 'Gin Co-operative' was formed. Saturdays became a therapy session that no psychiatrist could compete with. The world was put to rights, mad ideas put into action, personal problems were sorted, and we could face the week again as working mothers.

I came down this morning to find a list telling me that once again we had arranged something under the influence of firewater. New Years Eve promises to be one of the best, but I still can't work out what 'pimps on sticks' are!

Oh, oh, here we go again!

Me and the book are off to London!

We are going to be here

at

The Bookseller Crow

on the hill

on December 9th

The Americans are giving thanks today....

..... that there are less ugly birds in the world today, than there were yesterday!

Time to wave the white flag

There are times in our lives when everything becomes complicated and unmanageable. Times when a good soak in the bath won't do the trick and no amount of wine will take away the stress of trying to live in the fast lane. So what do we do, where do we go when we need to wave the white flag?

My Grandmother was born here. A tiny fishing village on the south coast of Devon called Hope Cove. It hasn't changed much in 200 years, and this is where we go when we need to chill out and get off the world for a while.

Its appeal lies in the fact that it is quiet, unspoilt and has an ambiance that is different, even from beautiful Cornwall.

Another factor is its name. This tiny village is split into two parts and there is nothing more comforting than staying in a place called Inner Hope.

Gratuitous lunch box

Flirt

You can think what you like
you can say what you mean
Don’t twist me with your blatant lies,
or take the line between

You can spread me like butter
and fill my ears with charm
your words will never haunt me
my heart you’ll never harm

Hah!

Do you still think I’m a babe?
Let the gorgeousness shine through
Flattery might get you somewhere
if I was going there too

You can coax all you will
you can wheedle, you can whine
I’m old enough for wrinkles so
don’t try to take what’s mine

Now!

Do you still think I’m worth it?
You seem to relish the pain, of
rejection and denial,
whilst I remain the same

And I will,
for some time to come,
be wild, seductive, free.
I am not what you are looking at
your eyes do not see,
that beneath this painted face
hides a completely different me.

Annual medical report for the Inner Minx

Failure to follow the advice in the report of 2005 had led to some minor and slightly worrying symptoms that appear to be getting worse:-

Eyesight reports that there has been a 20% deterioration since March. This would coincide with the start of blogging and therefore the advice would be to give it up, or face 'jam jar' lenses by 2008.

Endorphins show a rise, also since March. This would not be a problem, as obviously laughing is good for all of us, but it is recommended that posts should be semi-serious and 'funny' blogs should be avoided in order to keep the bank full.

Liver function tests provide the statistics that the constant abuse of this organ is leading to a marked deterioration. This advice is always ignored and once again a warning letter has been sent to the appropriate department.

The bones continue to report good density but the ankles have once again complained about 'the pointy boots' - advice has been issued. The incident of dancing on the table at the Christmas party did not go un-noticed.

Hair reports a marked growth in some areas which is still being kept under control to some extent, but colour abuse is starting to take its toll. Hair predicts the use of wigs within ten years and could it please have a more 'normal' colour to suit its advancing years (a cut wouldn't go amiss either).

The stomach is in a worrying condition. Failure to eat anything more than a packet of crisps at lunch time has resulted in weight loss, but the medical council sees no fit reason why this diet should be endorsed to the nation. The stomach also complains that chocolate consumption has increased (again), replacing the vegetables that the blood requested some time ago.

The brain reports a constant struggle to keep up with the dual personality that has arisen since March. It has also reported that the constant arguments with the Minx about 'acting her age' are becoming a problem.

The nails are very excited by the new interest in their department but report that maintenance is already flagging. The skin, however, is pleased to report that she has kept up the moisturising regime started after she found that huge wrinkle. Another will not be issued until Jan 07 and will appear overnight, giving her the jolt she needs.

The lungs, again, have failed to make a report but the voice is worried that if she continues to smoke then she will end up sounding like Orsen Welles.

General comments :
The Inner Minx has constantly ignored advice on looking after her middle-aged body. The council has no alternative but to issue a warning letter to the brain which will in no doubt lead to a court case as her addictive nature is being allowed to run amok. Excuses have been made in the light of the added abuse to fingers on the keyboard of late but changes will have to made before she becomes a bent old hag incapable of doing much more than grunting from behind a computer. These changes lie in her hands, but unfortunately her hands seem to be occupied elsewhere.

Techno babe

Yes, it's true. Well, not so much of the 'babe', bit old for that, but I have definitely embraced all things technological. I don't understand half of it. I am trying my hardest, getting a lot of things wrong, but I am improving - daily.

Five years ago I didn't know a 'byte' from a 'bite' and even emails defeated me - what was wrong with paper and a pen for goodness sake? MSN and MySpace were like a foreign language and I had no interest in how big your giga-mega-whatnots were.

Yes, times do change. I am now au fait with publishing on the net, dashing around the world via the blogs. I can google chat with people in Australia and now I can even use me computer like a phone! Wondrous wonders!

But oh dear......WARNING, WARNING!!

The other day a fellow blogger, who shall remain nameless, nearly got me the sack. Another fellow blogger had sent me an interactive animation that I thought the children at the centre might like to see. We have a Smart Board installed in the classroom that allows the kids to use their hands to control the five foot screen. I just nipped into me mails to retrieve it when said blogger popped up on Google chat. It went something like this....

"Hi there, now that you are just lazing around in the mornings, are you up for a chatette"

I replied as quickly as I could.

"Err, no ****, I'm in the classroom working, catch you later"

Before I could shut down this came back in ten inch high letters

"BOLLOCKS , later then"

Fortunately three-year-olds can't read.
Unfortunately all the adults could.
Fortunately they all have a sense of humour!

Anyway, yes, here I am. A newly fledged techno babe, embracing this world as if it were nearly my own. But sometimes it all gets beyond me and I have to resort to the button below.

Hard cash and glory

I read the words.

I read them again.

And every time I am amazed that the words I read are not the words of a published author. I read them everywhere. They pop up on blogs, in journals, poetry sites, short stories and in half-formed manuscripts.

Some words are good, rich, thick with meaning that leaves a pleasantly cloying aftertaste. Others are light, feather-like, tickling my fancy, making me laugh and smile at their cleverness. All are good and worthy of a lasting paper memoir. And yet most of these writers are on the verge of giving up, or gave up years ago, drowning under an avalanche of rejection slips handed out by an agent/publisher who has just experienced his first 'bestseller' orgasm.

Don't get me wrong, books should be not be elitist. Everyone is entitled to read, and my own shelves sag under the weight of the good, the bad and the downright ugly. But tell me, when are publishers going to get their bravery back? When are they going to stop this madness that makes them reject the gold, in favour of hard cash and glory? Isn't it about time that we went back to the values that made a book a 'keeper'?

The Year of Constant Mourning

Yes, I know, I'm a lazy cow..... new story on Little Minx

The Minx guide to female blogging

1. Choose a name that suits your personality. 'Morwenna Fluffybunkins' or 'Naomi Nappybuyer' gives the reader an idea of exactly what they are in for.

2. Also choose a name that takes up most of a comments box - less to worry your pretty head about when actually dropping a comment.

3. Fill your blog with flowers, hearts and small furry creatures and let the world know that you care. 4. Never talk about religion, politics or wanking - these are are part of the male domain and should be avoided at all costs.

5. You can talk about the more intimate details of childbirth - it is a fascinating subject and should be treated with the seriousness it deserves.

6. Hobbies should be shared with the world. Post plenty of pictures and that way you don't have to worry about sentences making sense

7. Mention your menstrual cycle often, some periods of your life should not be kept a mystery. The male population is entitled to know exactly when you are off your rocker and a warning sign could be added to the head of the post.

(now, do you think I've got the fluffy pictures right?)

Patience

I was beginning to feel like a cat chasing a mouse - a mouse that had consumed large and regular doses of speed, and was forever just out of reach.
I had rummaged around in the cupboard and brought out every set of cards and runes I owned, but they all said the same thing. Patience.

I couldn't go on much longer. I found I was writing into the night most nights and the house was starting to resemble something out of a horror movie. It was no good - work was getting in the way of everything but there was no solution in sight. My job was too convenient to give up completely and we couldn't manage on one wage - I have a shoe fetish to support.

On Tuesday someone answer a prayer that I have been yelling into the ether for quite a while. On Monday I start a new job. Less hours, more money, less children. What more could I ask? So as from next week I shall have the pure and utter luxury of being a morning blogger. Oh, and I'll be able to get in a few hours writing as well!

Just damn rude if you ask me.

A fight in the Post Office during my lunch hour. So rude.

Don't they know that people are in a hurry between 12 and 1? It is bad enough on a normal day.

Usually a careful mental calculation of 'is it it pension day?' or 'last day to get your car tax this side of legal?' means that the queue will only be halfway around those stupid barriers that are designed to fool only the idiot. I can count. I know that there are twenty-three people in front of me and no amount of wiggly nylon is going to dupe me into thinking that I haven't got to wait for at least half my lunch hour.

Oh yes, the fight. It would have been even more dramatic if I wasn't trying to avoid the unpleasant odour that was emanating from the festering human in front of me. Suffice to say that the badly dyed blonde was having a go at the equally tastelessly coiffed brunette about a stolen boyfriend (he was probably better off without the pair of them). The spat peaked with a poorly aimed stiletto heel grazing a leg that should never really be seen in the light of day.

The staff were looking nervous. Not sure why, because they are holed up safely behind their bullet proof glass with a nice red panic button to keep them company. The people on the 'dangerous' side, had to make do with shuffling about on the spot or trying to breathe in some fresh air.

Anyway, the blonde limped off and the brunette sat in the photo booth, screamed into her mobile and I watched the clock. Twenty-six minutes of queuing, still six people to go, and it looked as if one of the staff was about to desert her post. I groaned.

No, no, I was saved. The woman who was next had forgotten her purse and the suit behind her had run out of time. I was next.

I presented my parcels.

"One airmail, States, and the other is inland, large letter rate please".

"Large letter?" he smirked "I will have to check...."

I raised an eyebrow and tapped a fingernail on the counter.

"Yes, yes, of course." he said "No problem."

A lost art

I've had some emails thanking me for the book. Amongst the comments were a few that remarked on my handwriting. Once again it is time to come out of the closet and finally admit aloud that I am a complete perve for a good hand!

The trouble is that this beautiful art is dying. When was the last time you wrote a letter? Not a quick scribble to the milkman or a note to remind yourself to buy loo roll on the way home but a full 3-4 page letter to a friend?

These days we spend our time filling out forms (mostly in capitals), and rarely take the time to perfect our penmanship. Schools spend less and less time teaching letter formation, preferring to encourage computer literacy. Today the phone and email has taken over from the personal script that says so much about us.

I can remember groaning over the spider-like efforts of the feckers. Annoyed at the lack of care, smudges and smears that littered the paper. They have improved, but they do not share my quivering joy in coming across a perfect hand.

Am I alone, or was I just born in the wrong time?

Twelve things that you may not know about a woman's wardrobe

1. The biggest wardobe is ours by right and we have unlimited capacity to add to it at will.
2. Supportive undergarments are never talked about in public and we don't own any anyway!
3. Shoes are bought in bulk, it is the law
4. We reserve the right to hate something once we get it home and can store it in your wardrobe for the next five years.
5. Wardobe mirrors lie all the time but you are expected to tell the truth!
6. New boots always come with a free pair of jeans, a new top, a scarf and that lovely jacket that you've had your eye on for ages.
7. A coat is never bought to keep the rain off. We have cars for that.
8. Our bum's never look big in anything, but the bum walking down the street in front of us is allowed to be huge.
9. A nod from behind the paper is not the answer we are looking for when we have enquired whether we look okay.
10. It is perfectly acceptable to wear your best t-shirt to bed
11. Female underwear is made to fall apart after six washes - it is a design fault.
12. "No, of course it's not new. I bought it in the sale last year" is always the gospel truth.


This is a Skint version of a m**e.
If you wish to join in just title your post 'Twelve things that you may not know about.....' - the rest is up to you - as long as you tell the truth!

Is this the write way?

I had an interesting phone call just now which has just obliterated the post that I was going to do. A friend or a friend rang and said "I've just read your book, it's good, how did you write it?". I ummed and ahhed and tried to sound a bit more literary than I was feeling but managed to sidestep her blunt question and move smoothly on to another subject.
Don't get me wrong, I am still high from the other night and could quite possibly rattle on about the story and background until the world stopped spinning. What I wasn't prepared for was the "how".

Looking back the question could be construed in different ways. How did I 'manage' to write it would have been easy and could have been answered in one phrase - stolen time.
I could have also interpreted it as "How the hell did someone like you manage to write a whole book?". Again easy - anyone can write.

So how did I write it? How do I write? How does the idea get itself on to the paper/screen?

Oh dear, this is something that I am not very comfortable with but I suppose it is time to come out of the closet.
When I went on creative writing courses (all for the wrong reasons btw) I found quickly that I didn't fit into the norm. I listened with interest to the tips for avoiding writers block. I listened and made notes about plots and plans. Plans that should stretch across the wall, accompanied with six months worth of research all packed into a neatly labelled lever files for easy reference. Some people planned out the entire novel on rolls of wallpaper and some used colourful post-it notes to map out chapters. Others gathered plots like precious antiques, storing them away for future reference and some made meticulous bullet-pointed lists of motivational cues and complete character breakdowns.
Ummm.
I sat my glasses on the end of my nose and nodded my head in all the right places and all the time I was thinking 'I hope we don't have to show that we know all of this' and my mantra became 'they do it their way and you do it yours'.
I don't really know what right and wrong is, I only know that I don't do it like that.
I write the last sentence first and then work towards it and if I don't use it in the end, then who the fuck cares?
I wouldn't know a plot if it bit me on the ass and planning would take all the excitement out of the next bit which I am usually dying to get to.
We should surely write in the way that is comfortable for us. Am I wrong? Tell me.

Thank you

Just about to set off back to Cornwall but just wanted to say thanks to everyone who made last night so special.

It was a lovely night and under a perfect Samhain moon we set Coven of One on the road. Friendships were sealed and new ones made. What more could anyone ask?

Thanks

Fly me to the moon....

.....well, at least to Cardiff!


Happy Samhain - see you round!

A gentle reminder

ME LAUNCH IS COMING!!!!

Tuesday 31st October

7pm

at

Chapter Arts Centre

Market Road

Cardiff

Please come and help me set Coven of One on the road.

It promises to be a great evening with the first ever BLOGMOOT following the launch.

Oh come on, you know as well as I do that you are dying to see what the Welshman looks like!!

Samhain Competition

Oh dear, this was hard, a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. I printed off all entries and have been reading aloud to the cat (he wasn't that helpful it has to be said). Anyway thank you so much for your entries.

It was great to see what Samhain means to others, and after very careful consideration I have decided on John Ahearn's poem All Hallows Eve, because this one captured the feeling for me but......

...okay Roberta, I decided to give a runners-up prize, send me your address and Coven of One will be winging it's way across the Atlantic in the next few days! Goddess I'm so soft!

£30.00 later....

....nails are done and me old worky hands have been transformed!

Can't type, can't scratch and can't wash the dishes - hey-ho!

Headache

Having trouble with poetry comp, be with you tomorrow........

Piccadilly peace

A couple of days ago I got tagged by Marie for a sort of memy thing about the ideal creative writing space. As usual I had a little think....

Well, yes there might be, but it certainly doesn't exist in total, does it? I mean, how can one write when one is camped in the middle of Piccadilly Circus? Well, it's simple really. I have this little bubble and when I start writing I get right inside and off I go.

Anyway, here is the last hour of writing....

type, type, type

"Mum, I need to make a volcano"

"That's nice, go on then"

type, type.....

"Can you help?"

(sort out small fecker)

type, type, think, think....

phone rings, natter, natter, type, type

"Mum, can T stay tonight?"

"Yeah, if you like BF"

type, type, ping, ping (email call)

reply to stack of mails

back to typing

"Mum, what does this look like?"

"Looks like a volcano SF, well done"

type, type, type

MD appears

natter, natter, how did your day go?

type, type

MD comes back in

"Minx? Did you agree to BF's girlfriend staying over and what is that horrible mess on the table?"

"Errr, I don't know?"

From the chalice of Arthur Durkee

come see: how quietly they move through the stones.
parchment fingers rustling their leaf tambourines.
the dew is on the grass. their feet, in all their wanderings, do not touch.
they float above the earth, or dissolve near to it, into it.
their compass rose is of the greater earth: these leaves fall through them.


we rise up out of the very fields we tilled: these cemeteries, plowed anew.
every year, the miracle of wheat. sweep the garden for next year’s roses.
snow falls around us, whitens our scalps: no summer’s day outruns us.
shake the leaves off the headstone: a million butterflies take wing.
the ash tree whispers: home; we’ve come home.

Find Arthur here

Samhain words (and pictures) from Jason......

"Rebirth"

Decaying fruit betrayed by the sun
Infects the skeleton bloom of trees.
Winds from the forest promise peace
Salvation flies on the whirling leaves.

Release the hopes abandoned by light
Embrace the darkening Autumn seas.
Evil unleashed to thunder free
Rekindles withered, forgotten needs.

********************************

Jason Evans blogs here

Loooooook!!

Fresh from the printer and will be in my shakey hands tomorrow.

It's real, apparently!

Thanks Skinty, again.

Sam's in a whirl......

Magic Whirlwind

Red and gold

a single leaf glides

down down

fighting the pull

till wind catches

almost too late

round and round

skyward

scooping behind

fallen comrades

one-by-one

swirling swirling

spiraling tower

yellow brown

bird-less wings

crackle crackle

reaching nameless stars

moonlit branches

impeding flight

but cannot stop

rising rising

whirling arrow

higher

higher

fly

fly

up

up

WHOOSH

explodes the night

wind evaporates

leaves like pixie dust

sprinkle to the ground

wide-eyed child-ghost

draped in mother's sheet

knows the magic

of this night

Sam Wright blogs here

Spellmakings from Shameless....

the flight of the chosen

you're not out there, I've been looking,
seen the white faces, for miles and miles,
thanks to the lanterns, guarding the gates,
not on the list for this new year, I promise,
made doubly sure by my yellowy mixture

it's watery, without butter, nor sour cream,
tepid, lumpy, stains across the bowl's rim,
my pumpkin potion, says the sweet child,
stepping back from her wicked coughing,
the high whistling the doctors frown at

in her frozen hand the spoon hangs lifeless,
a faint smile between her laboured sipping,
the legend, the stories, now she's regretful,
sow-en, he'd repeated, the Samhain Sabbat,
the flight of the chosen, their summer's end

he's laid down marigolds, chrysanthemums,
feverish, relentless chanting, until he sleeps,
right up beside her, dreaming of the lanterns,
it'll be better tomorrow, lots more summers,
the surgeons will take back what's been said

*

Shameless blogs here

Ahh go on.....

Susan links to this: BUBBLEWRAP - go 'manic' but don't forget to click on 'fresh page'...ahhh!

Invisible women?

I popped over to the local superstore earlier on, in search of some t-shirts for work. Whilst in the changing room I was accosted by a friend that I haven't seen for a while.

'Quick, come in here' she said 'Tell me what you think of this.'

I was confronted by a heaving bosom straining under some garish looking sequins.

'See, this is the trouble.' she moaned ' Nothing fits, sizes are all wrong and what does it matter anyway?'

'Course it matters, we all like to look nice' I said.

'No, it's no good,' she said eyeing my Sunday best 'at forty no one notices what you're wearing. No one at all.'

'Really?'

'Oh yes, when you get to our age you might as well be invisible.'

I left her trying to yank the dodgy looking sequins back over her head, paid for my t-shirts and headed outside.

The wind was just getting up as I crossed the car park and my butterfly skirt started blowing up. I battled with it, grabbing handfuls of fabric to stop my dignity from blowing away as well, but in the end I thought 'sod it. Let it go, I'm invisible, who's going to notice?'

Funny really, being forty is quite liberating!

People collection meme

Yeah, I know, sounds odd. This post originated at Sharon J (see full details here) and I was stung for this one by darlin' Debi.

5 little known facts about me

1. I have an Akashic sigil tattooed on my right shoulder

2. I have a condition that has gifted me an ability to stay pissed for longer than normal.

3. I have purple hair

4. I have escaped death twice

5. I am the queen of quick births - labour to delivery in half an hour!!



PLEASE LEAVE THE FOLLOWING IN ALL ‘PEOPLE COLLECTION’ POSTS
Remember that it isn’t always the sensational stuff that writers are looking for, it can just as easily be something that you take for granted like having raised twins or knowing how to grow beetroot. Mind you, if you know how to fly a helicopter or have worked as a film extra, do feel free to let the rest of us know about it :-)

A competition for Samhain

Entries below this post are...

Cailleach

John T Ahearn

Scynt

Roberta

*

*

Samhain sabbat, summers end, and the beginning of a new year. A magickal interval when the laws of time are suspended a while, and the veil to the otherworld is thin.

This is my interpretation, but what about All Hallows Eve and Halloween - what does it mean to you?

*

I invite entries of poems and flash fiction (no more than 150 words) to reach-

innerminx at googlemail dot com

- no later than 25th October 06

*

The prize is a freshly served copy of Coven of One!

So, be wild, be expressive, be magickal!

* * * * * *

Cailleach calling....

***

The Smith’s Samhain Feast


When holy scribes kneel down to pray
And bid the sun be on its way,
The stars awake at end of day
And bid me come to Gobhniu’s hall.
In darkened mound beneath the ground
Red Gobhniu sits, of old renowned.

The evening lengthens as is its course
And mead is served, as sweet as gorse.
Came I at last to brooding gate
And fearing then that I was late
I beat upon the hollow door
As many souls have done before

By great stone table, in cold stone chair
I took my place to eat my share
Gobhniu’s glass is raised in toast
To all of us and him the host
And now I fear my soul be lost
In Dwarrow-delve, by angels cursed

His fey words confer a tithe
Those who hear condemned to writhe
And weep, for forfeit be their souls
Their hearts and minds so quickly sold.
Too late they learn, fake mortal men
With elfin hair and bloodied hem.

The soul of man is but a gem
That Gobhniu lusts to smite in gold.
So, take this counsel won with grist
When found abroad in faerie mists
Return you home and pay no heed -
The fabled gift of Gobhniu’s mead.

* * *

From: Cailleach’s Weird Sister

**

Barbara blogs here

From the censer of John T Ahearn....

* * *

All Hallows’ Eve

When the aliens have landed and are gone,

and the goblins' sugared path has seen them past

the sticky monsters dotting every lawn,

and homeward wends the whole unlikely cast,

we quench the pumpkin, flip the top lock on,

and fire another log. Alone at last.

We gather darkness to us to defeat

the greedy stragglers' businesslike demands,

settle to a silence so complete

that ghosts in their accustomed shadowlands

begin to haunt the walls, begging sweets.

Ourselves. Our own unfledged and awkward hands.

* * *

John the Blogless is a poet and writer

"ysgrifennwr scynt" says his piece

***

Sam Hain

I've never noticed halloween before

well - not much

part of the gap until christmas

not long after the clocks go back

a dark time

usually cloudy

and the kids a bloody nuisance

on the doorstep

we used to give them sweets

but they looked at us funny -

grimaced

so now they get coins

it's not too bad

just three quid a year -

these days

sometimes I stand out the back and stare at the moon

***

ysgrifennwr scynt blogs here

Look out...here comes Roberta!

The Veil

She cries

every single

solitary night

Great heaving sobs

that shake her

to the core

I continue to

tell her how

I love her

Sometimes I

scream it until

I am hoarse

To no avail

I fear it falls

on deaf ears

So every single

solitary night

she cries

And I stand behind

the veil

and scream

Roberta Nolte
Blogs at Turn the Page

Naked as you are

Naked, you are simple as one of your hands,

Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round:

You have moonlines, applepathways:

Naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked, you are blue as the night in Cuba;

You have vines and stars in your hair;

Naked, you are spacious and yellow

As summer in a golden church.

Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails,

Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born

And you withdraw to the underground world,

as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores:

Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,

And becomes a naked hand again.

--Pablo Neruda--

A grunt

In case you didn't know, I don't get on with my smother-in-law. We have long since come to an understanding that it is best if we don't spend too much time in each other's company.

On Tuesday she became the proud owner of a new hip and has been holed up in the local mega-hospital ever since. In the last five days I have had to spend more time with her than is possibly good for my own health as the MD, rather conveniently, developed a life-threatening flu.

So all is good. The S-i-l has a new shiny hip, is already walking about and looks to be on the road to recovery, so what's the problem?
The problem is, that a packet of salt has been loitering under her bed for three days, they can't find a cup to put her drugs in, she broke her plastic cutlery and had to eat her dinner with a spoon. Every night that I have visited, her tray has been left on the table, her bed looks as if it hasn't been made for a week and there is no help forth-coming when she needs to go to the loo. Today she got stuck on the toilet for nearly an hour because the special seat for hippy patients had gone missing.
The health care cannot be faulted. The S-i-l is pain free and is healing well but what happened to basic care. Care of the small things, the comforting things, a smile from the nurses (who all look like they have got terminal PMT). Does it take much to offer a kind word, a joke or even a set of real cutlery. What do they think she is going to do, stab someone for lack of heart? I would!

One for the girls

I am thinking of getting me nails done. Do you think these a little much?

Exciting news!

It would lovely if you could join me here

at

Waterstone's

The Hayes

Cardiff

on

31st October 2006

7pm

for the launch of

Coven of One

(please see Skint's blog for the finer details).

***

I baked a cake

Happy Blogdays

Skint and Pundy

Live long and blog like mad!

Potted Publishing

Around the 3rd September, minding my own business, when....

He said: Done with me POD. Anyone else?
She said: You've got my attention
He said: Send me something
She said: Okay then, here
He said: I like it
She said: You do?
He said: I want to publish
She said: You do?
He said: Shall we?
She said: Damn right
He said: Polish
She said: Okay

A bit later....

He said: Here's the cover
She said: Ummm, no
He said: This one?
She said: Errr no
He said: Now?
She said: Brill

He said: Ready?
She said: Here
He said: Debi!!
She said: Oh gawd
He said: work through the night, don't stop until your fingers bleed (no he didn't but I have to blame someone for wanting to kill the cat at this point)
She said: Slavedriver
He said: Diva
She said: Ouch
He said: Read
She said: I am
He said: Read
She said: Reading...
He said: Edit
She said: When?
He said: Yesterday
She said: Sod

145 emails later

He said: We're done
She said: Thank fuck for that. Can I get some sleep now?

Honk!

The other day I popped into a Christian Book Shop and not wanting to leave without buying anything, I bought a "Honk if you love Jesus" car sticker.
Wow, I am so glad I did!
I was stopped at traffic lights, lost in thoughts of the Lord and I didn't notice that the lights had changed. It was a good job that someone else loves Jesus, because if he hadn't have honked I wouldn't have noticed.
I found LOTS of people who love Jesus!
While I was there, a man behind me started honking like mad, leaning out of his window screaming "For the love of God, go, go!". What a fantastic ambassador for Jesus.
Then everyone joined in. I just waved and smiled at all these lovely people. I even honked a few times myself to join in with all the love.
I saw another man with two fingers stuck up in the air. I knew what this was, because the MD had told me it was a Hawaiian good luck sign. I've never met anyone from Hawaii, so I gave him the good luck back.
A couple of people were so caught up in the joy of the moment that they had got out of their cars and started to walk towards me. I bet they wanted to pray with me or ask me what church I attended.
But this was when I noticed that the lights had changed and not wanting to hold anyone up, I waved to all my new found sisters and brothers and drove off.
In my mirror I noticed that mine was the only car that got across before the lights changed. I felt very sad after all the love we had shared so I slowed down, leaned out of the window and gave them all the Hawaiian good luck sign as I drove off!!

(courtesy of the Gin Co-op mailbaggage)

Tagged for a meme

Here are the five things that femininity has brought to me

*

1.The right to wear inappropriate clothing on a cold day

2. Guilt free shopping when the football is on

3. Being able to change my appearance for the better with the aid of make-up and little trinkets

4. Wearing impossibly high heels on impossibly high hills and still being rescued

5. Getting away without doing the mucky jobs in case they ruin my nails

*

(Oh dear, just realised that it should have been 5 things that 'feminism' has brought to me - ooops!)

This feels weird

Interview at Writing Passions

(if I don't link to it then I think she might be cross)

(By the way, there are some fantastic photo's on me Stalking Cornwall link today(Cornish Cream section). The first of the autumn storms are hitting the coast - whoopee! Portreath is about two miles from where I live.)

Skintwriter competition

Examine your spiritual side and enter Skint's wonderful new competition.
Along with Maxine, Clare, Debi, and of course the Skintmeister, I shall be sitting in judgement (yes, me!). Any bribes will therefore be gleefully received, especially those of the chocolate kind!

Marlene or Minnie?

The new orchard at work is nearly finished. Today I wandered over to the fence and peered in as the new turf was laid over the raised spirals that will eventually be planted with fruit trees by the children.
A large and testosterone fuelled gardener, with tattoos covering his visible parts, was digging just in front of me.
'Looks great,' I said 'a bit like *Teletubbie land.'
'Yes,' he said 'it's been hard work but I think that the kids will enjoy it.'
A sensible, intelligent reply I hear you say, but unfortunately I was struck dumb and had to leave the scene very quickly.
Burly tattoo man had a voice that lied to me. There was no deep resonant tone to match his wide shoulders and log-like legs. He sounded like Mickey Mouse on speed!

After I had got over the shock it set me thinking about the blogworld. What do you all sound like?
I know what Debi sounds like because I have spent some hours in her company and I have exchanged a few phone calls with Skint and Maxine. They sound as I heard them in my head, more or less like their blog voices. But what about you? Would your voice entice me in, or send me running for hills?
And what about me? Am I a Marlene, a Minnie, a Marilyn or a Minx?


*Teletubbies - a children's programme designed to fuck up speech development.

A collaborative poem

Waiting for scars.

*

The fist, an augured wind that blew

against a cheek that turned

away again, already burned

with shame

*

'Breathe' said the lungs

in a sweating cage of blank devotion

bidding joy and all emotion
to silence

*

'Stand' said the bone

a splintered act of moderation

lapis tattoo of adoration

a joke

*

'Steal' said the mind

to feed the poor and battered love

ragged-winged, bleeding dove

of misery

*

'Wait' said the soul

'be patient

time will heal, and

when there's nothing left at all to feel

try scars'

*

(John Ahearn/Kate Bousfield)

Witch lit

I don't want to count my chickens and I know that Skint is still scanning for rogue comma's' and tpyo's but.....

WE'VE DONE IT!!!!!!

Dorcas is as ready as she'll ever be, smart, poised, polished to gleaming and ready for the next stage.

The Slavedriver, formerly know as Skint, sent me the last and final copy earlier on and I have to admit I had a good weep. The last few weeks caught up and the floodgates opened. I can hardly put into words how this feels, to see a work come to fruition. Tis glorious!

Whatever happens next is in the hands of the Gods but I do know that this experience has re-affirmed my faith in human nature.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who leant their support. Debi you are a Goddess and Skint, what can I say?

You are my meercat!