Sciatica Your Honour...

Hand on heart my failure to blog, in part, has been due to sciatica.  I may have had it before, but clearly it must have been so horrendous, (wonderful word), that I erased it from my memory.  We all know about backache.  It's my very special friend (going to refer to it here as Jack) but it's a bugger (forgive my French).  I've known Jack for years.  I can even sense when Jack is nearby and contemplating not just visiting, but staying for a period.

Jack and I first met when I worked in Sheffield.  I hadn't quite liked the layout of my office.  After waiting (can't remember how many days went past) for male colleagues to help move a couple of items, I grew impatient and decided what the heck, blow health and safety.  Actually, I'm not sure it had as big an image in those days hence I've not headed it with capital letters.  Certainly don't remember the solicitors persistent advertisements that we're inundated with currently.

So I rearranged the office and was ecstatic.  Definitely easily pleased.

Not long after...

Doctor's orders...

The floor.

Spending time on ones back is not funny.  Especially when alone all day with no-one to bring sustenance.  Watching television wasn't possible, and this was prior to eReaders, (not that long ago thank you).  Some books don't look heavy at all.  But there is only so long that a paperback can be held in that position without getting some version of RSI.

Glorious Easter Monday And No House Viewers

The sun is out.  The sky is blue.  There are a few clouds, but no, they do not spoil the view...

Oh, and it is not raining in my heart.  And the few words above are from one of my many favourite songs.  I love music.  For me as a writer, a) readers b) music, go hand in hand.  If either of those two became extinct, I would seriously question my reason for continuing to scribble no matter how thick and fast the ideas kept coming.

As I write this, I can't resist repeatedly looking longingly towards the garden.  I should be out there.  If not mowing the lawn, then at least replacing the dilapidated shed roof.  Much of it couldn't hold its own against the gales recently (not that it had been doing especially well prior to it), however, it really does need help now.  So a trip to the nearest, best value, d.i.y. store soon.  A nice man will be asked to help put the felt into my vehicle and then...well, after that it will be a case of 'living on a prayer' and probably a few expletives.

My house has been up for sale for over a year now and so far has only had three viewings.  The last one cancelled.  It is a beautiful, old, individual place.  Upon entering you know it is loved.  And on days like today, every room is bright.  This place is deceptively big and is often likened by those who know it to the Tardis.

Not Part 2

Here it is.  Another post – difficult for me to believe it too.

It is not part 2 to the last post and I had hoped to do it within seven days, but because, 1) I did not promise I would, and 2) encouragement is the way to go these days, I have not actually failed.  Therefore that pink pig should be let out of its pen and allowed to fly.

Numbers, writing, and stuff...

Seven is a great number.  I love it.  And the number three.  There are a few others such as birth dates that I wouldn't ignore on pain of death, and others that refuse to be forgotten/ignored no matter how hard one tries such as events/anniversaries.

As a writer, I like paying heed to the role numbers play in literature.  I enjoy using them every which way I can.  Often I sneak them into my novels and short stories, ensuring that they’re not as obvious as 'X marks the spot' but that they will be noticed/discovered by some similar like-minded soul to me who reads between the lines.  My first ever novel, Seven Stops, had a few ‘sevens’ that were obvious.  For instance the story is told by seven voices.  Then there are forty-nine chapters and my little Jack Smith, who is seven years old, lives seven bus stops away from my protagonist, Anna Culpepper's house.  There were other 'sevens' dotted about.  And I had great fun with each and everyone.

Writing the sequel to Seven Stops has begun...finally.  However, I am only 1500 words in.  Although the plot is known in its entirety, and the chapters labelled, (that's the closest I will probably ever get to being able to plan), the only definite about it from now until it has left the nest, is its title; Eighth Stop.

Where to lay the blame...Part 1

'Well hello stranger.'
'Oh, hi.'
'Fancy seeing you back here!'
'Erm, yes...'  Feelings of awkwardness expressed on the face.  Perhaps by fiddling with the hair etc...

All of the above is not just me talking to me.  It is life.  Moments like them happen every day.  For me, to be doing this today, I am experiencing a plethora of emotions.  Anxiety being one because there is so much to do today, such as the lawn to mow because the past few days have been dry and the clouds are gathering. Relief is another, because I am going through another decision making disorder; where to start the new novel.  All that aside, and referring back to the start of this post...if nothing is ever said to someone you haven't seen in a long time, and it is their fault, then why greet them at all?  If it matters, vocalise it.  Make it noticeable immediately in some way, otherwise the emotion will be absent.  It makes an impact.  Writing needs it.  Life needs it.

See above again.  Let us ditch the exclamation mark.  Whilst they're very useful, in my ever such humble opinion, so many writers saturate their writing with them. Children are allowed, but as adults...nope, just as there is no excuse for writing 'a lot' as 'alot', and 'thank you, as 'thankyou'.  Oops, grammar is not what this post is about.  Sorry. Moving on quickly...

I've never really thought about it but the word 'fancy' in the sentence means the speaker missed you...surely?

Was the last time I blogged really that long ago?  Doesn't time fly.  I love cliches but do try to avoid their usage by the narrators in my novels and short stories. However, out of the mouths of the characters it is a totally different kettle of fish.

So, where to lay the blame for my non activity on here?  Where do I start?  Hmm, first of all my trip to India actually, and finally happened.  It had been on the cards for years.  See below.  Yes, I took that picture!

Last November, 2014, the month when I try and join the millions on NaNoWriMo, I accompanied my mother and sister and went back to the country of my birth.  It was the first time since coming over to the UK in the 1960s, (a very, very, long time ago).  It's all right I still got a good few years left in me.  At least here's hoping because I've a lot of novels still to write.

Fantastic News

Last night I checked my emails and one was from India.  I had been waiting for it and yet dreading it.  It's a feeling experienced by many, not just us writers.

I had made by first ever submission of flash fiction to a magazine.  Was it good news or bad?  Jump up for joy or jump down off the nearest (fictional) bridge?  It was the former.

My short story had been accepted and gone live.  See ISF.  Fantastic news.  Time to throw arms up in the air and run around hooting wildly through the house, into the garden and back again.  A few weeks ago I would have said naked, but the weather has turned now.  It felt as euphoric as, 1) when I was commissioned to write a play for children, 2) when a SF short story was published in a magazine, 3) my play on witches was performed in the local town centre.

The writing related successes seem have been few and far between, and the slog continuous, but they will never be forgotten.

Typical writer here, currently going through a fitful sleep phase, carrying on regardless.  Signing off.

I am definitely getting there

My fingers are not crossed, how could they be, I'm the one typing this blog am I not? Of course with the technology around these days, there is no knowing.  However, maybe it isn't as good as they make out in adverts, films or in fiction?  I was trying to have a conversation over Skype at the weekend and after 15 mins or so, we gave up and used the old fashioned method, no not smoke signals.  Although with my land line, smoke signals would probably have more clarity and none of that tinny buzz.  Or is that because someone is listening in...:)

This particular post is about my successfully jumping over an enormous hurdle.  Trust me, it is.  Formatting might be easy for some/many, but not for me.  And I have done it.  Formatted my book, She Dreamed Of Flash Fiction and all on my own.  I followed the instructions given to me by my tea loving friend, (though how anyone can drink tea without milk and sugar is still beyond me), and have been told that I got it right.  (See his 'tea' blog; http://www.thephilosophersbrew.blogspot.co.uk/ ).

I have bought three books off the internet on how to do it, but some of us just aren't meant to use instruction manuals.  In the end what actually worked was a 1:1 tutorial when I last went down to London.  Anyway, the resultant glow of happy smugness from Cheshire must have shone bright enough to be seen globally.

Why A Collection of Short Stories?

Many writers are meant for writing short stories.  It is their forte.  But can it be for everybody?

When I started out, back in the day, I joined a writing group and that is all I did, (short story writing), or even thought about doing.  If I managed to create a piece that I actually liked, and didn't apologise for profusely prior to reading it to the group, then I was happy.  Oh, the apology thing?  The explanation, the excuse about lack of time to proof read, the apologies for any language that might offend - I still do that.

Somewhere along the way, several groups and anthologies later, and having listened to hundreds of excellently crafted short stories, I suddenly stopped writing.  It was as if my characters refused to be constrained.  There was so much they wanted to say, and I just didn't have the experience or the confidence to let them.  One could say, that perhaps my power over them, was the only bit of control I had.  However, when you are meant to write, no amount of impediments, or life constraints, will stop it happening.

For me, it was when I came through the tunnel of further education, and held those pieces of paper (because that's all those certificates are) that I felt I could venture forth.  How does it go in A Knight's Tale?  'You have been judged...'  Except that I had not been found wanting, and I had the seal of approval, or perhaps the armour of protection; to write.