A blog about things -- not necessarily beautiful -- that at least jolted me out of my tram-lined train of thought. They may be funny, poignant, disgusting or beautiful, but they will be personal. You, dear reader, may not give a damn about an image of a crisp packet at the edge of a river but I might think it so delightful that I cry with gratitude. And a few poems. A a book plug or two.
The "Your Blog is Fabulous!" Award stands for: Integrity. Commitment to Excellence. Stubbornly Optimistic.
List five current obsessions:
- Tea. I love tea. Usually Ringtons, in a china mug. We were on holiday last week and the dear lady who owned the cottage we were renting left me one of her grandmother's gold-rimmed china cups for my tea -- she remembered how particular i was about china.
- Books. I have too many and I keep buying more.
- Angels and Demons. Not the Dan Brrown tosh but the whole mythology ot the elohim
- Writing. I get panicky if I'm not writing, and if I don't write I get lazier and lazier.
- My dog(s). Trickster's mine, though I adore Jack and Mr. Bear too.
We married while sunlight slanted through the trees and the heady scent of bluebells permeated our dresses and the guests, in a ring, threw fresh cherry blossom instead of confetti and the priestess laughed at my tears.
The bark of birch saplings smelled of rain and decay and the promise of warmer days to come while underfoot the moss released water over our shoes and clouds of burning sage banished the ghosts of the past.
You laughed as we said our vows eyes flashing and the scent of Poison on your wrists made me remember the night we met but the clearing at the foot of the quarry was redolent with vanilla and patchoili and your lips were cherry soft.
On September the eigth, 1952, Hemingway published his last, a book about a man who fished alone from a skiff for eighty-four days and caught nothing. Then he catches the biggest fish of his life, only to have it eaten by sharks before he returns to shore. I sometimes think I am that old man fishing from a skiff in a sea of publishing houses and mediocre novels and one day I'll land a publishing contract only to lose it to the sea of apathy before I reach the shore. Ah! I have written ten -- seventy four to go.
I was idle one summer's day sweating in the heat of the afternoon on sheets already sticky with sweat and the tang of too-long-till-washday rising in my nostrils. I was nineteen.
My fingers running down my stomach – still flat then and downy like a peach under my fingers and I imagined what it would be like to have a boy touch me there, or a girl. I was nineteen.
Under questing fingers, as long nails probed the surface of milk-white flesh a lump the size of a marble rolled beneath the skin and I thought of a cat's eye in red and yellow spinning inside muscle. I was nineteen.
I reached across to the dresser where, on a plate I'd left my penknife and excised a lump of bone, round and smooth but for a single tooth embedded, left over from the twin who died before birth.
I put it on the mantlepiece and lay back down exploring the hole and the pain with a finger slick with blood and thought about my mother looking down on me from Heaven and wondering.
It was, after all, an inessential system. I was nineteen.
In lieu of content I offer a meme - I was tagged be the delightful DJ Kirkby
1. Which words do you use too much in your writing? smiling, shrugged, grinned, burbleflipped and other 'actions while talking'.
2. Which words do you consider overused in stuff you read? adverbs and adjectives. I don't need to know the horror was 'dark and coldly calculating'
3. What's your favourite piece of writing by you? a short piece about the Four Horseman that I sell again every time the rights revert to me.
4. Which blog post do you wish you had written? the ones that garner 10,000 page views and corresponding book sales.
5. Regrets. Do you have a few? Is there anything you wish you hadn't written? I'd have liked 'An Ungodly Child' to have some publicity from the publisher, and another line edit before printing. I look back on some of the work I've had published and think 'that was rubbish' but if I hadn't written it I wouldn't be writing as well as I do now.
6. How has your writing made a difference? What do you consider your most important piece of writing? I think it's brought smiles to a few faces. Nothing I write is important.
7. Name three favourite words serendipity, contract, published
8. ....And three words you're not so keen on profanities - they show lazy speech patterns
9. Do you have a writing mentor, role model or inspiration? successful satirists - Pratchett, Gaiman, Iain Banks
10.What's your writing ambition? I would like to earn enough as an author to pay my bills. That was DJK's answer and I see no need to change it
She wears fur and leather and a tail attached to her belt and carries a whip at weekends men bow to her and call her 'mistress' but few see beneath to the real woman. She stalks past them followed by her retinue of slaves and lovers of both genders.
What fun it is, she thought, to be Queen of the role-playing society.
I called for a taxi which arrived promptly before I've even had a 'make-sure' or put my shoes on. The fare to the doughnut cost four pounds and I logged into the doctors and read my book before being called in to see the nurse. Progress on the ankle was good, though the wound wept (was it counting sorrows?) iodine strips and dressings and enough to do the same at home. I limp into town to post a promised CD then buy some black tulips and dog chews made to look like orange cats and find a taxi which stops at every traffic light and costs another fiver to get home.