Bloody hell, that's a long title. Still, you should never be afraid of a long title - it shows commitment and pizzazz, ho ho. Today Lord H and I have been to Frensham Common and walked round the Great Pond. We also attempted to walk round the Little Pond but frankly, m'dears, we were totally exhausted by then and just came home. Well, it's ruddy difficult walking on sand in Wellington boots. Not many birds either - a shed-load of ducks, coots & moorhens, with one or two tits (as it were) and a grebe. A tad disappointing then but it's still nice to be out ...

Read Full Post

[b]"Say it quick."[/b]

Of course it really means "write it quick." But not in the sense of writing fast. There isn't a clock to watch. Flash is usually under 1500 words, more likely a 1000 words and better yet around 500 words. Some may insist Flash can be a sentence. OK. I'll give in to interpretation.

The bottom line: there still needs to be a story. The one that has a beginning, middle and an end.

Please visit my blog to contribute your thoughts on flash or short story fiction.

Read Full Post

Surprise, surprise, it's another wet day. Why is my barometer showing high pressure? Got up early, as usual, and wrote a letter to Stanley Middleton. Met him in Summer School in the early nineties and, though in awe at first, knowing that the tutor was a Booker Prize winner, my nerves quickly disappeared. A kind, witty, intelligent man, who enjoyed helping wannabe writers, has remained my muse and friend since those wonderful days. Now in his mid eighties, he still writes novels but always finds time to send me a monthly letter telling me of his news. Writing letters, they say, is a dying art but having always enjoyed the process of putting pen to paper, it's a joy. Forms, of course, are a different matter. Tomorrow, I've forms to fill.

Lynda came bright and early today to cut my hair - we only just had time for baths before she arrived. Mind you, knowing how efficient she is, she's probably been sitting outside all night as she does so hate being late. Anyway, I now have a chic new cut which will last until I wash it tomorrow, dammit - so no bugger at all will notice when I go into work on Monday. They never do ...

Read Full Post

On yet another wet, dark day, I received cheerful news. The flash fiction I thought hadn't gone, did go! And I've just received an email from Don at Bewildering Stories accepting my flash. Now, after a day finishing off some decorating, I'm going to shower, pour out a glass of red wine and challenge hubby with a game or two of Scrabble. What a mad life I lead.

I finished reading Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach yesternight. This is a novel you read and think to yourself, 'Why is everything real?' It's a masterpiece and Mr. McEwan needs to be celebrated by this. The characters are so real that you get so engrossed in what they do. I hate to think that The Gathering by Anne Enright won the Booker even when On Chesil Beach was on the list. You know, after reading Ms Enright's novel, I said to myself, 'Is she such a sex maniac?' The narrator is such obsessed with sex, that I will hate myself anytime I think of reading her work.

On Chesil Beach is set, should I say, in one night? Its major characters are Edward and Florence, the young, virgin and educated marrieds who couldn't hold on their one-day marriage, at the expense of immaturity. Set in 1961, with flashbacks and flashforwards infused in this lyrical, plumpy, lushy prose, the novel tells of the lives of people haunted by fear and spite. Unlike me, British writings do not interest me, even though I enjoyed Shakespearean works when I was in high school, On Chesil Beach has completely taken me back to that era of recognising the colonial writing, which is why I was so engrossed in this novel of real ambition.

I'm happy that Mr. McEwan won the Booker in 1998. Maybe, he didn't win the 2007 Booker Prize because the judges wanted a fresh blood. Having read Saturday, I long for Atonement and Amsterdam with the same eagerness, because Mr. McEwan's style is rare and exceptional. It's one of those rare occassions when you grab a novel and do not want it to end. That's what happened to me when I started reading this book.

Allan Cunningham's story would make a really good book using a creative non-fiction writing technique. It's a method I would love to use and a story I would love to write, however since starting out on my journey to tell his story I have discovered that writing is a learned craft, a skilled craft. No, naively, I didn't know, but isn't that what life is about . . . learning. To some, writing creatively comes naturally and to others, such as myself, it requires a long, gradual learning curve without end. Plus, when the story is a true one, the writer needs a strong sense of responsibility to be accurate and to cite sources. This is all very overwhelming for a person who has written one essay and a few short pieces of creative prose. However, it's silly to regret the skills you don't have and the time you have lost. I'll celebrate what I do have and that is skill to record detailed data. The result of this ability is the evolving Allan Cunningham Time Line, a chronological list of his achievements and geographical arrivals and departures, which is part of the Allan Cunningham Project.

The Time Line has been developing over the last few months and as each piece is written, I want to expand the story line and wax lyrical. My haphazard research over the last few years has given me a knowledge of this man's story, the detail of which surprises me sometimes. As I write I realise I want to tell the reader what the weather was like, what Allan saw, who was with him at the time, why was he there, what was he achieving, who cared and why he cared. There are no boundaries once the creative juices start flowing. However, this is history and must be accurate. Combining accuracy with creativity is challenging.

In Mark Tredinnick's wonderful book "The Little Red Writing BooK" he explains how to meet this challenge. His book provides much needed creative energy and inspiration.

He advises: "You'd want your reader to hear the bird cries - sweet crescent honeyeater, harsh yellow wattlebird, distant yellowtail. You'd want them to smell the eucalypts and the leatherwoods; to catch a vivid crimson glimpse of the waratah; to feel this waft of cold air; to sense, without seeing or hearing it, the cold, deep glacial water of the lake, hidden beyond the tea-trees; to guess at the whole long natural history that makes and goes on making the place they walk through."

Such wonderful writing makes one anxious of not measuring-up, but no, I won't go there. I'll celebrate what I can do and keep on keeping on.

Mark states "when you write you talk on paper. When it's good, you sing".

Allan Cunningham's Time Line is going to "sing". I promise, but . . . no quite yet.

Read Full Post

I attempted to power my way through more edits to The Gifting today and am indeed on Page 100 (of c440) - hurrah! - but still on ruddy Chapter 7 - groan ... Why are my chapters so long?? Can I not find the page break on my keyboard? I don't know, the plot thickens, m'dears. As indeed it does for the book - I can't imagine what Isabella is up to now, but I think it is definitely No Good. Or at least no good for poor Simon. Poor lad - such an innocent. Mind you, her brother's not much better either. Sigh. I now feel that all my balls (as it were) are fairly high in the air and Lord alone knows what havoc they will create when they land ...

Read Full Post

Dear Kitty

Since my friend got dumped last month she just sits there drinking cup-a-soup and staring at the phone. I’ve told her she needs to get back in the game but she’d rather stay in playing “their CD” and waiting for him to ask her back.

The thing is he wasn’t such a wonderful guy! He had a lame sense of humour, a job rinsing ash trays and a face like a dishcloth hanging off a stick, whereas she’s witty, clever and, from certain angles, the spitting image of Martine McCutcheon....


Read Full Post

I put on my flak jacket a couple of days ago, when someone on a forum started yet another thread about 'the rules'. (I'd post the link, but it was in the private part of WriteWords.)The gist of the question was: when, in learning to write, had each of us realised we were following... no, I won't say 'the rules', but established ideas of techniques that work? And in the discussion, someone posted what's apparently a Buddhist saying, that 'When the pupil is ready, the teacher appears.'

At school, and in most homes, and in most jobs, there's always a 'right' way to do things and the quicker you learn to do things 'right', the more impressed your parents and teachers are with you, the more ticks, the better the mark.


Read Full Post