Daily it was his responsibility to check and monitor progress, making the journey was distant and remote, for in the Nigerian swamps roads are not connected where there is no land, so movement was by water craft, usually high speed launches, cutting through the waters this fine and sunny day, passing tiny hubs of people clinging onto spits of land, as the jungle vegetation crowded closer, the coxswain throttled back slowing the craft, as it passed tiny dots of civilisations, little kids jumping up and down as the boat neared the spit of land, srcabbling around as the bags of candies landed at their feet, moving on as the next platform was just close by.
A movement at the edge of the swamp vegetation made the coxswain point, he noticed that she was chest deep in the water, standing with her hands on the side of a log boat, piled inside the log boat seemed like, looked like pots,pans, with other items that appeared to come from a home, only the sound of the water rushing past the boat and the distant called of monkeys and birds could be heard, the eyes of the woman followed the boat round the corner.
His work done at the platform, the coxswain cruised the boat down the creek to return back to the other station platform, slowing for the spit of land village, the woman was still standing chest deep in the swamp water, he took notice of her this time, she was old looked frail, but she held her head high staring back as the boat passed, watching it until it past from view.
As was his duty, the same journey was made the next day, arriving at the same spit of land village, yes she was still stood in the water, still gripping the log boat, stare now blankly as the boat pasted by, watching as the candies were thrown to the kids, staring just staring.
Later that day they again started the return journey, the old woman still along side the boat, he told the coxswain to get nearer the main area of the village, calling over the village chief, questioning him why the old woman was stood in the water, her husband had died, now there was no one to take care of her, the other villagers could not support her, yes it was sad, but what could he do, he prompted the coxswain to ask what was required, a new house ( hut ), and a new log boat, this one belonged to him, the cost was agreed, the chief was happy, now he could have his boat back, the speed boat past again from view.
The next day on reaching the spit of land village, there was no old woman, she had gone, a new house ( hut ) stood on the spit of land, but there was no one there, passing onto the platform, he wondered were she had gone, by mid after noon they again left to return, to the other platform, no old woman appeared as they passed the village, but all of the kids waved and shouted, they cruised on down the creek, still waving back to the kids, a scream reached them from the vegetation swamps edge, the old woman was stood in a new log boat with the paddle raise above her head, jigging from foot to foot, laughing and shouting with a huge smille on her face.

I have just had my first experience of joining in with The Sunday Salon , which sounds like a wonderful idea - bloggers blogging about what they are reading while they are reading! I have joined in from The Short Review blog, since that seemed appropriate, and blogged about the latest short story collection I am reading....

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Got up today - very, very slowly ... - expecting a day of dull weather and novel trogging, but was bumped out of my personal twilight zone by a very lovely email from reader, Jill Weekes, who'd really enjoyed Pink Champagne and Apple Juice and who was kind enough to put this review on Amazon:

"The story is as sparkling as its title. I was gripped from the first page and had to know what the history was behind the mysterious Uncle John. This book is so full of larger than life characters - Uncle John himself, Derek the bouncer, Heinrich the chef and Philippe the waiter. Not to mention Angie herself who shows how stubborn she is when it comes to achieving her goals. A brilliant read. I can just see it as a film or a tv drama." ...

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I've dragged myself out of the pit today, having more or less recovered from a great Friday night out at Babble. Babble nights happen every now and again, and are always fun with a great atmosphere and some shit hot music. Babble always reminds me how clubbing used to be.

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As everyone reading this blog probably knows, it's next-to-impossible to earn a living solely by sitting down and writing the books you want to write, let alone the stories or the poems. There are probably only a handful or two of authors in the UK who can, and failing a higher-earning partner the rest of us have to keep the roof over the family's head with other work. Much of the time that's teaching of one sort or another: running workshops freelance, landing a part-time staff job in a college or university, doing editorial reports, one-to-one mentoring, and so on. Because it uses up the same kind of energy as one's own writing, as well as making life more complicated, sometimes I dream of not having to do it, or wonder if I'd be better off doing something completely unrelated.

But actually I've realised that even if I could, I don't think I'd want to give up this side of the writing life.

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Lord H and I have spent a day at Pulborough Brooks on their Beginners' Birdwatching course today. Well worth it - especially for the tips on field craft and quick lesson in birdspeak. I've learnt not to rush up to open fields yelling where are the birds then? Don't they know I'm here? and to hide behind things to watch, rather than standing in a clearing and jumping up and down whilst yelling ooh look a bird! I'm just so excitable, you know ...

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"Brianna. you know that isn't good for you. There are other ways that you can outlet your problems. Don't take it out on your wrist.."
That is what I had said. My own words. That was before it started. Before I started.

It was just a simple rubber band at first, snapping it and feeling the sweet tingle on my wrist. There was nothing bad about that...right?
And everyone around me was doing it to...it was just a game.
Then that began to escalate, and before I knew it friends began to resort to even more unhealthy things. Cutting;;

I was horrified at first. I didnt understand how that could make you "feel better"
Until one night, when i was all alone. Just me and a tack.
I didnt go deep. Just enought to cause a scrape, and a little bit of crimson to spurt from my wrist...
It was just once. I wasnt going to do it again. Just a tiny slip..

But it didnt stop there.
I began to resort to the razor to solve my problems,
The horrible stinging felt me feel better.
I hated the feeling, yet i loved it to.
I didnt want to do it. The logical part of me didnt want to
But more oftent than not, the side that wanted to won.

Friends knew about it. They said they would be there no matter what.
That I didnt need that. And maybe I didnt. Im not sure how many people told me not to, but I couldnt make that promise.

I was always careful about it. I never went to deep.
Until one night i did.
It wasnt on purpose, I didnt mean for it to happen.
And it scared me.
It got infected and got a scar.
One that is still on my arm.
When people asked what it was from, I always had an excuse.
I hanvent done that for quite some time.
And dont mistake a cutter for someone who is suicidal.
Maybe they were just like me.
Someone who was unmercifuly exposed to the world of crimson.

Well, it's better than being egg-bound, I suppose. That's a nasty condition for sure. Anyway, today I feel as if I'm living slightly outside my own life. It's strangely hard to put into words - something like woozy but not quite. Definitely distant. Perhaps my poor old system doesn't quite know what to do with the extra inrush of oestrogen which is suddenly being added to the gloop? I can imagine all my little blood cells going: Good God, George, what the devil is that? We haven't seen this for a while. Can anyone remember what to do? Equally strangely, I've also developed a stiff neck, but I can't see that in the hugely long list of side-effects this gel I'm using is supposed to produce. Apparently, the big worries are stopping breathing and pains up the arm. Hmm, I think I'd notice that. If the pain moves down from my neck, I shall endeavour to act accordingly. In the meantime, if anyone else out there is on Sandrena Oestrogen Gel, do get in touch and tell me if it gets better. Or not ...

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Managed to do a few words (about 500) to The Bones of Summer today - which was something of a breakthrough as I've not done anything to it for a fortnight and I was dreading getting started again. Mind you, I feel Craig and I are still on slightly dodgy ground as we attempt to get to know each other again. Yes, don't laugh - it is like that if you leave a novel for a while. Even two weeks. Like seeing an old friend you used to know quite well but you wonder if you have anything in common now. It's been made rather worse, I fear, by the fact that I left Craig in the middle of a sex scene - bloody hell, does the poor guy do nothing else in this ruddy novel?? - and I've now suddenly opened the door after a fortnight of ignoring him and he's giving me distinctly unfriendly stares. I suspect he ran out of his repertoire of moves by the 2nd day and has been winging it ever since ...

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I've been having an interesting interchange with David Morley on his blog (and thanks to Nik at WriteWords for pointing me there in the first place). If you scroll down past the dead Chatterton and a very alive and gorgeous wolf, you'll see that David's post 'The Creative Writing Industry' or The Company of Wolves is about creative writing teaching. In it, he makes the distinction between learning to write creatively, which can be fun, and becoming a writer, which is a much scarier and wilder thing. You can't teach that wildness, but you can teach the craft which shapes and expresses it.

People sometimes say, 'Oh, I couldn't be a writer, I haven't done anything,' and though the implication is complimentary, I can't say I've done much of the kind of thing they mean either, wild or tame. (Mind you, it makes a change from the ones who say they've always wanted to write a novel, they just never get a chance to sit down.) But undeniably you have to have experienced something, and be conscious that you have, before you can be a writer.

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