VRWG Life of a Writer Series (#04) Tom Ireland

Name: Tom Ireland

What genres do you write in?

Poetry, short stories, travel fiction

Have you ever had any work published? If so, what and where?

Ten novels published on Kindle as eBooks and paperbacks. Short stories and poems in VRWG publications

Do you have a preferred place in which to write?

Gladstone’s, Theology room, second desk on the right at the top of the spiral stairs

Let’s talk about your muse. What/who inspires you to write?

Cake, preferably rich fruit with marzipan, and biscuits. Any biscuits. Coffee, double espresso

Tell us about your writing ambitions

Started the Malinding series as a short story which became an opening chapter which became a trilogy …  the idea was that sale of the books would finance GOES, a micro-charity which sponsors education for girls, and medical care. Pulitzer prize would be good. Maybe sell a few more books? Generally sell one book a month.  Perhaps finish this pesky ghost story …

Who are your favourite writers?

Ransome, Conrad, Shakespeare, Thomas

What’s your ideal writer’s life? Go on, let your imagination run wild!

A small house in the Gambian village which is the basis of Malinding, not too far from the river, near our friends’ compound. Views of the market place and the river

Outside of writing, is there something else we should know about you?

An archbishop of Canterbury once held a door open for me

 

VRWG Life of a Writer series (#03) Debbie Mitchell

Name: Debbie Mitchell (writing as Deborah K Mitchell)

What genres do you write in?

Mainly paranormal/horror, although I have a crime novel as a work in progress, which may see the light of day at some point.

Have you ever had any work published? If so, what and where?

I have three novels, the Rose Tattoo trilogy, self-published on Amazon and other platforms, as well as Mortem – a short-story collection. I also have various bits and pieces included in Vale Royal Writers Group’s own anthologies. Oh, and I had a poem published in the Liverpool Echo when I was nine.

Do you have a preferred place in which to write?

I love Gladstone’s Library in Hawarden, and coffee shops.

Let’s talk about your muse. What/who inspires you to write?

I’ve had the writing bug since I was a child. My maternal grandad was a self-taught reader and writer, and he had ambitions to write a book which were, sadly, never realized. My mum also dabbled in writing, so perhaps the baton was just passed on to me through my DNA. I’m inspired to write by the world around me. I’m a journalist by trade, and there are so many real-life stories I come across that generate great ideas for works of fiction. Or, I’ve had ideas for stories that come from overheard snippets of conversation, or dreams, or even just a glimpse of a scene I’ve passed in my car. The muse can strike anywhere at any time from any source!

Tell us about your writing ambitions

My aim is to build a healthy catalogue of work and gain some traction in the world of indie publishing, so that I eventually make a decent living from it.

Who are your favourite writers?

John Connolly for the cool and clever way he combines horror with crime. Susan Hill for her wonderful ghost stories. Laurie Lee for his gorgeous descriptions of time and place. Also, Joanne Harris, Adam Nevill, Charles Dickens and George Orwell.

What’s your ideal writer’s life? Go on, let your imagination run wild!

I would rise willingly with the sun and take the dogs for a walk on the beach that my house overlooks, before returning for a morning of writing at a large desk positioned by a window facing the sea. I’d take a break for lunch, and stroll into the nearby town to my favourite café where the bohemians hang out. In the afternoon, I would Skype the Hollywood producers who’ve commissioned one of my books to make into a film, or converse with the commissioning editor at the BBC who’s interested in adapting my screenplay. There would be a bit more writing and admin work, before finishing for the day. In the evening, I would open my door to my writer/artist friends for a night of wine, food and conversation around a big, old oak table in my kitchen.

VRWG Life of a Writer series (#02) Debbie Bennett

Name: Debbie Bennett

What genres do you write in?

Fantasy/sf/horror as Debbie Bennett, plus crime & thrillers as DJ Bennett. Why two names? They’re different markets with different readers – but enough similarity to cross-pollinate for the right readers.

Have you ever had any work published? If so, what and where?

I’ve been selling short fiction for over 20 years to women’s magazines and anthologies and I’ve won and been placed in many competitions. I’ve also got 7 novels in print and I’ve recently started dabbling in script-writing with a commission for a Dr Who spin-off set of short films which were released on DVD in 2017. I’m also script-writing for a local community radio play project – think The Archers but darker …

Do you have a preferred place in which to write?

My study in my old house! Sadly, we sold up, cleared the mortgage and downsized nearly 18 months ago and now I have a corner of the dining room, which isn’t ideal. My request to Santa this year is for a good quality set of of noise-reducing headphones, though I doubt they will completely drown out whatever rubbish my husband is watching on tv.

Let’s talk about your muse. What/who inspires you to write?

I’ve always written. Since the age of about 9 when I was reading Brave New World and then moved straight into Heinlein and Wyndham. They didn’t have YA books when I was a teenager, so I haunted my local library and devoured all those plain yellow-covered Robert Hale science-fiction hardbacks. And tried to write like them too. My early efforts were unreadable but I still have them somewhere.

Tell us about your writing ambitions

It’s all about the money! Nah – money would be nice – I’d be able to give up the day job, but really it’s all about validation, isn’t it? I was lucky enough to have a good agent way back in the when, which at least gave me the self-confidence to continue writing, but I’d like to know that people like what I do. I’d like to get more into script-writing too – or at least get my work onto the screen. Recent films The Ritual and The Silence come from novels written by people I know from the convention circuit; so many others have novels under option or even in production, and I love fellowing their stories on Facebook and wishing it was me …

Who are your favourite writers?

Ooh that’s a hard one. I was inspired by fantasy writers like Susan Cooper (The Dark is Rising is simply awesome), Louise Cooper’s Time Master trilogy and pretty much anything Storm Constantine has ever written. I’ve met and shared much alcohol with Louise and Storm and admire them both hugely. Books I buy in a heartbeat as soon as they are up on pre-order on Amazon? Matthew Reilly for one. Lad-lit – guns, fast cars, silly plots, implausible chases, bigger guns. His books are littered with exclamation marks, badly-constructed sentences and unrealistic ideas – but that man can write. He can have you on the edge of the seat, wondering what’s going to happen next, and he has the ability to sketch a character in a few lines. I’d read his laundry lists, I really would.

What’s your ideal writer’s life? Go on, let your imagination run wild!

Much as it is now, but without the day job. If I had enough money not to worry about the return on investment in our current house, I’d put an extension on the back with a quiet study for me – but otherwise, why change what isn’t broken? Apart from maybe the chance to attend my own film premiere!

Outside of writing, is there something else we should know about you?

My claim to fame is I once asked Stephen King to dance. And yes – I do mean the Stephen King, at a private and very exclusive London party to which I had a personal invitation! But otherwise I’m pretty boring. Married, one adult child and a penchant for a bottle of wine and the local pub quiz every Thursday evening. You can find out more at http://www.debbiebennett.co.uk

 

VRWG Life of a Writer series (#01) David H Varley

VRWG Life of a Writer blog post questionnaire

Name: David Varley

Q. What genre/s do you write in?

A. Poetry, horror, fantasy and science fiction      

Q. Have you had any work published? If so, what and where?

A. Nowhere terribly glamorous! I had a few bits and bobs published in a local magazine when I lived up north, but since moving to Cheshire I’ve only managed to have a novelette, The Unknown, published by a small indie publisher. It’s being released in a physical anthology soon!

Q. Do you have a preferred place in which to write?

A. I do most of my writing directly at my home computer, but I always have a notebook on me in case inspiration strikes. On nice days, I like to go out into the countryside to find somewhere quiet and beautiful to sit and make notes.

Q. Let’s talk about your muse. What/who inspires you to write?

A. A fiendish need to transcribe the things in my head on to paper for fear that they will otherwise fill up all the available space in there.

Q. Tell us about your writing ambitions.

A. I would love to write something novel-length, but I would also settle for getting a few more publications under my belt.

Q. Who are your favourite writers?

A. Too many to mention, but if pushed I would endlessly extol the virtues of Tolkien, Borges, Lovecraft, Le Guin and Pratchett.

Q. What’s your ideal writer’s life? Go on, let your imagination run wild!

A. A comfortable study looking out on acres of woodland under gently falling snow, a roaring fire in the grate with a happy cat stretched out before it, some light music drifting on the air, a well-stocked drinks cabinet, and absolutely no need to go out to the day-job!

Confessions of a Notebook Addict – by Debbie Mitchell (August 2019)

Hello. My name is Debbie, and I have a problem. A compulsion. An all-consuming, bank-balance draining, undying, death defying love of … stationery. Gah, why couldn’t it have been something normal, like sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll?

I can’t remember when it started. Back when I trained as a journalist, perhaps, and I first got my hands on a spiral-bound reporter’s notebook. Y’know, the cheap stuff.

From then on, the habit began to (pun alert!) ‘spiral’ out of control. I progressed to mid-level fixes; drawn, like a wasp to a jam jar, to the stationery aisles of supermarkets, and to shady High Street dealers such as Ryman and Paperchase. Inside these dens of iniquity, these palaces of paper, I found myself craving sparkly, pretty notebooks with butterflies on the covers, or ones with inspirational quotes written inside, and others with motivational titles on the front telling me to Seize the Day, or to Write Some Words. And, oh, the sheer pleasure of finding one with a pocket at the back to put bits of paper in!

Nothing comes close to the unbridled joy of discovering a paper pocket at the back of a notebook. Really, nothing.

Soon, I craved the hard (backed) stuff and found a dealer who supplied premium quality goods. The pure, uncut, they-even-come-with-matching-ribbons, delight that is the Leuchtturm 1917. Ach, the range of colours (the Nordic Blue is to die for), the choice of lined or dotted or squared or plain pages, the index, and of course, the matching ribbons. As an added extra, you can even buy an attachable pen loop. Ecstasy.

Oh, the bliss. The rapture. The rush of pleasure through the veins, the pupil dilation, the dry mouth, the sweaty palms one experiences when finding a new notebook to add to the collection.

But, you see, my problem has grown so out of control that I now have a large collection of notebooks which are only partially written in, and others, rotting in a cupboard, that haven’t been written in at all and will probably never experience daylight ever again. I start one, all excited to be filling those pages so full of promise, but then the next shiny one in Nordic Blue comes along and the previous one is abandoned to the stationery abyss. The secret stash.

 

And then there are those that are just too beautiful to be sullied with the rubbish that emanates from my pen. The crème de la crème. The top of the tree.

Take, for example, the two hand-crafted notebooks I bought from a most charming little shop called Il Prato, in Venice. They’re far too perfect to taint with anything other than unicorn tears, quite frankly. Heck, if Shakespeare himself came back from the dead, found himself in Northwich struck with the muse and in need of some parchment to write upon, verily begging me to hand over my Venetians, I’d tell him to do one. No one gets to defile my Italian quaderni.

 

So, there you have it. My dirty little secret is out, aired in public for ridicule and contempt. Please, don’t judge me too harshly. And, that’s just the notebooks. Don’t get me started on the pens…

A blog! A blog! My kingdom for a blog! (July 2019/October 2016) LG

Most months go without a response to the call for help when it comes to producing a blog, and it peeves me because if nobody volunteers then I have to come up with something. And because I’m (a) tired of this happening (b) not inspired to write anything new and (c) would enjoy reading something from somebody we haven’t heard from before, then I’d like to re-publish an old blog from October 2016, which includes an explanation of how you can contribute.

BLOG

As usual in our group meeting, if things don’t go as expected then our fall-back plan will probably fall over too. All the planning and nomination at the beginning of the year seems to go right out of the leaded windows if the usual crew aren’t manning the bridge. Except for Marian of course, who, after failing to nudge somebody into volunteering for captain Bob’s chair, toughed it out and manoeuvred us through our fractured, staccato opening to a relieved finale. A finale where I literally forgot to pay my dues to the stand-in chair (double-bubble next time Marian and keep the change!)

It was during this meeting that I somehow accidentally volunteered myself to be the blog master. And after a number of interim promotions I can now be officially recognised as the Blog Buddah. Those of you that have access to the VRWG Facebook page will already have seen my invitation to send your blogs, but I’ll give you the gist of it again here …

It became apparent during the process of finding a volunteer blogger for October that I noticed people were showing something of an interest but were put off by the technical aspect of it – the passwords, log-in etiquette, posting rules and all round electronic frippery that surrounds the dark arts of navigating the interweb.

If the problem was the electronic hurdle then the solution is to remove that hurdle, and that’s how we got to where we are now.

The new blogging approach is much easier than last time – for you at least – because you only have to do what you’re all obviously good at … writing. You write the blog, you send the blog to me and I post it on the VRWG website. The very website you’re looking at now.

In an ideal world it would be great if you wrote them and sent them as they pop into your head, so don’t worry about the timing of the meetings because I’ll be making sure they go up on the VRWG site at the right time. In a side room of the same ideal world there would be a blog cache, a digital fortress of blogs that we can call on at any time for the reading populace so don’t be put off if you have one ready and it’s a month before the next meeting – just send it so you can feel as smug as I do after providing the last two – but only if this counts as a blog … which it doesn’t because it isn’t

The general rule for blogging is that it doesn’t have to have any semblance to anything that happened in the meeting. It’s really your chance to ramble on a subject that tickles or infuriates – or both if tickling infuriates you. It can even be a short piece you’ve been working on that you might not have a use for.

So, write it, send it and I’ll post it. It really is as simple as that.

Send it to this address and I’ll do the rest vrwgblogger@outlook.com

The Car Turned by the Church – Gladstone Moments

Carolyn O’Connell
The car turned by the church
inside a brass tray

reminded me of the craft and the man
who loved literature.

The sun scrolled over the statues
as we commenced to write

laughter filling the silences of our creativity,
occasional applause,

and the walls seemed to imbibe our words
to mingle with others

who had written in rooms before us.

Food was collected refreshing us
with talk,
tethering our tasks of creativity, bonding

freeing words inscribed
strong as the oak tables – the books we breathe upon –

a cartoon of him has watched
listened to us with blessing.

Stephanie Acton
The car turned by the church
and through the dappled shade of the trees,

the entrance!
The crunch of gravel, pleasing to the ears

as the library rises to view.

The oversized table, fit for a banquet
dominated the room –

Though not my style, if ever
I were to dance on a table, it would be my first choice.

How mighty the tree to have made it must have been!
I pictured it, in its former life; branches tussled

by the breeze

as the leaves flit and glow in the wakening rays
of the sun.

David Varley
The car turned by the church,
inside the brass tray waited expectantly, a receptacle for thoughts and feelings.

The tranquillity is intimate,
working deep within the brain, “drawing out ideas so gently

that they seem not new
but old things half-remembered

into which fresh life is breathed by good companions.
Ideas and visions flit like motes in a sunbeam,

a movement slow but urgent, ready to be born in this companionship of silence.
How fitting that new words flow forth

in the presence of old stones,
no sound but the susurration of pen on paper.

Stephen B. Morrissey

We gathered around the table,
thirteen together to celebrate,

later on we became twelve.
Was that a sign in keeping with the place?

The theology of Jesus walks the corridors
building our faith or permitting us to challenge the cause.

A Gospel choir might well help us out.
So, if you see Selina again, please give her a shout.

Mark Acton 2019
The car turned by the church
inside the brass tray existed,
somewhere the tense changes.   Changed!

The high-backed, brown leather chairs lean back against the walls,
staring in at the writers’ pencils and pens
busily scratching away at the paper.

Shoulders hunched, heads down, faces contorted, lips pursed or tongues out
one hand rested on the notepad or the side of the head
while the other scribbles away.

There is rhythm in the markings
life in the words
but it is a separate life from all that is outside the room.

They don’t have to make sense.

The message can change from the brain; down the arm
to the hand and the pen and onto the page
and it can change again on reading

But each word reminds us
of a time or a place or a person or a feeling
or a taste.

It’s the last exercise of the day;
the last chance to say what needs to be said;
the last chance to move someone, scare someone, make them laugh;

the last chance to be moved by someone else.

Home time is approaching
and I’ve still not had any cake.
I’m not sure how Tom’s got through the day.

I want to fill this page.
I want to fill every page.
I want to go home and say, ‘look at how much I’ve done!’

But, mostly, I hope it inspires me to do some more.

This could be the start of something big
but I suspect it’s just a blot on nothing at all.

It was fun while it lasted
but now I’m going to grab one of those chocolate biscuits
and put my writing career to bed until next time.

Au revoir, my friends.
See you soon.

Shauna Leishman
The car turned by the church
inside the brass tray
glowing a greeting,
seating deeply in a soft chair

nearest the bookshelf, lamp nearby
pluck a book from the shelf;
while the kitchen offers hot drinks
cold cuts, creamy custards, gingerbread men.

Library shelves, dark brown wood grain
artful scaffolding, lofty space
peace descends, the books sit heavy
full of words, ideas, stories, notes of meetings;
history, science, drama sounds of life
silently waiting, waiting to be seen
the sun beckons, out into the garden
in back, wander around.
There’s a graveyard, stones reflecting in one line
a full life, some dates lived.

All my time’s here have been full of companionship.
I’ve been spoilt, don’t want to come alone:
 I can do alone in my own home.

After a day shut away from the world
the car turns back out of the little lane
back into the fuss and fury
back into the cares and duties.

The day is done.

Marion Smith

the car turns by the church
inside, the brass tray –

heads up; we listen for guidance
repeat, and repeat again,

mix colours, exchange birds
pass three to the left, four to the right.

Heads up, we listen again
abandon the guidance and write on.

Weaving, twisting, turning
considering our preconceptions,

taking the songs of others
like building blocks to make new structures

marrying word together
their offspring forming a new song –

I wonder what the grand old man
would think of our mental meanderings

would he smile or shake his head
in disbelief.

Mac Carding

The car turned by the church
inside a brass tray, waiting for silence

gathered in the Anwyl Room, the Vale Royal Writers Group
bicker and banter

eventually playing with colours in words
teal blue sea, vivid purple murder,

recounting first impressions of the Gladstone Library
then drawing stories from the lyrics of songs.

The group converges around specific chosen words
twist-dreams and Strut-strolls its stuff,

around a polished wooden table, so big that
thirteen can comfortably sit with

their A4 notebooks and pencils scratching
to write up their day.

Careful, considered pieces and humorous sketches,
imaginative tales and poetic description
have all been heard in this writing space –

this inspirational place

Tom Ireland
The car turned by the church.
Inside the brass tray waited

for donations, relief , hope
and an early sunrise saw

the old man and a wheelbarrow
hurrying through the streets

of the concrete town while
the sly slut strolled by.

The broken cross waited as
the down-graded day dawned

the car turned away,
searching for another destination
salvation?

The maypole dancing kingfisher
dies.

Joyce Ireland
Turn by the church inside, the brass tray
sleeping with books is heaven on earth

reading, researching, writing the words;
choosing a salad and glasses of wine

croissants for breakfast, tea by the pot
prayers in the chapel or just a quiet thought.

Strangers to meet, later their friends
clerics in mufti the Chaplin is John.

The Staff ease your way, the interns are young,
fresh faced and clever they work all the week

small bursaries are theirs and they learn all the ropes
we work in the library or snooze in the lounge.

 

Liz Leech
The car turned by the church inside, the brass tray
we meet where a candle used to sit

the Anwyl  Room exudes people’s thoughts – prayers
we’ve come, each other to inspire

our brains to the fore.

The volumes on the library shelves
send a tingle through their spines

they beckon to delve in “books”
to take our pens and write

beyond the twisted stairs.

Bill Webster
The car turned by the church
inside the brass tray
then beyond the Alwyn Room
friends gathered there.

An exercise with cards
five blank then filled –
the colour of the sky
the colour of the foreground

a bird, a bird and an event.

Cards pass from hand to hand
the first four positions left
the second is where it breaks down
the Queen of Chaos casts her spell

hilarity reigns!

Coffee and cakes, we sit
around a table too small
we are challenged arriving at a place
for the first time, laying preconceptions to waste.

Lunchtime already,
we have two tables a more comfortable fit
unless you’re a vegan
who does not like mushrooms –
chocolate pudding in chocolate sauce
sets us up for more words

inspired by song lyrics
but still I don’t know
what to get a nudist for Christmas!

Word paints follow
choose one from each list
one short and explosive
the other slower, more thoughtful
contrasting words combine to inspire!

Now we are here
we reflect on the day

a poem written together
synthesising impressions
for posterity …

Lisbon Workshop (by Carolyn O’Connell) April 2019

Have you ever considered a workshop in an unknown venue with people you have never met?  I know it can be intimidating to lay bare your writing before strangers – readings and open mic is a part of that – but to travel to somewhere you have never visited before and share accommodation with writers who are unknown to you is an adventure both in travel and writing.

Earlier this year I embarked on such an adventure, a week in Lisbon.  I’d never visited Portugal before and knew nothing about Lisbon except from what a friend who had lived there told me.  I travelled alone as my fellow participants departed from Gatwick as they and the group leader lived in the south. The only person I knew was Ruth the course leader with whom I’d done a day workshop with before.

Arriving I took a taxi to the city passing villas, villages and into the heart of Lisbon. Deep in my case my presentation that was my first assignment for the week “The Presentation”. Ruth had informed me the first workshop would be to choose a Portuguese poet I was familiar with and give a fifteen minute presentation on their history and work –“help!” I knew nothing about the language let alone its poets or poetry. Scouring the net I looked for someone who was new and living for I felt I could relate to someone like this. The poet I’d chosen was Ana Lusia Amaral and the only translation of her work is “The Art of the Tiger”. It is a lifetime collection of this living poet’s work encompassing poems from her the start of her career to the present, covering the years of repression to the freedom of today. In addition to her fantastic poetry 16 books, translations she’s written plays, meta fiction, children’s stories. I found her work fascinating and would recommend this book to anyone.  The following is a taster of her work and my presentation.
I discovered that being born in 1956 in Lisbon; she grew up Leiça da Palmira and is just a bit younger than me which is another reason that she might be accessible. I discovered she is one of the country’s leading poets, a feminist who addresses, subverts and continues the traditions of her country’s poetry.

Four poems from “Escuro” 2014 are pertinent to the political landscape both of that regime and of today. All begin gently, almost like a tiger waking with no hint of what will happen. It opens to recall memories from her village childhood when sunlight, hope and death was absent and only the joy of light, hope runs through “The Purest Memories” but the second half opens

“Today, the newspapers on this sunless morning
speak of things so brutal
and so flagrant, like people without names, without light
of dead people who did not pass through life
but had their lives cut short the violence of standing
on this earth on others who have died
not remembered at all
. The quartet of “Europe” poems concludes with these bleak lines that hold the chalice of history
Europe sees nothing. She does not even have elbows
to hold up justice or goodness.
And even here, where she to look over here, she would see nothing,
only more screams, No voice. No south
No dazzling sphinx

.
The first book From Minha Senhora De Quȇ 1990 “Intertextualities” weaves a poem from the simplest occurrence and is one of the first examples that I bring to you.

Almost microscopic
a crumb left between the pages of a book
I happen to be reading.

Someone lent me the book
but not the crumb.
Shrouded in deepest mystery,
it made its first shy appearance
between two solemn paragraphs,
it tangled my thoughts,
broke the (already tenuous) thread of my reading.
Seductive, intriguing.

It made me consider the different levels to be read:
the subject of the book
and the crumb-subject of the reader.

(someone had consumed a sandwich in between consuming
those two paragraphs with their eyes:
turn the page, read two lines
the plot thickens, just when did he or she
get up to make a sandwich
before returning to the next few lines)

I was left with the crumb,
an unexpected gift from the reader,
but as a joke or a possible snack,
I left a crumb of my own,
not a water mark but a bread mark:
an alternative theme to be deciphered later
at a later reading
by someone else.

It is also a book where she talks to her daughter and paints the position of women in simple skilled words that show, yet hide the heartbreak of living up to and through the expectation of men and her country.

The Tiger appears in the third book A arte de ser tigre 2003

I feel that these poems are a metaphor for the unsaid, they hold a sense of pain being felt, endured, overcome throughout a lifetime of writing Fourteen poems take the tiger on a voyage of change where colour, light, stars, and the hint of the sphinx combined to draw me into a place where I felt that the tiger was “the cosmic being carrying loves that go beyond time”. (Aldo Mathais 1939) Are these short poems the core of her writing, her ability to disguise in simplicity the art

SECOND ART

Changing things back:
dreaming those stars
a pleiad
of winds
– and remembering

There are wound so cruel
so like low clouds
in a storm,
that the solution:
all devouring

Afterwards, what is left;
a little heap of sand
or a sliver of stone

(pretending to be light)

“E Todavia” the last book in this anthology gathers as the tiger’s kill: the beauty of light, greeting her days, reflecting on weaving poems with the gentle confidence of a master?

SMALL DOCUMENT

A living document
the table

Pulsating
inextricably
through the knots in the wood

Once
a living tree

Now just a frontier
between bread
and word:

It was fun to discover a new poet and introduce her to the group. The five of us were very different. Francesca had Italian background that reflected in her writing while Angela drew on her mother and home. Gillian came with her husband who was a great help both to her and us in negotiating the city.  Settled in flats in the old town it was a perfect space to discover and be inspired by Saramago whose house and heart are a mesmerizing experience.  This is one of the poems inspired by the workshops, this poet and my tribute to the city.

Below Your Home

In the afternoon heat a breeze
cooling body and soul we are
drinking coffee, orange
I am sitting writing,
above me the walls of your house rise
covered by studded breasts of the fertility goddess;
she looks down on us and the river,
below her the olive tree
whose roots encase your heart.

Carolyn O’Connell©

 

Pen Friends (by Shauna Leishman) March 2019

Last night, my newly six-year-old friend, who is fast becoming the most profound person I know, said to me “you want to know how it feels to write a book?  I can tell you what it feels like, writing a book“.   “Sure“, I said, having always skirted around the subject, writing here and there but never a book.  She had just exhibited her growing adeptness with words on a magic scribble pad, letters disappearing almost as fast as they were written in a careful, even script – “I am God” (meaning to say ‘good’), “I lik soop“, “I luv yoo“.   She says “Writing a book feels… Hot … sweaty … and annoying, yes, it’s annoying.”  My jaw dropped in wonder as I sense that she has nailed it once again.

I had just taken her to her weekly swim lesson where I’ve sat alone for over a year now, never chatting with other mothers or scrolling on my phone. Watching her frolic in the waves each week, watching her learning to navigate her beginning journey through life with a purity which takes my breath away.  She deals with loss, betrayal, mommy being mean, friendship ups and downs, sibling wars, love of her dolls and cat, and enjoyment of parks and beauty and music, just like anyone else.

Last week, sitting at poolside, my eyes fell on a beautiful skirt, unlike the usual gear of swim moms and dads, and with interesting boots underneath, on a new woman who I’d not seen before.  She was reading an orange – no, Tangerine – book. This being something I’ve been known to do (be seen in public reading a book), I asked her about the book and she eagerly started chatting with me and within maybe five sentences in, I mentioned being in a writing group and she told me she had written a book.  Impressed, I asked her about it and she showed me pictures of a children’s book with beautifully executed illustrations.  She said she was making more on her book, percentage wise, with self-publishing, than a well-known author she knows, who has a publisher and only makes 6% per book.   We had great fun chatting away, the children were completely ignored and the 30 minutes flew past in a flash.  This week, she brought me a copy of said book. Hardback, impressive, lots of writing, aimed at ages 4-8, and gave it to me inscribed.   Being a collector of beautiful, illustrated children’s books, I was delighted.   I invited her to go with me to my writer’s group that evening but she said she needed more warning, due to childcare issues and promised to try the following month.  And off I went, to finish my evening with that meeting which for me, has become a beacon of light in an increasingly mad world.

I read a newspaper daily, I Facebook, I encounter stories of travails on every side – health, financial, relationship breakdowns, untimely deaths – my 25-year-old daughter’s best friend is dying even at this moment and she is flying around the world to hopefully reach her before it’s too late for a goodbye.  I am jolted each week by some trauma in the news or in an encounter in my life.  Chaos rules, misunderstandings obfuscate, leadership is missing, technology runs everything, disintegrates or is hacked, constantly.  I dive into novels which takes me away – often into times and places that also seem to be a very difficult time to live in, where a murder or loss changes a life, even without technological complications (I love historical novels).  I make things with my hands, embroidery, knitting, cross stitching, sewing, while musing about life, meditating through the busy-ness of the hands while the mind is free and sometimes, listening to a podcast or the radio.  I watch TV and marvel at the stories and times shown there – the perfection of some series, turning away in revulsion from many, many more.   I’ve been going to a weekly writing group for some years – which has been running for at least 25 years – and have greatly enjoyed my time there but lately, since last summer, it seems to lurch from one distressing complication to another.  No longer is it a simple joy and every week, I wonder how much longer these lovely elderly ladies and one gentleman are going to be there.

I’ve curated my email inbox so that I rarely get spam or junk and mostly appreciate everything that comes through or quickly unsubscribe if I don’t.  I am sometimes distracted and don’t read the messages that come through from VRWG.  Recently had a laugh when, after neglecting to read the minutes of a meeting I’d missed, I discovered by chance, the dates of the regular First Monday of the Month meetings were being changed for a few months.  Upon inquiring of Marian, if what I was seeing was correct, she told me what the reason was and I thought about how all those who don’t read the messages, who missed that crucial informational meeting – were going to be caught out for a time. Last week, I read the minutes of a management meeting which was held the week before the regular meeting.  And was suddenly struck by a joyous revelation.  Which was further followed up in the March meeting, which was the annual AGM, which yes, admit it, can be tedious to get through at the best of times.  But everything in life, I’ve found, that is worth something, has those detail duties that must be done and so it is, so it is done.

In these times of darkness and confusions and sheer stupidities almost constantly demonstrated by those in charge – VRWG is anything but.  It is done right.  It is administered with wisdom and sensitivity and conscientiousness.  It is growing ever larger because it offers a moment of connection, a sanity, a community of like-minded people who have one thing in common; they like to write.  We all tap keyboards or scribble.  We all know that pleasure that comes of bringing images, thoughts, stories, plucked out of nowhere and somewhere and being made manifest into something to share, to enjoy. Some of us even know the hot, sweatiness of writing a book. I know I will find mental stimulation, humour, kindness, thoughtfulness, friendly greetings, connecting chats, and even when leaders are missing, it comes together, it is run and done right. People say my name. It is organized and works right. It is a joy. And I’ll be forever grateful for having it in my life.

Shauna Leishman, 12^th March 2019

Write Your Own Book (by Les Green) February 2019 (Monkey Writing)

I haven’t written anything for ages. I haven’t felt inspired to write though. No new ideas, and no guilt about not doing it. I no longer feel like a phony because I know I’m not a writer, just somebody that writes. Until today at least, because I just decided that perhaps today should be the day when I write something.

So, blank piece of paper, here we are again, but this time it feels like you have the upper hand. Usually we get together and I dictate the conversation, and you never get a word in edgeways. This time though? Well, it seems like you have more to say than I do. In fact, I know that if I wasn’t typing a commentary the page would still be blank.

And now I ran out of steam. Bruce Springstein was on the radio and I finished this much writing before the end of the record. Usually Springstein goes on so much that the average writer (I don’t meet that standard yet) could write half a novel. If I wrote half a novel I’d work it out technically – how many full stops, commas, exclamations, question marks and etcetera’s, … etc.

And I’d do all those first so it felt like I was achieving something. A whole paragraph of commas followed by a paragraph of full stops, followed by a couple of lines of various other punctuation.

Oh, hang on a minute. I could write a book and call it a “Write Your Own Novel Kit”. I’ll provide all the things you need – the pages, a sufficient amount of punctuation, ample amounts of well presented, alphabetically stored letters of the … erm … alphabet – in both upper and lower cases. Some useful words or trigger phrases, based on the type of book you’re interested in writing (For example; if it’s a romantic novel I would provide phrases like “Put down your pipe and ravish me Clive” or “Alice rested her trembling hand on the leg of Pierre’s corduroy trousers”, you get the gist.)

I suppose I could just analyse a book and see how many times each letter of the alphabet is used, and group them all together in their own chapters. That means there would obviously be a minimum of 26 chapters – A to Z – and maybe a section that contains all the numbers (excluding page numbers, but these will also be provided and assigned in ascending numeric value, with a number per page. Probably at the bottom). And I could even provide half a dozen additional blank pages to put at the front and back like publishers do for reasons unbeknown to me – although it seems like a good method to pad out the book a bit if you normally struggle to get the pages into double figures like I do – you may be surprised to learn that my record output is a pitiful 16 pages (not 16 pages as in: most done in a single sitting, BUT the longest thing I ever wrote was 16 pages long). As you can tell, I usually run out of discipline before I run out of anything else. I write like a butterfly inspects the garden – flower by flower, and only when the weather’s right.

To stick with the gardening analogy; I’ll provide the landscaping and you provide the planting. In computer terms, I provide the hardware, and you provide the programming. Or in everyday writing terms; I provide the tools and you provide the talent and discipline. Which is more-or-less where I am when it comes to writing anyway these days. All the gear and no idea. I do have a rather splendid collection of empty moleskine notebooks though, so that’s nice.

So, if next Christmas somebody presents you with a nicely wrapped gift that looks like it might be a book, it might not be a book yet. But all it takes is a good idea, and 3 months of your life. But then again, who’s got time for that? Ooh, look, another flower …