Some months ago, I posted off for a free offer in the Telegraph for a magnolia. Sounded good. It arrived a few days ago, in a packet 3 foot long! We can't think where to put it. It's been put in a pot this morning while we think about it. I'm in favour of hacking down an evergreen thing by our front door, which is getting a bit long in the tooth, and putting it there. More light in the living room and lots of sunshine for magnolia. I feel very silly, though, signing up to a magnolia without realising how big it was!
Saturday 10 March 2012
Sunday 4 March 2012
Writing as Therapy
I've never been one of those people who could write to sublimate. Normally when I'm having a bad time in real life, I dry up. However, over the last week, I've had an exceptionally bad time at work, very stressed, panicky, going-to-the-doctor level depressed, but the only thing that has helped me calm down is writing. I've amazed myself by writing with a focus I haven't had for months.
I've subbed two stories this week and I'm three-quarters of the way through re-editing 'Anna the Dissident', a story I've struggled to get a handle on for years. You have this character and she's quite clear in your mind but can you tie up a short story plot? Only a few days ago did I realise that her hang-up was being called a 'dissident' and only as I write this am I working out why.
Oh, and some acceptances would be nice as well.
I've subbed two stories this week and I'm three-quarters of the way through re-editing 'Anna the Dissident', a story I've struggled to get a handle on for years. You have this character and she's quite clear in your mind but can you tie up a short story plot? Only a few days ago did I realise that her hang-up was being called a 'dissident' and only as I write this am I working out why.
Oh, and some acceptances would be nice as well.
Saturday 24 December 2011
The Hardness of Writing
Not having much luck at the moment.
One story in particular is proving 'hard to place' and I really don't understand why as it is set in a colourful location (Mexico City), and, imo, it's better written than many of my others which have been accepted. The last ezine rejected it same day, the day before Christmas Eve. I don't think she liked it much. The temptation is to lob it straight back out again, just to have it 'subbed', out there in cyberspace, but my more boring, sober, self tells me to look at it again beforehand. Hey ho, dear Reader, ho hum.
I have also been reading Mslexia (British printed magazine for women who write), where I once had a competition success. Why should that make you depressed, you might ask. Last August, I entered their 'Motherhood' competition, which was for a piece (of fiction, non-fiction or poetry) not exceeding 2200 words. Dear Reader, I gave it my best shot, editing and re-editing and tweaking. I knew it wasn't perfect but I did think I had got an unusual angle and a strong and distinctive mc. I didn't expect to win, but I felt I'd made a respectable attempt. Then I read the winners in Mslexia Dec/Jan/Feb. What a revelation, Dear Reader. What a revelation. Am I going to whinge, say the judges got it mistaken or are biased, or that they wrongfully passed over my little effort? Nope. Nope. Nope.
What depresses me is not that the winning entries were so much better than mine - good luck to them. They produced some interesting, funny and emotive writing, some so moving that I could hardly bear to read them. (Squeamish, me.) What depresses me is how pathetic mine was in comparison and how much more I have to learn.
The more I write, the harder it gets. When I used to write for myself and show virtually nobody, I thought I was quite good at it. When I joined a couple of online writing communities over 4 years ago, other members told me (some of) the areas where I fell short. They were too tactful to point out all my faults at once, so they're still doing it. Their comments have also enabled me to see weaknesses in my writing for myself in glorious technicolour. If I look at my work objectively, I believe I must be producing a higher standard of work than I was 4 years ago, but at the moment it doesn't feel like it. I know I have a very long way to go.
One story in particular is proving 'hard to place' and I really don't understand why as it is set in a colourful location (Mexico City), and, imo, it's better written than many of my others which have been accepted. The last ezine rejected it same day, the day before Christmas Eve. I don't think she liked it much. The temptation is to lob it straight back out again, just to have it 'subbed', out there in cyberspace, but my more boring, sober, self tells me to look at it again beforehand. Hey ho, dear Reader, ho hum.
I have also been reading Mslexia (British printed magazine for women who write), where I once had a competition success. Why should that make you depressed, you might ask. Last August, I entered their 'Motherhood' competition, which was for a piece (of fiction, non-fiction or poetry) not exceeding 2200 words. Dear Reader, I gave it my best shot, editing and re-editing and tweaking. I knew it wasn't perfect but I did think I had got an unusual angle and a strong and distinctive mc. I didn't expect to win, but I felt I'd made a respectable attempt. Then I read the winners in Mslexia Dec/Jan/Feb. What a revelation, Dear Reader. What a revelation. Am I going to whinge, say the judges got it mistaken or are biased, or that they wrongfully passed over my little effort? Nope. Nope. Nope.
What depresses me is not that the winning entries were so much better than mine - good luck to them. They produced some interesting, funny and emotive writing, some so moving that I could hardly bear to read them. (Squeamish, me.) What depresses me is how pathetic mine was in comparison and how much more I have to learn.
The more I write, the harder it gets. When I used to write for myself and show virtually nobody, I thought I was quite good at it. When I joined a couple of online writing communities over 4 years ago, other members told me (some of) the areas where I fell short. They were too tactful to point out all my faults at once, so they're still doing it. Their comments have also enabled me to see weaknesses in my writing for myself in glorious technicolour. If I look at my work objectively, I believe I must be producing a higher standard of work than I was 4 years ago, but at the moment it doesn't feel like it. I know I have a very long way to go.
Tuesday 1 November 2011
TEA, TEXAN STYLE
We love to visit the US and we'd been wanting to see our friends in Houston for a very long time, so, last week - half term week - off we went. One of the things you accept, however, is that you can't get a decent cup of tea in America. On our first evening we were offered iced tea in a glass, but that tasted like, er, cold tea. However, we'd been before, we knew the score, so we comforted ourselves with American coffee. Americans do coffee much better than we do. (Yes, they really do, even though my husband does a mean cafetiere at home at weekends.)
However, by the time we got back to George Bush Intercontinental for our return journey, our throats were dry and tickly and we were both suffering from periodic paroxyms of coughing. Lee Marvin, in 'Painted Waggon', sang that 'the plains will make you dry', but I can assure him that air conditioning makes you dry as well. Houstonians are addicted to air conditioning, ... in shops, restaurants, homes, the Johnson Space Center, even churches. It was explained to us that, with their hot humid climate, air conditioning was not only what made Houston great, but possible at all. But, really, in late October? I was getting into the habit of taking a cardigan, not for outside, Dear Reader, but for indoors.
Picture us at the airport, with our tongues hanging out. We needed tea. We sat down at the cafe in Terminal E. 'Tea? No problem.'
'Hot tea,' my husband added.
The waitress shook her head. Iced tea, yes, but not hot. She didn't have any tea bags.
We trundled over to Terminal B, were seated by the hostess and made our request again. 'Hot tea? OK, y'all.'
She returned a few minutes later with two cups of hot water with teabags brewing nicely at the bottom, although there were sliced lemons over the rims. She was about to disappear when my husband uttered the word 'Milk'.
'OK, y'all.'
She served another customer. She seated a couple at a table. She did various other things... all the while our tea was going cold. She did produce the milk eventually - horrible creamy full milk - but it was too late by then.
Is making a good cup of tea so difficult? As was explained by the elderly concierge at the hotel we visited in Prague last Easter, 'In England you drink tea strong so you need milk. In rest of world we drink it weak so we don't.'
Driving home from Heathrow, we stopped at the local Coop to buy some fresh skimmed milk, and, as soon as we got inside our own front door we switched on the kettle. Then, Dear Reader, we made a Proper Cup of Tea. Heaven.
However, by the time we got back to George Bush Intercontinental for our return journey, our throats were dry and tickly and we were both suffering from periodic paroxyms of coughing. Lee Marvin, in 'Painted Waggon', sang that 'the plains will make you dry', but I can assure him that air conditioning makes you dry as well. Houstonians are addicted to air conditioning, ... in shops, restaurants, homes, the Johnson Space Center, even churches. It was explained to us that, with their hot humid climate, air conditioning was not only what made Houston great, but possible at all. But, really, in late October? I was getting into the habit of taking a cardigan, not for outside, Dear Reader, but for indoors.
Picture us at the airport, with our tongues hanging out. We needed tea. We sat down at the cafe in Terminal E. 'Tea? No problem.'
'Hot tea,' my husband added.
The waitress shook her head. Iced tea, yes, but not hot. She didn't have any tea bags.
We trundled over to Terminal B, were seated by the hostess and made our request again. 'Hot tea? OK, y'all.'
She returned a few minutes later with two cups of hot water with teabags brewing nicely at the bottom, although there were sliced lemons over the rims. She was about to disappear when my husband uttered the word 'Milk'.
'OK, y'all.'
She served another customer. She seated a couple at a table. She did various other things... all the while our tea was going cold. She did produce the milk eventually - horrible creamy full milk - but it was too late by then.
Is making a good cup of tea so difficult? As was explained by the elderly concierge at the hotel we visited in Prague last Easter, 'In England you drink tea strong so you need milk. In rest of world we drink it weak so we don't.'
Driving home from Heathrow, we stopped at the local Coop to buy some fresh skimmed milk, and, as soon as we got inside our own front door we switched on the kettle. Then, Dear Reader, we made a Proper Cup of Tea. Heaven.
Friday 30 September 2011
Writers' Block
I never thought I would suffer in this way, but it's been coming on for a long time. Writing just gets harder every day.
I used to be able to roll off a chapter of a novel, 2000 words or so, in one day, with enormous enthusiasm. I used to feel a thrill of excitement every time I sat down at the computer and tear myself away with enormous reluctance when I had to go and pick up children from school or whatever. So what's changed? And what's happened to all those novels I wrote? They're gathering dust on floppy discs, on top of the filing cabinet, in what used to be the computer room in the days when we used to have a desktop computer, in the spare bedroom, you know, in the way people used to. Underneath them are two ring binders contained about 100,000 words of a novel about space exploration which I inscribed in pencil on A4 pads (when there wasn't really any viable alternative). I wrote that novel with passion too.
So, let's ask the question again. What happened to all these novels? Not a lot.
A few were sent to publishers, three word processed chapters and a synopsis. Every few months, when the family were out, I would have a cull of these sad self-addressed envelopes, their contents pinned together with the publisher's standard rejection slip. Most of them didn't even get that far, although my novel for teenagers about football was recorded on cassette tape by a fellow writer in Scotland - Alex Frew, bless him - and played to blind kids in Scotland. The sequel was not so fortunate as the Wee Frees objected on moral grounds to mc sleeping with steady girlfriend before marriage... er, once.
Over the past three years, I have been writing flash and short stories, with a moderate degree of success. The quality of my writing has matured in many ways, because I have posted my work on Writers Dock and Chapter SeventyNine and received a great deal of valuable feedback from members, whereas previously no one was reading my work at all, let alone reviewing and suggesting edits. I now have a much lower opinion of myself as a writer, but I know I'm writing better.
I've also been writing a novel about the Cold War since 2008 and I'm only midway through. It's been stop-start, two steps forward and one step back ever since, short stories, several OU courses and a lot of handouts on how to use various IT applications. Back in 2007-8, the story coursed through my head night and day, actually keeping me awake for whole nights, and I was desperate to get it down... without doing the necessary research, or developing the whole of the plot, or thinking through the characters. Now I understand the characters very well and the plot has remained the same for a long time... in my head. But I'm doing well if I write a chapter about every month.
So Dear Reader (and Allie assures me there is at least one), my plan now is to concentrate on The Novel and forget about writing shorts until I've finished. I belong to something called Five Outstanding on Chapter Seventy-Nine in which you commit to having five subs on the go at any one time, but I think I can continue to keep that up by recycling rejections - unless I suddenly get a rash of acceptances.
No more excuses then. I just wish I could write with abandon and absorption like before.
I used to be able to roll off a chapter of a novel, 2000 words or so, in one day, with enormous enthusiasm. I used to feel a thrill of excitement every time I sat down at the computer and tear myself away with enormous reluctance when I had to go and pick up children from school or whatever. So what's changed? And what's happened to all those novels I wrote? They're gathering dust on floppy discs, on top of the filing cabinet, in what used to be the computer room in the days when we used to have a desktop computer, in the spare bedroom, you know, in the way people used to. Underneath them are two ring binders contained about 100,000 words of a novel about space exploration which I inscribed in pencil on A4 pads (when there wasn't really any viable alternative). I wrote that novel with passion too.
So, let's ask the question again. What happened to all these novels? Not a lot.
A few were sent to publishers, three word processed chapters and a synopsis. Every few months, when the family were out, I would have a cull of these sad self-addressed envelopes, their contents pinned together with the publisher's standard rejection slip. Most of them didn't even get that far, although my novel for teenagers about football was recorded on cassette tape by a fellow writer in Scotland - Alex Frew, bless him - and played to blind kids in Scotland. The sequel was not so fortunate as the Wee Frees objected on moral grounds to mc sleeping with steady girlfriend before marriage... er, once.
Over the past three years, I have been writing flash and short stories, with a moderate degree of success. The quality of my writing has matured in many ways, because I have posted my work on Writers Dock and Chapter SeventyNine and received a great deal of valuable feedback from members, whereas previously no one was reading my work at all, let alone reviewing and suggesting edits. I now have a much lower opinion of myself as a writer, but I know I'm writing better.
I've also been writing a novel about the Cold War since 2008 and I'm only midway through. It's been stop-start, two steps forward and one step back ever since, short stories, several OU courses and a lot of handouts on how to use various IT applications. Back in 2007-8, the story coursed through my head night and day, actually keeping me awake for whole nights, and I was desperate to get it down... without doing the necessary research, or developing the whole of the plot, or thinking through the characters. Now I understand the characters very well and the plot has remained the same for a long time... in my head. But I'm doing well if I write a chapter about every month.
So Dear Reader (and Allie assures me there is at least one), my plan now is to concentrate on The Novel and forget about writing shorts until I've finished. I belong to something called Five Outstanding on Chapter Seventy-Nine in which you commit to having five subs on the go at any one time, but I think I can continue to keep that up by recycling rejections - unless I suddenly get a rash of acceptances.
No more excuses then. I just wish I could write with abandon and absorption like before.
Friday 5 August 2011
Scatological continued
My beloved daughter will get married tomorrow, and guess what? I was clearning the loo in our bathroom when the fittings on the seat brackets snapped.
Husband was furious and told me to wait until Monday before even thinking of trying to fix it, but what he forgot was that, when we got married - way, way, way back - I didn't promise to 'obey'. So what did I do, dear Reader (if there is one)? I drove to the nearest town, bought a loo seat the right size for the pan, came home and fitted it.
Now feeling very pleased with myself.
Husband was furious and told me to wait until Monday before even thinking of trying to fix it, but what he forgot was that, when we got married - way, way, way back - I didn't promise to 'obey'. So what did I do, dear Reader (if there is one)? I drove to the nearest town, bought a loo seat the right size for the pan, came home and fitted it.
Now feeling very pleased with myself.
Saturday 30 July 2011
Scatological or what?
My beloved uncle, now sadly 'late' in the Mma Ramotswe sense and whose name was 'Brown', used to say that 'Browns' weather' plagued his every holiday. He went to Greece, Pakistan, just down the road to Hastings, and you could guarantee that it would be cold and wet, not just for him but for us at home too.
Husband and I, however, have been pursued by toilets. Things started the way they meant to go on at our flat in Sutton where we lived immediately after our wedding; a toilet with a pathetic, 'can't be bothered' flush was kicked into action suddenly and literally when Husband got frustrated with it one Sunday afternoon. I can't remember the details now - too long ago.
Next we went to live in a commuter village east of Guildford, where our daughter and son were born. With a two week old baby and tearful through lack of sleep, we managed to block the system in the whole road by putting nappy liners down the loo, as it said you could do on the packet. Our very nice neighbours rodded the drain for us, as we were in no fit state to do it.
At least in these last two places we had mains drainage. Over twenty years ago now, we moved to our present house where we don't. The septic tank has, over the years, caused us hours of amusement, embarrassment and expense, especially on Saturday evenings and Sunday evenings, the normal times for crises to occur. But you came to hold it cheap and love the slurry wagon when it turns up, our visitors too, because septic tank would always hold out until we had company. Do you suppose that, when you get a group of countrymen together, they discuss crops, nature or the weather, or even incursions from Tesco? No, they talk about the merits of soak aways and filtration and how putting the village on to the mains would definitely be a BAD THING.
We can't escape, even on holiday. In Brittany, where our toilette flushed continuously, all day and all night, Madame's response was always 'Demain', and probably still is. Staying in Tenerife we managed to work our magic on the bathroom facilities in mother-in-law's apartment and had to call out the English-Speaking Plumber from Playa De Los Cristianos. (He was quite used to people like us.) Worst of all was southern Italy where the big tank in the basement of our holiday-let for 6 people ran dry, because we had... er, six people... in the property. The only person from the holiday company who was on site was Mario who only spoke Italian and Husband who spoke none. They got it fixed though; some basic concepts are international.
Pity most ezines don't do scatological, isn't it? I think I might just have a bit of material there.
Husband and I, however, have been pursued by toilets. Things started the way they meant to go on at our flat in Sutton where we lived immediately after our wedding; a toilet with a pathetic, 'can't be bothered' flush was kicked into action suddenly and literally when Husband got frustrated with it one Sunday afternoon. I can't remember the details now - too long ago.
Next we went to live in a commuter village east of Guildford, where our daughter and son were born. With a two week old baby and tearful through lack of sleep, we managed to block the system in the whole road by putting nappy liners down the loo, as it said you could do on the packet. Our very nice neighbours rodded the drain for us, as we were in no fit state to do it.
At least in these last two places we had mains drainage. Over twenty years ago now, we moved to our present house where we don't. The septic tank has, over the years, caused us hours of amusement, embarrassment and expense, especially on Saturday evenings and Sunday evenings, the normal times for crises to occur. But you came to hold it cheap and love the slurry wagon when it turns up, our visitors too, because septic tank would always hold out until we had company. Do you suppose that, when you get a group of countrymen together, they discuss crops, nature or the weather, or even incursions from Tesco? No, they talk about the merits of soak aways and filtration and how putting the village on to the mains would definitely be a BAD THING.
We can't escape, even on holiday. In Brittany, where our toilette flushed continuously, all day and all night, Madame's response was always 'Demain', and probably still is. Staying in Tenerife we managed to work our magic on the bathroom facilities in mother-in-law's apartment and had to call out the English-Speaking Plumber from Playa De Los Cristianos. (He was quite used to people like us.) Worst of all was southern Italy where the big tank in the basement of our holiday-let for 6 people ran dry, because we had... er, six people... in the property. The only person from the holiday company who was on site was Mario who only spoke Italian and Husband who spoke none. They got it fixed though; some basic concepts are international.
Pity most ezines don't do scatological, isn't it? I think I might just have a bit of material there.
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