tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57414310477125786912024-03-05T13:21:08.779+00:00sting in the talelaura wilkinson's scribblesLaura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-75373585466218482372011-06-13T20:40:00.000+01:002011-06-13T20:40:09.976+01:00I've movedto <a href="http://laura-wilkinson.co.uk/">http://laura-wilkinson.co.uk/</a> <br />
<br />
please follow my adventures (ahem!) there.Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-71302600247248173022011-04-18T10:08:00.000+01:002011-04-18T10:08:26.466+01:00Baking bread and other arts<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydp6aXqEbY7bJwbNJxC9ScwrxGXh4v0T1w0b-FZVWx3yI1oJ5SHuxc8UWJ0cHXVYPEFjwhLAC3YseqRp71knJTxz-w5j74ch_1ahsx1SVxo4azY737Ag9Tb3_yBxvFOfxhyphenhyphenQHxIFYowQ/s1600/Hever+Castle+9+April+2011+%252818%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydp6aXqEbY7bJwbNJxC9ScwrxGXh4v0T1w0b-FZVWx3yI1oJ5SHuxc8UWJ0cHXVYPEFjwhLAC3YseqRp71knJTxz-w5j74ch_1ahsx1SVxo4azY737Ag9Tb3_yBxvFOfxhyphenhyphenQHxIFYowQ/s200/Hever+Castle+9+April+2011+%252818%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Well, well, it feels like yonks since I was here, at my little blog, rambling about writing, living, creating and other nonsense. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And indeed it has been a goodly time. They’ve been odd months: busy, unsettled, flitting from one project to the next without feeling like I’m getting my teeth into any one in particular, with the exception of BloodMining. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So…February I made a tentative start on novel #3, interrupted periodically by minor fiddling with the third draft of novel #2 and considering submitting it. Praise be, I decided against.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">March I spent redrafting </span><a href="http://bridgehousepublishing.co.uk/firstnovel.aspx"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">BloodMining </span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">for my editor, Gill, and deluded though I may be it feels like a better book. I’ve yet to hear back from her, so let’s wait and see, eh? During March I was also busy submitting some shorts to exciting places like </span><a href="http://www.etherbooks.co.uk/"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Ether </span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">books, and I even had a go at a piece of flash. To my surprise and delight </span><a href="http://www.abctales.com/"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">ABCtales </span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">editor Tony selected it as a story of the day. God love ‘im.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">April began with a strong desire to get back to novel #3 and I’ve managed to squeeze out another chapter. However, novel #2 – once again unnamed having decided that my second title was as rubbish as my first – has pulled me back big time. A character from novel #3 – one whose company I’m enjoying tremendously but don’t yet know intimately – likes to bake, especially bread. She enjoys kneading and pulling and stretching a stodgy, indigestible lump of dough and turning it into something delicious and satisfying. I feel that this is what novel #2 needs. The raw ingredients are there; I need to bash it around some more and bake it in a pre-heated oven for just the right amount of time. So novel #3 is on the back burner again (ouch). Also, it’s holiday time and almost all of my time is absorbed with the kids. When I begin something, like this, I’m interrupted constantly and frustrating though this can be I’m very aware that I ignore the little blighters more than I should, so I’m considering not even trying to write any fiction this week and giving myself over to the Gingers. Perhaps they deserve it.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-60588126878067609592011-01-31T16:42:00.001+00:002011-02-08T08:15:55.146+00:00diversion at the dentist: stone #28<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A fountain of water before my eyes, only partly obscured by latex clad fingers. I glance up to see a glassy eye looking down on me. Large, green, focused. I feel miniscule, a helpless object awaiting dissection. I close my eyes and the noise of the drill engulfs me.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-63425483857210235892011-01-29T19:36:00.000+00:002011-01-29T19:36:25.047+00:00stone #27<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Floating backwards and forwards on the playground swing, my stomach churns. Before this queasy, motion-sick woman arrived was a girl who twirled and whirled and somersaulted her way into adulthood.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-61952088696291457902011-01-29T19:29:00.000+00:002011-01-29T19:29:13.706+00:00stone #26<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My son and I are collage-image seeking. Scouring the pages of National Geographic I happen upon a place so magnificent I stop breathing for a moment: the Kansas Prairie. I am reminded of the wonder of this world, and realising I will never see it all I experience a sensation akin to loss. </span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-1409092112748727762011-01-28T18:32:00.000+00:002011-01-28T18:32:24.996+00:00stone #25<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The air bites at my cheeks, whistles round my ears, brings tears to my eyes. I don't care; the sun shines. Grass is rendered a blinding green, my shadow sharp as I follow it home. </span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-25384536934464723912011-01-27T15:42:00.002+00:002011-01-27T15:54:26.404+00:00insomnia in suburbia: stone #24<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeeSyduz1-v7Fv3REcbckPpf1Q2w90tjCLd6Xd4KIdZ3EhJksflS3i41Heo7ds0oZuhd65P1o7zoOYx9T-q1TZU9tb8uz5Cek2XSipw-qM_4M_zlAjNmPrrehM39fxzXcGbB79moIuFVQ/s1600/laura+in+london.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeeSyduz1-v7Fv3REcbckPpf1Q2w90tjCLd6Xd4KIdZ3EhJksflS3i41Heo7ds0oZuhd65P1o7zoOYx9T-q1TZU9tb8uz5Cek2XSipw-qM_4M_zlAjNmPrrehM39fxzXcGbB79moIuFVQ/s200/laura+in+london.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Lying awake in the dead hours I feel like the last person on earth. Husband away, no rise and fall of shallow breathing beside me. I move to the window and pull the curtain aside. The street is empty; not a cat or a fox to watch. All is quiet. No drone of engines, sirens and helicopters. No all night party beats. No drunken staggering, no cans rattling along the pavement. The city was never like this. </span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-72507071971492189002011-01-25T16:02:00.000+00:002011-01-25T16:02:08.292+00:00stone #23<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">behind the grey shroud lies another world </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">a splintered sky, a sliver of topaz </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">pushing its way through</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-788637215012324312011-01-25T15:56:00.001+00:002011-01-25T15:57:55.846+00:00stone #22<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Eight years old: split lip, warts, lice, red eyes. You can't read; you find it difficult to make friends. Best years of your life? Let's hope not.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-13654304649217122042011-01-23T16:30:00.000+00:002011-01-23T16:30:33.005+00:00silver screen: stone #21<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">rustling and anticipation fills the air</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">adverts over, ice cream vanished, the curtains close and open</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">we submit to another world</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-3539303732693465032011-01-23T09:31:00.000+00:002011-01-23T09:31:04.023+00:00stone #20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A tang of chemical air, ripples of slippery flesh, splashes of laughter and zest in the atmosphere. A summer world inside a concrete box.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-69136142114584143442011-01-23T09:25:00.000+00:002011-01-23T09:25:56.192+00:00boy sounds:stone #19<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOyAnrNtVV9ZycGCWNVehNkYTh2HhgWPuLjWx5n9y4OZnNrL2V8z9UuhOLzFx8zXo_8GzVX5VXROrPOwEhAX8uvoHaB-p3XMisoQRanKnmfPuO2h3mhUAcMyCV-g0iIwB1BNCUXQemQQ/s1600/P1010903.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOyAnrNtVV9ZycGCWNVehNkYTh2HhgWPuLjWx5n9y4OZnNrL2V8z9UuhOLzFx8zXo_8GzVX5VXROrPOwEhAX8uvoHaB-p3XMisoQRanKnmfPuO2h3mhUAcMyCV-g0iIwB1BNCUXQemQQ/s200/P1010903.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Noises the boys make as they play warm me in a place so deep it's easy to forget its there. Words are few, but there's a universe of emotion in those whooshes, peryawwws, neeooows, kerwhizzes, and chchchchchs.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-42560607134732567992011-01-21T19:19:00.001+00:002011-01-21T19:25:43.715+00:00stone #18<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCTEJftCgnZNY6VxZsprzOGqBPGmQZ_nc2ZpHpaChZf1uwcScZz9SIrmM4IiDYrmtfcvVGHJRtQFxXgIUWfmVg71eT3C4Nbh0zon1n-qzk0AprlrMLcQpQTKXTDOHc8WtN4jeWI-Rf7MA/s1600/Picture+014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCTEJftCgnZNY6VxZsprzOGqBPGmQZ_nc2ZpHpaChZf1uwcScZz9SIrmM4IiDYrmtfcvVGHJRtQFxXgIUWfmVg71eT3C4Nbh0zon1n-qzk0AprlrMLcQpQTKXTDOHc8WtN4jeWI-Rf7MA/s320/Picture+014.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Cold seeps like ink into blotting paper (remember that?). It steals away toe tips and fingers' ends, pilfering sensation, depositing a sting residue. Radiator metal heat pulses against spine bones, unable to spread like molten lava, a hot core only.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-91223571273268247032011-01-21T18:09:00.001+00:002011-01-21T18:15:23.028+00:00thank you ABCtales (again)<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Another short of mine has been chosen as the <a href="http://www.abctales.com/">ABCtales</a> Story of the Week. A joint honour this time, but having read the other story, I'm humbled. Editor Tony Cook says, 'it's sexy, witty and wise.' If you're an ABCtales member you can read it here: </span><a href="http://www.abctales.com/story/lwilkinson/buried"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">http://www.abctales.com/story/lwilkinson/buried</span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">If not, you could join this dynamic community, or read it here on the stories page (there'll be more to follow...)</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-34319517447397518382011-01-20T19:43:00.000+00:002011-01-20T19:43:38.481+00:00more like a boulder: stone #17<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Today’s stone is so large that it’s more accurate to call it a boulder. Apologies for breaking the rules…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t write crime and have never had any desire to do so. Until now. Maybe. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I’ve been thinking about the strange encounters police officers experience in their day-to-day working lives. I’m not talking about the big stuff – murder, robberies, assault – but the little things. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Why? At 6.30am I awoke to the sound of GingerTwo calling me. It is unusual for him to wake up at such an ungodly hour, and it is doubtful I would have arisen with quite so much haste had I not thought I heard a single tap at the front door. Dazed and bleary-eyed, I stumbled downstairs, clutching GingerTwo’s sticky hand, wondering if I’d imagined it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As we crossed the hall, it came again: a distinct rapping at the door. I peered through the window at the bottom of the stairs. Two police officers, one male, one female, shuffled on the doorstep. Without a second thought I flung open the door. A look of horrified bemusement washed over the young (yes, yes, I know…) man’s features; I was in a t-shirt and knickers. He spoke. But, realising the sight I presented, I did not hear the words and replied, ‘I’m half naked,’ before turning to climb the stairs in an attempt to retrieve another item of clothing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As I went he said, ‘Are you *****’s mother?’ Perhaps he thought I looked too young to have a teenage child? Okay, okay, this is nonsense, but it was worth a try… When I replied that I was not, that ***** lived at number *, they both bumbled profuse apologies, and made their way to the correct house.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So all day I’ve been pondering. Like doctors, police officers encounter people at their most raw, sometime most guileless. They see us without our clothes on, both literally (in my case) and metaphorically. No wonder so many authors write about them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The young person in question is perfectly safe, had come to no harm. I wish the same could be said for the young copper. I doubt his eyes stopped smarting all day.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-34042959349306137282011-01-19T19:27:00.001+00:002011-01-19T19:28:06.023+00:00stone #16<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGG_NvAZGqLaROp040gIMFelNuUm9_DItqWzj1WDAYmC5hHM49h7zRuV5kXkMqBGi54qKrj42YZYMFiQtWPf20jqOClt8AKsTh4pqMS0G42Ok2lSJY6jguSOIQa1yn5ULrUrWI8rmzuDw/s1600/2003-11-21-2003-Earthshine%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGG_NvAZGqLaROp040gIMFelNuUm9_DItqWzj1WDAYmC5hHM49h7zRuV5kXkMqBGi54qKrj42YZYMFiQtWPf20jqOClt8AKsTh4pqMS0G42Ok2lSJY6jguSOIQa1yn5ULrUrWI8rmzuDw/s200/2003-11-21-2003-Earthshine%255B1%255D.jpg" width="176" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Peering through a window drenched in condensation we sit under a fat moon. Dressed in circles of blue-green, red and yellow, like slick on oil, a fading rainbow, she presides over the deepening sky. Full moon, full moon! the wereboys howl, enchanted by her spell.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-57513283275501437382011-01-19T16:00:00.000+00:002011-01-19T16:00:16.612+00:00stone #15<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3NLQB1r1w_WvLwSf_S0Cx4CqqFi0cvdmsex6QmSZpsQsEgIKXRGNbiTYkmh5peUABpDvpb90fp3WbcQ4ZtjBf2yLExvYCqfCdwkPqOg3gnLa9kpZn474oq_pn0C6FBjhD0cF4RiMrfg/s1600/Picture+018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3NLQB1r1w_WvLwSf_S0Cx4CqqFi0cvdmsex6QmSZpsQsEgIKXRGNbiTYkmh5peUABpDvpb90fp3WbcQ4ZtjBf2yLExvYCqfCdwkPqOg3gnLa9kpZn474oq_pn0C6FBjhD0cF4RiMrfg/s200/Picture+018.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">against a welcome sun sky</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">the roofs look redder than</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I have ever seen them before</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">like lego</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-85458011473432612732011-01-17T19:56:00.001+00:002011-01-17T20:43:39.523+00:00tax confetti: stone #14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFOsAbJWg0-3BJJ1Hw0JX61S68f_bJWYyGM7bO3KGR-Q7Kwew0a2HRr_uh_ZBM6bfNKbAukMOs7pGaPxz9s_ITfT8uYmjB728BGBXv3RtKUuAcM0wRJcw_c6LdGntF-IfXgQry3yCqwEs/s1600/fnl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFOsAbJWg0-3BJJ1Hw0JX61S68f_bJWYyGM7bO3KGR-Q7Kwew0a2HRr_uh_ZBM6bfNKbAukMOs7pGaPxz9s_ITfT8uYmjB728BGBXv3RtKUuAcM0wRJcw_c6LdGntF-IfXgQry3yCqwEs/s200/fnl.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The big man and I are grappling with end of year accounts. Like newly weds on church steps we are surrounded by scraps of paper. Neither of us is particularly numeric, nor are we keen on this dreary, if important, task. There is something very wrong; the figures are ridiculous. We catch each others' eye and grimace. He is a little boy again, confused but amused. We've been caught out being silly, slow. I write 'must try harder' on a piece of tax confetti and we fold together, laughing.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-7304070669062227702011-01-17T09:33:00.000+00:002011-01-17T09:33:58.252+00:00heavy: stone #13<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bound by fear, face down on the bed, the duvet oppressive despite its weightlessness. I am crushed; aware of my knees, elbows and chin pressing down. Indentations on the mattress. I will push the fear away; I am strong, heavy, existent. See the marks I make.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-74266514646346865422011-01-16T18:44:00.000+00:002011-01-16T18:44:45.855+00:00stone #12<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A horse wrapped in a duvet, belt buckled tight at the neck, watches the small dog jumping and yapping. A city dog that has never met a horse before. A sea-green coated creature with hot breath held up by stick legs in shoes.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-24614119079318730452011-01-16T12:52:00.002+00:002011-01-17T12:02:40.835+00:00dreaming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizL3Du369sS1ZKyRu4Ya2AX7nXds5bNTGWHh8JGePxKq-9vUjaPJXaGzlFEJyDHyM4uX4TcxyQBHTMuQUFtmnVcC8FgZBDx9fQZYtIfb8PNixtqOVkBreTu6iioI8zELSRuXC9uSamOQs/s1600/novel%2525231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizL3Du369sS1ZKyRu4Ya2AX7nXds5bNTGWHh8JGePxKq-9vUjaPJXaGzlFEJyDHyM4uX4TcxyQBHTMuQUFtmnVcC8FgZBDx9fQZYtIfb8PNixtqOVkBreTu6iioI8zELSRuXC9uSamOQs/s200/novel%2525231.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">There's a chance I might have to rename BloodMining, so I've been playing on Wordle again.</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-34794390660714290702011-01-15T17:52:00.000+00:002011-01-15T17:52:49.641+00:00oh dearie me<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Target: a month without alcohol</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Time: January</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Progress: poor</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">On Thursday evening I fell off the wagon. More like pole vaulted off it. A colleague had a do. I'd like to be able to say that everyone was drinking, but I can't. There were a number of drivers in the party; I wasn't one of them. I ordered a small (how restrained of me) glass of Shiraz. It looked small enough in the pint pot cunningly disguised as a wine glass, though I'm hazarding a guess that it was at least 175ml, maybe even 250ml. Nevertheless, it appeared so small in situ that I'd guzzled it before the starter arrived. Then I ordered another. I fear I'd have had a third except that being a school night the evening drew to an early close. Having capitulated, last night I went hell for leather and drank half a bottle of Merlot; I feel a bit ropey today. And very ashamed. I'm so much more productive and creative when I'm not drinking, you see, and while I'm busy on draft three of novel #2 - now renamed Parade - I am dying to begin on novel #3 too. Some say write about what you know... Should I bring my experience of my relationship with alcohol into the next book? Personally, I prefer to write about what I don't know. So perhaps my protagonist will be a teetotaller, whose idea of a good time is a mug of darjeeling and a copy of Jane's Book of Fighting Ships... </span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-21082481198596260532011-01-11T17:04:00.000+00:002011-01-11T17:04:13.689+00:00Nervy: stone #11<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Synapses: beautiful, like an open palm, like an exploding firework, a shooting star, coral in the reef, an alien insect. Messengers in the machine that is the body. </span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-18984229490477326042011-01-10T15:59:00.001+00:002011-01-10T16:00:42.272+00:00Dress dilemma and a lovely lunch<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Had a good meeting with members of the Bridge House team in Bangor today. They were professional, friendly and enthusiastic, and they treated me to lunch, which was definitely an unexpected treat. Recently, I’ve read <a href="http://www.janewenham-jones.com/">Jane Wenham-Jones’s</a> excellent and humorous <a href="http://www.accentpress.co.uk/category-7/9781906373979.html">wanna be a writer we’ve heard of</a>, and she recommends that new writers take their publisher to lunch to ensure loving attention to their book. This works at large houses where your publicist may have ten or twelve books to look after at any one time… but I’m BHP’s first novel, and it seems that they’re going to work very hard on it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Anyway, I was more nervous than I expected to be and had a minor what-the-hell-will-I-wear paddy. Writers are meant to be exotic, eccentric creatures, aren’t they? And the truth is I’m neither. At a writerly event last year the room was swarming with birds of paradise floating around in plum and turquoise velvets, flowing capes and oversized, feathered hats, silver-tipped canes (honest), and statement accessories. I looked like an estate agent who’d stumbled into the wrong party. In the end I went with tried and tested just be yourself and donned my usual get-up of jeans and smart(ish) top, finishing off with my fake fur yeti coat. No one laughed when I walked in, and I was comfortable. So all’s well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Timelines for editorial, design and marketing were agreed, and I was delighted to discover that I’ll have some say in the look and feel of the cover. Hurrah! Another benefit of a small house. I have friends published by biggies who loathed and despised their covers, back cover blurbs, straplines etc. And I might too, but I’ll only have myself to blame…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741431047712578691.post-64946825506447218572011-01-10T15:48:00.000+00:002011-01-10T15:48:45.740+00:00Misunderstood: stone #10<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKiBKj2LEFioBhNqVTG1eIuCWNqF-In48LOhpM89l0_cQST8lfHO4lvar_zreulemqkD8ldJRjY5Q_ucTLSCrYQhP0xkkFOfR39VJO11OCFs-qo0Usv7zKskVcNxDBlbpySLg8bzwcDrc/s1600/Sulkin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKiBKj2LEFioBhNqVTG1eIuCWNqF-In48LOhpM89l0_cQST8lfHO4lvar_zreulemqkD8ldJRjY5Q_ucTLSCrYQhP0xkkFOfR39VJO11OCFs-qo0Usv7zKskVcNxDBlbpySLg8bzwcDrc/s200/Sulkin.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My boy bursts through the door, breathless, cheeks stung pink from running in the crisp air, dark eyes wild. In the mornings he walks to school, slowly, but he always runs home. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I ask how his day was, as I always do, and he says, ‘Fine, fine,’ as he always does; the conversation closed. And I wonder, not for the first time, not for the hundredth time, how hard it must be to spend six hours in a place where you are misunderstood, underrated <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and miserable. Later, we will talk. Now, we cuddle. </span></span></div>Laura Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05123567406016946332noreply@blogger.com2