Baking bread and other arts

Well, well, it feels like yonks since I was here, at my little blog, rambling about writing, living, creating and other nonsense.

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.

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.

March I spent redrafting BloodMining 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 Ether books, and I even had a go at a piece of flash. To my surprise and delight ABCtales editor Tony selected it as a story of the day. God love ‘im.

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.

diversion at the dentist: stone #28

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.

stone #27

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.

stone #26

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. 

insomnia in suburbia: stone #24

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.

stone #23

behind the grey shroud lies another world
a splintered sky, a sliver of topaz
pushing its way through

boy sounds:stone #19

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.

more like a boulder: stone #17

Today’s stone is so large that it’s more accurate to call it a boulder. Apologies for breaking the rules…

I don’t write crime and have never had any desire to do so. Until now. Maybe.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

stone #15

against a welcome sun sky
the roofs look redder than
I have ever seen them before
like lego

tax confetti: stone #14

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.

Nervy: stone #11

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.

Two for one

Oops, though I wrote my small stone yesterday, I forgot to upload it (yes, it was a good new year's eve). So here are two:

sinking into mashed potato
comforting tired bones

iridescent sky
sunlight bouncing off car bonnets
ignites such joy

And for every stone I'll be putting up pictures of some of my favourites things... which may, or may not, have anything at all to do with the stone

Old-fashioned diaries

Although I’m a fan of technology and use outlook more than any other calendar, I absolutely have to have a paper diary to carry round with me. Also, it doubles as a mini-journal, and reminds me to take notes whenever an idea or thought strikes (not as often as I’d like). No matter how great an idea I find if it’s not committed to paper there’s a strong possibility that it will slip from my mind, and I’ll be wracking my brains later trying to retrieve it. My Mslexia diary arrived on Friday – well done Mr Postman, as it’s very icy here on the hill – and although I find the head girl tone of the magazine irritating on occasion I one hundred per cent love the diary. The first I bought in 2005 when, after years of writing non-fiction, I committed to writing fiction. Buying the diary was a symbolic gesture to take my work seriously (if not myself). I have six of them now, and they remind me how far I’ve come and how far I’ve yet to go. GingerOne and Two are off now so chances are I won’t blog again before Christmas. So Merry Christmas everyone and here’s to 2011.

Sunday morning distraction

Sunday morning’s a great time for pootling. GingerOne and Two are playing on the Xbox and PS2 respectively and I’m catching up with fellow bloggers. I’ve just read writer Sarah Tanburn’s latest and I’ve generated a word cloud via Wordle for my WIP. Here it is (below). Fun, huh?
On a different note another of my short stories has found a home in Scribble. I received a letter from editor David Howarth yesterday. Scribble was a Best Short Fiction Magazine Winner a couple of years ago, ‘For consistent quality of content and production.’ Oo, erh, missus.