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to http://laura-wilkinson.co.uk/

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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. 

stone #25

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. 

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

stone #22

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.

silver screen: stone #21

rustling and anticipation fills the air
adverts over, ice cream vanished, the curtains close and open
we submit to another world

stone #20

A tang of chemical air, ripples of slippery flesh, splashes of laughter and zest in the atmosphere. A summer world inside a concrete box.

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.

stone #18

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.

thank you ABCtales (again)

Another short of mine has been chosen as the ABCtales 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: http://www.abctales.com/story/lwilkinson/buried
If not, you could join this dynamic community, or read it here on the stories page (there'll be more to follow...)