Just because

‘And if any man knows of any just cause or impediment let him speak now or else hereafter forever hold his peace.’
    Then ensued perhaps the most self-conscious of all silences, beating that at a football stadium for a just-deceased, long-forgotten footballer, or at a Remembrance Service where more than eighty per cent  of those present had not personally known anyone killed, had, for the most part, not seen even as much as a sepia-tinted photograph depicting achingly young features under a precariously-perched cap.
    But this time the silence was short-lived and quickly broken.  Broken firstly by movement at the back of the church, which only a few had the nerve to turn their heads to investigate.  Broken secondly by a languid voice, not loud (it did not need to be) but clear, which spoke into the silence. 
   ‘I do.'
   A voice which, judging by the gasp of the stoutly silk-wrapped woman sitting in the front pew to the left of the bride (the vivid cerise a serious mistake which she already regretted) was known to her, and unwelcome.
   A less perfect silence as the man stood, stepped out of the pew, bent to lay down his hymn book and then proceeded to walk up the aisle, as leisurely as if he was strolling along some greensward on his way to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. 
   By now the bride and groom had turned to look, confusion on their faces, hands clasped, which he noted with regret.   So they were genuinely fond of each other.   Those guests stood at the end of each pew were debating the etiquette of photography under the circumstances.   Those second in, part hidden, had no such qualms and an almost confetti shower of flashes followed the man down the aisle.   By the time he was within ten yards of the altar those at the front had set aside manners, etiquette  and any sense of decency and were making sure to capture on their mobile phones his near-expressionless but well-structured face.
   The vicar, regrettably, was trying to contain his excitement.   He had conducted some seven hundred weddings, all bland, all blank.   This one he would remember.   Enquiringly he looked at the man now stood at the left shoulder of the bride who had, with the groom, turned back to face the front again.
   ‘An impediment …?   You know of a just cause …?’
   The man nodded gravely and this time there was no doubt he was deliberately mocking ‘I do.’
   ‘Then perhaps … ‘ The vicar looked round.   Lack of need had cause him to forget the required procedure.   Was it usual to state it at the altar or should he take them into the vestry … but before he could decide the man straightened slightly and slightly more loudly said ‘The groom is my son.   The bride my daughter.’
   As gasps winnowed through the church, like a breeze across a cornfield he then turned his head and looked at the cerise-clad woman.   ‘As for you, you brainless, selfish cow … did you not think to tell them?'

This is my response to a challenge on Thinking Ten:

'The Making of Her' by Susie Nott-Bower

This I urge you to buy - truly un-putdownable, a wonderfully original and absorbing story, beautifully-written, humane and brought me to tears several times.  Available direct from independent publishers Linen Press Books.
http://www.linenpressbooks.com/shop/the-making-of-her/

Set in the pressure-cooker world of television, The Making of Her is a blackly funny retort to a society which values youth over age and appearance over experience.
The Making of Her is the makeover programme that Clara never wanted to produce, featuring the one person she never would have chosen.  Add to the mix an errant husband, a barefoot counsellor and a reclusive rock star and change is inevitable.  Will transformation come from the inside out, or from the outside in?
And will The Making of Her prove to be the making of them all?

The blacksmith’s wife

Now up to episode seventeen on the Friday prediction / Blacksmith's wife page above.

This week's words were ink, averse and trunk - check out Phil Ambler's site to see what a dozen or so other Predictioneers make of them between now and 9 p.m. next Thursday.

Not wanted on voyage - in process of proofing.

Received my to-be-proofed copies last week, in good time to take one to a neighbour and the other to my daughter in Germany for their opinions on the story itself - does it work? make sense? entertain?   What words did I get wrong because the correct one could not, at the time, be retrieved from within my head? (I have already replaced 'status' with 'credibility' and changed 'ears' to 'instinct' and 'rejuvenation' to 'restoration').   Also  swapped sisters for brothers for continuity's sake in the next novel!
I've now been through it twice and made dozens of corrections (mostly minor, but the quantity is embarrassing) and re-written a couple of bits.   Yesterday I uploaded the 'one-piece cover' for the corrected edition.   Fingers now crossed to get it done for early July.   AND to work out how to make it available as an e-book.

Coincidences, again

Less than twelve hours after a desultory conversation about surprise birthday parties and who, if we were to have one, would we hope might be invited - and me mentioning a cousin I'm particularly fond of - this cousin's son emailed me, for the first time ever!! - to tell me he was arranging, guess what?, a surprise birthday party.

Needless to say I shall do my very best to get there even though it is at the other end of the country.

'Best laid plans'

An excerpt from what will be the follow-up to 'Not wanted on voyage' is currently up at Michael Brown's MuDJoB this week

The blacksmith's wife

Part 14 has just been posted on the Friday Predictions page

Damage limitation - available soon

Written in between about March and August last year as a followup to my NaNoWriMo2010 novel (and the fourth in the series) I published this last September privately on Blurb and have spent the intervening months re-reading and correcting the all too many errors.

As soon as I receive my first-ordered book from Lulu and satisfy myself as to quality, I shall make this public - now a 6" x 9" version because that is cheaper than 5" x 8" used for earlier books in the series.   And hopefully available as an e-book too.

This cover was designed using their one-piece designer - daunting to start but more satisfying and flexible for type placement than the 'advanced' version - I very likely will re-do the cover for Not wanted on voyage before re-issuing.

The blacksmith’s wife [part 13]

Slipping from his grasp I swam away then surfaced, shaking water from eyes which pleaded a repeat performance;   speedily, satisfyingly supplied.   As reward I promised to renounce all stripling lads, but no sooner spoke than from the trees emerged, moonlit, a veritable full-grown lusty man who’d been spying on us from the bank.  

More than just my conscience pricked, but he surprised me, shouting  ‘Gabriel, if that’s your wife, I vow you did not over-paint this lily – remember, Brother, share and share alike!’

Gabriel’s fury roared:   ‘By Christ, I swear you’ll try cockles if you lay a hand on her!’

Friday's Prediction is now hosted by Phil Ambler over at Phlambler's world    Phil's first three words were shake (all variations), lily and cockle and I was delighted to discover, from Brewer's Phrase and Fable, that 'to try cockles' meant to be hanged.

Hooray for Lulu!!!

I've finally managed to upload and order proof copies of 'Not wanted on voyage' and found, as suggested, Lulu certainly is cheaper.
Once I've checked this out I may well relocate most of my books there.

The Other in-laws

With each frayed and fretted hour Liz found her husband’s words less and less convincing: “They’re only human, love, you’re every bit as good as them, and don’t you forget it.”   It was alright for him, he got on well with everybody, and expected them to get on with him (which was probably the secret) but Liz expected always to be in the wrong when meeting new people (though once she got to know them it was fine, she could relax and be herself, she listened more than she talked, but once they knew her it wasn’t a problem.)

And Dora was a lovely girl, lovely, and Harold so lucky to have found her ... not that she wasn’t lucky too, but he’d had plenty of competition to start with, and with working away ... he’d certainly proved himself cycling that dreadful hilly journey twice a week, just for a few hours ... and the letters he’d written, and postcards they’d sent ...

It was just that Dora’s father was so ... educated? ... well, no, not really, he’d gone to work for his Dad at thirteen same as Luther, but he’d had articles in the paper and certainly read a lot, according to Dora ... and as for her mother ... well, that was the main problem, Sarah Sutcliffe had a reputation as a bit of a dragon, not a woman to cross (but she’d also heard it was a case of having to be because Tom was inclined to be a bit of a dreamer, a bit daft with money at times).

By now she’d just about got the hang of who was who with all Dora’s aunts and uncles (dozens of them) ... but that knowledge might desert her when she met them all at once ... it was a toss up as to whether it was better to meet them all at once or two at a time ... at least outside, going for a good long walk, it’d be easier to deal with them than sat in a stuffy front room, face to face over tea things, everyone looking at her, and unable to get away.

As Luther stirred beside her she smiled to herself, thinking of his attempts at reassurance ... so long as he was beside her she could face anyone in the world.

Comment:  The attached photo has always seemed to tell a story, Luther Pickles is extreme right with Liz seated beside him, holding a cup of tea.   I think it is Dora in the light coloured outfit, putting something into her mouth but cannot be 100% sure.   Sarah, Tom and Liz and Luther’s son Harold are not in this photo, which I estimate was taken Spring 1910, a month or so before Harold and Dora got engaged.

[submitted to 6S February 2010]

Bloody incompetent Blurb!!!

They tell me after I have wasted weeks going backwards and forwards that Bookify 'does not do black and white text' and since I cannot see the final half a dozen pages onscreen then I should just delete them!
No matter that the denoument is on the final, missing page!!!

National Flash Fiction day

I've just learnt via The Domesticated Bohemian that today is National Flash Fiction day  so although I haven't signed up for it I thought I'd do my bit by posting my Thinking Ten piece for today, the prompt for which was the opening sentence of this:   

As yet unexploded

The letter lay unopened on the table.   And it smelt.   It smelt of her, the distinctive, pervasive and ridiculously expensive smell of her.

Of course I hadn’t opened it.   Had had to fetch the meat tongs to pick it up from the doormat and lay it on top of the double-paged pizza flyer that had accompanied it, to avoid contaminating the table, so averse to touching it had I been.   And then I'd needed to sterilise the tongs, dunking them in the dregs of the boiling water left over from my breakfast coffee, only just resisting adding bleach and disinfectant because I didn’t know which would be most apt and anyway thought I’d been told, once upon a time, that the two together gave off poisonous fumes or something.   Just like the bitch to try to kill me off, no matter how third-hand, how tenuous the possibility!

Stupid of me, and over-reacting since the postman would have handled it last, and before him goodness knows how many others since it left her grasping fingers, nails no doubt as expensively polished as the rest of her.

And there was no need to open it.   I knew what it said because, in typical belt and braces fashion (and a small twitch of a smile here as I momentarily imagined her in plain black elastic braces before, unavoidably, the elastic turned to silk and became diamond-encrusted) the bloody woman had also phoned.   Left a message, giving date and time and, as per usual, a reminder about her dietary requirements.

No, no need to open it, but this time I’d be the one to take action, the one to leave.  He could take time off work and look after his bloody mother all on his own.

Isn't the brain a wonderful thing!

No I'm not boasting but intrigued and impressed, having picked up today's words from Lily Child's Feardom's final hosting of the Friday Prediction, which are impersonate, elegant and shovel

Last week's eleventh episode of 'The blacksmith's wife' ended "We entered the river, clinging." and my first thought was 'oh damn I'll have to get him back to his forge if I'm going to be able to use shovel and how the hell do I fit the other two in?'

But I typed the words, put brain in gear, got one sentence written, two words used - and I still have another seventy-five words to play with!

Practice has a LOT to do with it - and I shall continue to practice over at Phil Ambler's site from next week.

[The picture is a part-finished illustration for for episode three which can be read on the Friday Predctions page at the top of this blog]

Poor photo - Venice 1998 - but good colour to cheer me up in all this rain!

Observations on plotting

Things I have re-remembered from previous novels:

1. A timeline is essential, to avoid contradictions and 4 month pregnancies and to make sure ages remain compatible with the passing of the years
2.  A mind map, for working out the whys and consequences and reasons for is, I well remember, a very good and productive thing to do BUT I have to make the effort to either clear a space on my worktop, since it lacks room to do comfortably or take paper and pencil downstairs - why oh why is this so difficult to actually do??
3. Letting characters lead the way CAN be done.   A couple of days ago one said, of another "she had no idea how Stuart had met his end, yet was aware she ought to"   I too had no idea, but by allowing what I DID know of the characters concerned I have come up with an explanation.

Progress report - week 18

Readying my report for Write 1 Sub 1 - and aware that in not actively seeking nor being paid for anything I write I consider myself something of a dilettante - it seemed not a bad idea to note where I am so far with current projects:
'Damage limitation' (113k words/396 pages)  - the fourth in the story of Bridie Burdock and Sean Donovan, is ready to re-publish, having been copiously read, re-read and corrected since last July.
'Not wanted on voyage' (128K words/378 pages) - I am trying to publish as to-be-proofed.
'Making Good' - a follow up to 'Damage limitation', currently 38K but I need the characters to begin talking to me again.
'The longest shadows' - currently the preferred title for what is at the moment filed under 'Susannah Elphinstone', a story spurred into being at the beginning of February by one of Lisa Ricard Claro's Book Blurb Friday photographs, further inspired by the discovery of a photograph of a house from my own past and happily progressing - wordcount currently 31K.
It's also pleasing to note that I am trying harder with this latest one to both think a bit more about the plot in advance and include a little more description.
Finally, as I stated in my previous post,  'The blacksmith's wife'  looks set to continue beyond May 11th and currently stands at 1300 words.

Friday prediction - update

This the illustration for part 2 of The blacksmith's wife, once again a digital combination of print and plate and drawing (ten layers of them!)

Part 11 - 100 words incorporating psycho, belt and purgatory -  which can be read on the above Friday Predictions page - was added yesterday to what is Lily's penultimate week.   Thereafter Phil Ambler will be hosting the show and the saga will, hopefully, continue.   (It almost ended here but I could not bear to have it finished yet ...)

Still hiccups, but I've changed my mind ... again

A relatively short amount of time hunting for possible images and I came up with this - an amalgamation of two long-ago photos, both taken in Orkney, which is relevant.

More black surrounds and enhances it ... but the price is still being mis-quoted ... grrr!!

Best laid plans ...

I have today successfully uploaded my NaNoWriMo2011 novel, after help from Blurb to overcome a hiccup and then solving further problems because I don't know how to create transparent jpgs so at the last minute changed to what had been plan A for the cover.

BUT on hitting 'order now' I found the price of the book was being stated at £32.95 and not the £9.95 quoted on the beginning page.   Another hiccup no doubt but minorly frustrating - vanity certainly doesn't stretch THAT far!

Big grin

I'm both delighted and relieved by today's news from Lily Childs' Feardom  - delighted to have been awarded winner for last week's Prediction Challenge and relieved that, following Lily's decision to spend more time taking up the challenge of her own writing, Phil Ambler will be continuing what she had built - I trust it will continue to be as absorbing, entetaining and supportive a community in his world.

Continuing episodes of The blacksmith's wife can be read on the Friday Predictions page at the top of this blog.

The blacksmith’s wife [part 6]

‘Jenever,’ he said, ‘from sloes, not Amsterdam.   You’re not enough a mother to be ruined.’
He tipped the glass, watched me drink, sloe-eyed himself, inscrutable, all personal emotion hidden, yet knowledge of the hurt I’d dealt caused blood to hammer in my head, tears to flow for what I’d lost.

Not the child, that never had existed, but his belief in me.

Another touch upon my back, forewarning.  ‘Charcoal, to mark the placing of the letters.’  
But gin-loosed tongue took me past sanity;  contemptuously ‘Can you spell?’  
His face hardened.  ‘Trollop, wanton, Jezebel, jade – there’s space to write them all.’

Parts 8 and 9  on this weeks Friday Predictions

Some nine moons wasted [Book Blurb Friday #60]

Married too young, to a man too importunate, Eliza McCleary was certain she’d made a mistake.

Four months into the marriage she ran away, leaving no note, partly to ensure she was not followed, partly to allow him to change his mind.

But freedom was not all it was cracked up to be – freedom from routine meant directionless, freedom from sharing meant she owned nothing worth having and freedom from his caring and  unquestioning love meant … a sort of living hell.   And eventually she realised that more than missing the material comforts he’d provided she loved him too.

But the journey back was a bitter one – she had her pride to overcome, her fear of his rejection, and would have to tell him of all the other mistakes she’d made along the way.   Would he still want her now, when he knew, when he saw the baggage she’d acquired?

Week #60’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and a beautiful photograph provided by Christina Claro
Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”

N.B. - 'some nine moons wasted' is from Shakespeare's 'Othello' - when faced with  a blank photo and mind I refer to my Dictionary of Quotations for inspiration.

Playing with covers again

Having almost completed the first draft of last November's NaNoWriMo novel, and had extremely useful advice from the Blurb Help Team, I'm shortly going to upload this as a proof copy.   It'll be a 6" x 9" Trade book, running to some 360 pages, and at £11+P&P (~£7) it's not a cheap way of producing books but such is vanity.
The final background colour of the cover might change - this worked as a mock up and I quite like it but other colours might, with experiment, look better (and the ships will be the same size ...)

Friday the thirteenth [Book blurb Friday #59]

Originally commissioned by Melanie Middleton, enterprising manageress of Blackwood Orphanage, as a fund-raising venture, these tales were written and illustrated by the children who live there, for the entertainment of their peers.
A strong believer in allowing children editorial freedom, Melanie Middleton insisted that the only adult input be to ensure that the sense of each story was clear; spelling and grammar has been retained as the original, and in some cases the stories have been printed using the original handwriting.
As a social record of the lives of children deprived of their natural parents it cannot be bettered, but it is as a record of what children really think it gives an honest – and truly terrifying – glimpse into the future – no-one who anticipates staying alive for the next twenty years should fail to read it.

Week #59’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and an intriguing  photograph provided by Sioux Roslawski.
Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”  http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

Images for Blacksmith's wife

Having a yen to perhaps produce an illlustrated version of my Blacksmith's wife serial - currently to be found on the Friday Predictions page and running to six parts - I have been playing with imagery.

This idea is a mixture of original collagraph and carborundum prints, digitally combined with drawing.
I had originally visualised something strongly black and white but it would be a pity to lose the idea of the flames of the forge.

The eleven labours of Clancy Thorpe [Book Blurb Friday #58]

Clancy Thorpe should have been born a boy.

But her mother died in childbirth and her father could find no-one to match the one love of his life so failed to produce a son and heir.

On the eve of Clancy’s fifteenth birthday her father persuaded the Regional Vampire Council to accept primogeniture, which they did reluctantly, but on condition that she fulfil eleven tasks during the next twelve months to establish her Vampire credentials.

Within ten days a rival appeared – likely spurious but possessing all the necessary qualities of leadership, except that he is five days younger.   With the backing of the majority of the council he sets out to sabotage Clancy’s succession.

Clancy has support  – and weapons of her own  – but will they be good enough to vanquish Vlad Stoker?

Week #58’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and a photograph provided by Kathy Mattews (with apologies for snipping off the end of her name – more haste less speed!) 
Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”  http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

Live traffic feeds

Are totally unreliable - I have been cited as 'a reader from', Newcastle, Glasgow and Monmouth, all on same site - where do they get their data from?

Twitching towards the studio?

When I was last seriously printmaking I didn't have a blog, but now occasionally visit those of other printmakers.   Possibly the desire to begin again is stirring because on seeing the barbed wire on my way down to the river yesterday, I immediately thought of drypoint and the burrs that are scratched up and possess that beguiling ragged edge when inked and printed.   The randomness of line also appeals.

Unshed shed memories

A comment in answer to mine, on The domesticated bohemian’s site http://domesticatedbohemian.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/train-journeys.html regarding something along the lines of “Shed that I have known” resulted in this melange of memories.

My grandfather’s at the far end of the garden, black painted, backing onto the lane, and tall from a four-year-old perspective.  Remembering, I hear an echo of fond and undiluted Yorkshire, see dusty string-tied wooden-handled tools as he extricates bleached-canvas, finger-trapping, wooden framed and notched deckchairs.

Later, at eight or thereabouts, my father using one of a nail-hung bunting line of saws, to create piles of warmly golden sawdust which I yearned to somehow find a way to keep forever, to bottle or preserve the friendly smell, perhaps in one of the several ‘Four Square’ tobacco tins piled on the scarred ad paint-stained bench.

A boyfriend’s, built of railway sleepers, which contained a family heirloom glass-domed clock and where I heard tales of a pig escaping and rampaging from the field behind.   Boyfriend became husband, and for a while our first house-shed housed his pride and joy:  a brand new, bright blue, Royal Star motorbike.   Then children, and for a while boring domestic, garden tools and lawnmowers, plastic chairs and children’s bikes.

‘Til they left home and he retired, since when bikes have multiplied from nought to ten and sheds increased in size and number to accommodate the more-than-overflow from the garage.   No more sawdust and all the tools leave grease-stains on one’s fingers, hence the over-flowing bag of ex-T shirts, now rags.