2019 in Focus: August

2019 in Focus: August has gone to print. 

Every day in August I went for a walk with my camera and took photos. I chose some to represent each day and wrote accompanying verse. Every photo and all but one verse was created on the stated day (that one was done the morning after). The photos are not all in focus, but when I chose a fuzzy one it was for a good reason.

I knew I’d be away for part of August, so the theme is Home Away Back.

I made some of the photos into sets or collages. A few of them have been digitally altered to remove something ugly and intrusive or to create a flipped pattern. This was done in Paint. Colour, brightness and contrast are left natural and I didn’t use any effects. The coloured frames and text were mostly done using sampled colour from the photos.

 I managed to contain the size to 149 pages this time; let's hope I can keep September to a reasonable size too!

Jigsaw Cards Remade

Jigsaw Cards Remade
Well, they never did turn up, so I remade them using three sets this time...
Here are a few samples.
Pick one from each set to get an idea.

OBJECTS
 hat horse ink bottle statue ice ice-cream Jack jumpers joey kite

 kitten kettle bird computer dingo dog cake brumby lake tree ring

DESCRIPTORS

A strange A flying A painted An inky An ice Black Purple sparkling

An ugly An angry A shining A scary A dripping A weird A tiny

ACTION

I want I need I don’t want Scared of Running from Looking for I found

The teacher asked for Hunting for Finding Losing Chasing Packing

Selling Buying Inventing Discovering I laugh at Racing Getting rid of

Ideas:
I want a strange hat...
Looking for a flying statue
Discovering an inky cake...

Jigsaw Cards AWOL

Jigsaw writing... I'm holding some workshops in Townsville next week and (naturally) I can't find my jigsaw writing cards. I'll have a look in a few more places, and then probably give in and make some more. This time, I might try three different cards rather than two,  and make one set all objects, one set all subjects and one set all modifiers. Wish me luck!

Blossom Perspective

This photo was taken in the dusk looking up through blossom. Interesting effect... It's the kind of thing that inspires thoughts and makes you look at things differently

Line 11 Page 111 2019 in Focus: June

Just to keep an eye to see

How long the nest would stay be-egged

I thought (you know) that roaming dogs

And kicking kids would have them pegged

Line 11 Page 111 The Pixie Grip

Line 11 on Page 111 doesn't stand alone, so here's the paragraph.

"Peter, can I tell you something I’m scared of?”

“Bogles?”

She giggled. “Not while I have gingerbread in my pocket. Currie says if I ever see a bogle it’s probably someone with a bogle manifest, and gingerbread is bound to help.”

“It works on goats,” Peter G remarked

Pearl 8

I'll be beginning work on Pearl 8 soon. I have an idea to use a different setting.
So far, we have books set mainly in the meadow, on the cliffs and an island, partly on a snowy mountain, in the forest, at Ogrefest, Big Rock and near the pond. The Kingdom, where all the stories take place, has lots of different landscapes and next time I rather like the idea of a desert.

Gravity Defying Rock

I saw the weirdest thing in one of my photos a few days ago. I didn't see it in situ, just later, when I went through my pictures. It was so odd, I went back today for a look and there it was... the gravity-defying rock.
I wonder what the story is behind that one?

Slam Poem

For the poetry slam today I need a poem to perform in under two minutes. I had FOUR to pick from... These are below. DECISIONS DECISIONS


SLAM

Slam!

Bam!

Kipper ham!

Don’t ask me whence

 that reference came

I remember it

I know

Vaguely up from long ago

But I confess

I do digress

Don’t you find

it funny how-

things-linger-in-the mind?

Slam!

Dunk

What the…

Um…

Bunk!

I don’t play basketball

At all

Although I’m tall…

I’m prone to fall

No co-ordination see

Balls are mysteries to me

I hardly give a toss…

(Well, that’s the nation’s loss…)

Slam!

Shots!

Not?

You sure?

I thought I heard it somewhere

Between the lemon and the salted hand

Bad for the liver anyway

I’ll take chocolate any day!

Slam!

Slam!

Stamp the floor

Slam!

Bang

The door

No more please

Temper tantrums court disease

Slam!

Sorry

Yes I am

It was the wind in the door

For sure

Slam!

What?

It’s poetry?

I do believe…

You’re bamming me?

(D’you like my word? It’s out of Georgette Heyer)

Muse on fire!

Slam!

Worse?

You wanted verse?

That’s just perverse!

SLAM!

Slam

slam

FOLLOWING THE DRUM

Oh, once I slept in a feather bed

With woollen blankets warm

Now I’m glad to lay my head

On a cloak that’s old and torn

Oh, sing with me a merry catch

As summer days will come

My love he is a soldier boy

And so I’m following the drum

With a patter patter tat

And a rattle and a scrap

And the beat of the marching song

I’m ragged and worn

And my hose are torn-

Yet I am following along

Oh once I ate from a silver plate

With sauces rich and rare

Now I’m glad if I’m not too late

To find some bread to share

Oh sup with me on a scraggy fowl

And dream of sugar plums

My love he is a soldier boy

And so I’m following the drum

With a patter patter tat

And a rattle and a scrap

And the beat of the marching song

I’m ragged and worn

And my hose are torn-

Yet I am following along

Oh once I wore a silken shawl

And a bonnet of ribbon trim

Now I’m glad if I’m clad at all

‘Twixt my ankles and my chin

Oh sew with me in a sturdy stitch

And do not prick your thumb

My love he is a soldier boy

And so I’m following the drum

With a patter patter tat

And a rattle and a scrap

And the beat of the marching song

I’m lame and tired before my time

But still I follow him along

Oh, I'm lame and tired but I still smile-

And still I follow him along

MEMORIAL HALL 

I’ve always liked the memorial hall

Rosy bricks in that soft blending

Penned between pale mortared lines

In that peculiar zone of pink and brown

I walked around the memorial hall

Observing every side, till, bending

I spotted dark and white; the signs

Of the pride of a younger, bygone town

I often admire the colour scheme

And my mind walks back to a funny scene

When I and a friend stood upon the stage

As angels in a Christmas play

Looking back, it’s like a dream

For who remembers it but me?

We wore, I remember, long white gowns

Nighties? Maybe. They came down

Right to our slippers (silent soled)

Stand there quietly we’d been told

Teachers smiled in the bygone town

At good little girls in flowing gowns

Stiffened wings of wire and gauze

Affixed to our shoulders… well, because

Good little angels must have wings!

Just as they must herald things…

Wired-on wings but wait, there’s more!

Oh! I remember kind applause!

The piece de resistance I recall

As we stood on stage in the rosy hall

Were tinsel halos made of wire

Above our heads; awe inspired!

There we were, standing straight and tall

Be-winged, be-haloed in the hall

But then- disaster almost struck

Two little halos tangled up!

There we stood tilting head to head

Would real angels feel our dread?

Gowned and winged with halos stuck

We  stood quite still and trusted luck

The curtain fell on our Christmas play

A teacher came while it still swayed

Briskly she untangled us

And praised us! Girls! You made no fuss!

And we felt special in a gratified way

‘cos we’d been angels for a day

So oh, I love the memorial hall

So many memories enthral

And when you read the sign you’ll see

The memorial hall’s older than me…

 Sweet Charity

Miss Charity Curtin

The locals are certain’s

a vicarage mouse to a T

She’s shy and obscure

and extremely demure

as she offers you scones with your tea

She lowers her gaze

and looks gentle and grave

in her grey Sunday hat and pelisse

When you come to the house;

she’s as meek as a mouse

and a typical vicarage miss.

But

Sweet Charity isn’t at all as she seems

when we meet after Matins is done

She casts off her grey

in her sauciest way

soon after the hymns have been sung

With hair pinned in curls

She’s the merriest girl

And her smile turns my stomach to water

With her arms brown and bare

She has laughter to spare

Not your typical vicarage daughter

Her father the vicar

Has no fear of snickers

He trusts what his daughter’s about

Such a God-fearing girl

tho’ her hair is in curls

does her duty with never a pout

There isn’t a rift

between papa and miss

 as he knows she’s a treasure for certain

And what about me?

oh, be sure I agree

for I’ll marry Miss Charity Curtin

And when she’s my bride and we’re off on our own

and the wellwishers left far behind

Then she’ll let down her hair

and happily share

whatever the future we’ll find

She’ll dance like a willow

and sleep on my pillow

forever the love of my life

I’ll be thanking the Lord

Mrs Charity Ward’s

not your typical vicarage wife

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with singing.

(Psalm 98) 

There's a...

I have a dozen or more books to edit for others.
I have a book to finish writing for a deadline.
I have a lot of books waiting for me to write.
So... why am I writing verse?
'Cos there's a poetry slam tomorrow... that's why!

Pearl's Still Progressing...

I'm still working on Pearl the Friendly Unicorn. Here's a piece where Pearl meets a new friend. This material is first draft, so it may not make it into the book.

‘You’re a bat!’ Pearl said.

            ‘I know,’ it said. ‘I don’t know what you are though. You look like a horse with a spike on its head. It’s a pretty spike, though.’

            Pearl laughed. ‘Thank you. I’m a unicorn. I’m not surprised you didn’t know. I’m the only one in the kingdom, as far as I know.’

            The bat squeaked, ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m sorry if I upset you. I was flying about catching my supper, and I didn’t really see you. I hunt by sound, you see.’

            ‘That’s interesting,’ Pearl said. ‘I’m Pearl. What’s your name?’

            ‘Flit,’ the bat said, ‘but you probably don’t want to talk to me. I make most folk nervous.’

Every so often, I get an email from someone who has encountered one of my poems on the 'net and who has been trying to find its provenance. These people think the pieces are "old", you see.  The one that attracts the most queries is called Following the Drum. It's in my collection Long Ago Love Songs.

Following the Drum

Oh, once I slept in a feather bed

With woollen blankets warm

Now I’m glad to lay my head

On a cloak that’s old and torn

Oh, sing with me a merry catch

As summer days will come

My love he is a soldier boy

And so I’m following the drum

With a patter patter tat

And a rattle and a scrap

And the beat of the marching song

I’m ragged and worn

And my hose are torn-

Yet I am following along

Oh once I ate from a silver plate

With sauces rich and rare

Now I’m glad if I’m not too late

To find some bread to share

Oh sup with me on a scraggy fowl

And dream of sugar plums

My love he is a soldier boy

And so I’m following the drum

With a patter patter tat

And a rattle and a scrap

And the beat of the marching song

I’m ragged and worn

And my hose are torn-

Yet I am following along

Pearl - a work in progress

I'm writing Pearl Number 7! Here's an excerpt.

“Do some magic for me,” said the frog.

The other frogs croaked crossly.

“You’ve got to ask politely,” one said.

“Don’t see why. She does magic for that firebird and that ogre girl.”

“They’re her friends, Splotch. You’re not her friend.”

“Does it matter?”

The other frogs laughed. ‘It matters,’ one said.

‘’If I had more bugs than I can eat, I might give some to you, because you’re my friend. If you weren’t, I’d expect you to ask politely.’

‘Sorry.” The big frog cleared its throat and started again. “Please, unicorn, would you do some magic for me?”

Inspired by a Branch

Husband of the Year - Not

A Chocolate Misapprehension

Chocky Lochie loved his choc; he loved his chocolate a lot

Choc-fuelled, he vaunted grant ambition for a high-choc-chief position

For this honour Chocky knew he had to render something new…

So Chocky Lochie made a plan; a clever-clogsy kind of scam

He went to Marge, his patient wife and swore upon his munching life

If she would lend her time machine he’d polish it and make it gleam…

Chocky Lochie took the helm and high-tailed to the Aztec realm

Parleyed there and made an offer for the contents of their coffers

Roaring, “Chocolate ahoy!” this chocolate-consuming boy

Flittered back to Chocolate Town hoping for his new renown.

With eagerness and fell intention he proclaimed his own invention

Chocolate as you’ve never eaten! Now, I know it can’t be beaten!

Beaming with benevolence the judges soon dispelled suspense

But their faces frowned and scrunched for Chocky’s loot could not be munched…

Bravely though, they raised and sipped. The chocolate foamed and oozed and dripped

Ick! It had a bitter taste and Chocky’s efforts went to waste

You see, he’d never realised that modern chocolate is disguised

The bitter foaming peppered slop is now a solid moreish block

So Chocky Lochie made an error…now he lives in constant terror

Marge will find her time machine was pawned to finance Chocky’s dream.

A Lament on a Misnomer

Think before you use those words people come up with!

I’m not a chocoholic

The term just drives me nuts

So please refrain from using it

And if you really must

Explain to me in syllables

Of choc or o or hol-ic

Exactly how you parse the term

(It’s giving me a colic)

If I boozed unto excess

I’d be an alcoholic

That’s alcohol plus ic, you see

(And pretty melancholic)

Now play the game of mashing terms

And look at chocoholic

And you will see it flouts the form

It’s horribly shambolic

Chocolate plus ic, you see!

So give that fake the flick

And say the proper term with me

I am a chocolate-ic.

Xanthe and the Seaman

My brand new novella Xanthe and the Seaman is out now! If the cover looks a bit familiar, that's because it shares a cover picture with my July book, Betony Buys Adventure. They're both part of the Fairy in the Bed series and also the Scorched Souls collection. I've been a bit curious about the seamen ever since I mentioned them, in passing, in Honey and the Harvest Hob back in 2017. Now one of them is a major character. Another one appeared in Betony, but he wasn't always a seaman. Mor, the hero of Xanthe and the Seaman, is. He's one of the oddest heroes (using the term loosely) I've so far invented. If you'd like to check it out, it's available through this link:
https://www.extasybooks.com/special-collections/scorched-souls/978-1-4874-2517-3-xanthe-and-the-seaman/ - but only if you're 18+!

Writers Read

This pictorial comment is the header for a new blog I have started which is especially for authors who wish to advertise their new books. I hope it will remind them that for our industry to survive, people have to buy new books. And yes, that has to include authors! I've said it before and will no doubt say it several more times...

If anyone reading this is an author, and has a new book to advertise,let me know and I'll be happy to host your book on the new blogs. This pair differs from my Promote Me Please pair in that for PMP I send questions to the author to answer whereas with RealWritersRead, authors send me whatever they wish to showcase.

2019 in Focus July

 2019 in Focus: July has gone to the printer. As usual, it's a book of verse and photographs, each taken/written on the day in question. This is the cover I chose, and below are the other cover pics I auditioned, along with votes from people who gave their opinions. In the end, I decided on a different picture, as you see!

Every day in July I went out for a walk with my camera and took photos. I chose some to represent each day and wrote accompanying verse. Every photo and verse was created on the stated day. The photos are not all in focus, but when I chose a fuzzy one it was for a good reason.

July came in blustery and wet. I liked the idea of using water or wind for a theme, but water has featured in every month so far, and wind and my camera aren’t good friends. Therefore, the theme for this edition of 2019 in Focus is Patterns and Perspectives.

I made some of the photos into sets or collages. A few of them have been digitally altered to remove something ugly and intrusive or to create a flipped pattern. This was done in Paint. Colour, brightness and contrast are left natural and I didn’t use any effects. The coloured frames and text were mostly done using sampled colour from the photos. 

Tell Clancy's Challenge

My stories aren't about problems. I prefer the term challenges. Even then, my books are not about challenges. They're about characters who have challenges. There's a subtle difference. 

Tell Clancy, from Trinity Street, has an enormous challenge, but her first one in the book is understated. Tell, who feels herself to be an ordinary girl, is best friends with Camena de Courcy, an orphan who lives with her elder sister. Camena is a certified genius, but her social development lags well behind her intelligence. Tell is challenged by her need to protect Camena while interpreting the world for her friend, and also interpreting Camena for the world. It's a challenge that leaves Tell precious little time to think of her own problems.

Foreign Languages? Me?

Using other languages when I don't speak them myself can be complicated, especially when there are different forms for male and female... Is that la or le in French? Ami or Amie? Fortunately, in fantasy, I can avoid that problem because although my alpenfee might speak a kind of German and my courtfolk might call their parents Maman and Papa, the languages are not exactly German and French or Welsh, or Gaelic or Swedish... I can base a few lines on one of those languages and if I get it wrong... well, my characters are NOT Swedes; they're fjiordfee and as such they don't properly speak Swedish!

Here's an alpenfee madchen using a kind of pidjin German to an English speaker...

“Liebchen, I think I must have made that for the man-to-be. It has gathers and cuffs, so it can get bigger as you do. Do you like it? If not, I can make you one for the lad-you-are.”

“I like it this way. It’s dashing.”

“I’m glad. I like folk to feel right in my clothes, even if they’re a kleines bisschen Zukunft.”

He must have looked puzzled, because she laughed and said, “a small bit future.” Then she offered her hand as if he’d been a man already, and went to fit someone els

Arrival

Betony has just stepped through the stag stone to an island called Arrival. After a largely-drab life up until now, she finds herself somewhere strange.
I suppose most of us have thought about being dropped somewhere utterly strange and wondered what we'd do. Betony, having little interesting reality to hark back to for context, thinks about things she's read, but she also notices the ambiance of the place, thinking back, and forth and then focusing on the present.

She stared around, but it was every bit as dark as it had been at the Stag Stone.

She never thought, for a moment, she was still there. The shift in temperature was too marked. Then there were the sounds, the smells, and the feel of something shifting under her feet.

“Is that sand?” she said in wonder. She rested her hand on a dark rock and found that, too, was warm.

There was no answer, so she looked at the driver to see what he had to say for himself.  He wasn’t there.

“Hello?” Betony turned on her heels, which sank into the presumed sand with a faint crunch. Had he darted behind the rocks?

She spent some time searching and then gave up.

She was alone. She knew it. She was alone on a stretch of sand in a warm place, lit only by a few faint stars. The rhythmic sounds and the perfume in the air told her this was a tropical beach. The glinting movement out to one side must be the ocean and behind her were obvious trees.

So, my time of my life experience is a desert island holiday.

She frowned, wondering, as she often had as a child, why they were called desert islands. The ones she’d read about were never deserts. On the contrary, they teemed with life.

Especially the one in the Lost Island series.

She hadn’t read that series as a child, and just as well!

She put her hands to her face and explored her temples. If this was Virtual Reality it was extraordinarily realistic.

No headset. Not VR. 

Well.

She had two options—Meltdown or Immersion.

Betony turned again, hearing the slithering crunch of sand under her boots. A playful breeze ruffled her hair, and she tasted salt on her lips. More stars glittered into view.

Oh!

Immersion was the obvious choice.

Betony Buys Adventure

The Cèilidh

Betony was visiting Bodhran Island in the star pin when she got mixed up with a bunch of leprechauns holding a cèilidh... She gets passed along from one partner to the other, and meets Maura Dervla, the granddaughter of Dervla Flower O'Shea, an earlier character... 

Her new partner was older and shorter but he, too, had green skin, the dark green of olives. He smelled of fresh-cut grass, which was delightful. He smiled with a merry crease to his cheeks and introduced himself to her as Fergal son o’ Padraig son o’ Lorcan Hillman. That was all she heard before someone else snatched her into his arms and dropped a sweet kiss on her collarbone.

No, her arms, as Betony saw, as the young woman twirled her around. She was a redhead dressed in a green skirt and white blouse cut so low her bountiful breasts rose from it like proving dough. She at least wasn’t green. She was small, coming up to Betony’s chin, but she grinned up at her and flashed a dimple.

“Road rise to ye, lovely! Tis good to be alive!”

“It is,” Betony said and meant it.

The girl spun her again, her bosom bouncing along with her red hair. “Maura Dervla,” she said. “And you?”

“Betony Field.”

“Not of the green way, lovely?”

Betony shook her head.

“Braeside, I expect. Sure, ye’ve the bountiful hips for it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What order are ye?”

Still puzzled, Betony turned the question about. “What order are you, Maura?”

“A colleen, darlin’, an’ I thought from your dress, perhaps you were the same.”

“Oh, no. My—the highlander gave me these clothes to wear for the dance.”

Heather Island

Betony is having the week of her life. She's been taken to Heather Island to see the sun come up...

...she saw the disc come up like a gold-foiled chocolate coin. She gasped as the light washed over the long valley below her. For as far as she could see, the ground was shawled in a counterpane of flowers, in every shade of pink and purple and through to lavender and white.

“Heather!” she exclaimed aloud, laughing with delight. “Oh, so beautiful!” 

The Brow of Dawn

Betony is on a galleon called Mermaid. She's been told to watch for the sunrise to see what you can see.

It was almost time.

“When the sun comes over the brow of Dawn, you follow the finger of light with your eyes and see what you can see.”

She gazed at the island. The brow of Dawn. That must be the rounded place that suggested a hill or maybe a smooth dome of rock.

The sun edged closer, and suddenly it was there, blazing into her eyes. Betony blinked back tears and hurriedly followed the line of light down into the water away to one side of Mermaid.

Betula Began It

Indeed, Betula began it! For years, I've belonged to an on-line discussion group whose special interest in 20th Century girls' fiction, centred on school stories, but embracing pony stories, ballet and theatre stories, sport stories, adventure/camping and mystery. One of the other long-term members is named Betula. Early on I, probably along with just about everyone else she's ever encountered, asked about her name. (I'm a sucker for a good name.) Betula explained kindly and patiently that it means birch tree. I stored it up in my mind and I've since used it twice in fiction; once for a walk-on character, and again, more recently, for a character born Betula Grene but known in the books in which she's mentioned by her married name, Betula Bakewell. In The Pixie Grip series, Betula features in some chapters. On the strength of Betula's name, I decided to give some of her family members plant names as well. Her brother is Birch. Her cousin Berryman Grene has a son named Quercus, which means oak, and his son is named Salix, which means willow.

This isn't the only name I appropriated from the book discussion group; a former member had the first name Richenda, although she didn't use it. I didn't borrow it directly, but when I was looking up Cornish names I found that one on the list and remembered the person I'd once known.

Tess Brynn's Wedding Dress

Esther "Tess" Brynn married her husband Gard Tillien in 1930. Tess was a lively young woman, who enjoyed going to jazz clubs with her friend Jestima Grene. When she chose to marry Gard, she did so in her mother's wedding dress, which had belonged to her grandmother and great-grandmother before them. The dress was made of fine braeside wool in a soft green, in a long tunic style with a finely embroidered overdress looped back to show the  tunic from hem to thigh. It was charmed for joy, and so when Tess's daughter Pia announced her intention of marrying, Tess immediately offered the gown. As Pia was taller, it had to be lengthened, which meant unpicking the tucks put in for shorter brides. Tess had this done, and Pia duly wore the dress. Her shawl was a gift from her parents, giving her a keepsake that never needed to be returned. The dress was used next when Pia's sister Alba married Farren Willow. After that, it went back into storage until 1969, when Pia's elder daughter, Melody, wore it for her wedding to Roderick Skipton. Pia's younger daughter, Leilana, wore it in 1985, and Melody's daughter, Ryl Skipton, in 1999. Alba's daughter Cambria wore it. Cambria has a daughter, Cèilidh, and Leilana has a daughter, Promise, who are currently (2019) the only unmarried direct female descendants of Tess Brynn.