Musical Interlude: Duffy

Writing Prompt: Woods

It's been a while, but I've finally joined in with another writing prompt. When you're focused on a novel it's sometimes a bit of a relief to write about something entirely different.

The theme this time was: How did you end up in these woods?

I could only ever hear her in winter, when the mist clung to the branches of the trees like a funerary veil. In summer her voice was drowned by the thousand-mouthed life-force of the birds and the rutting stags. I listened, but she was never among them. 

Perhaps it also made her sad, to see such joy and energy when she herself had lain cold amongst the crushed leaves for so long.

I would sit, my back pressed against bark until the damp seeped through my jeans. Some evenings I would sit until I shook with cold, until I could no longer feel the extremities of myself.

“Come back,” I’d whisper. 

A crow cried overhead, jolting me from those frozen thoughts.

Through the eerie whiteness I saw a shadow move. I knew it could only be a mirage, a trick of my over-tired, grieving mind, yet it looked so much like her. That shape, that slim waist, that dark, knee-length coat that flared out like a frock.

“Emma!” I called. “Emma, wait!”

I cried her name but only echoes answered.

Suddenly the scent of decay and rot was overwhelming.

Let her go, my heart said.

Follow, urged my feet.

“Emma, I’m sorry! I didn’t know. I never knew—”

I tripped on the knotted root of a tree, grazing my hand as I fell. There in that nothing, that void of existence, I held it to my eyes and watched as my garish red life flowed through the grit on my palm.

I had to go home. I had to stop this. No amount of guilt could change history. I had to pull myself together, move on, move away if necessary.

Pushing myself shakily to my feet, I turned to retrace my steps. 

Which way had I come? All of the trees looked alike: tall, slim, hardly stable enough to support themselves, like me. Between the thick ground mist and the chill clouds above, they looked like poles – prison bars – solid and unforgiving on either side. For the briefest of moments I wondered whether I was standing on my head, for I could no longer tell my up from down.

Panic started to rise.

“Emma,” I whispered.

“Yes?” she replied.

Mountain & Cloud

© Dan Ben Matthews

I am so stoked. My talented friend Dan Ben Matthews (who did the logo for Georg[i]e) has agreed to let me put his children's story Mountain and Cloud on my blog. I think it is one of the loveliest stories I've ever read, and beautifully illustrated. If you like it, you can find it on his Facebook Page along with his cheeky story My Friend Dave.

Click the picture below to enlarge it, then flick through so that you can read the story.

Cracking Talent

My ridiculously talented cousin Billy (L) and mate James (R) undertaking 'last minute rehearsals' in the vegetable aisle of Morrisons. He's a soloist with Birmingham Royal Ballet and currently appearing in The Nutcracker until 13th December 2014. You can also find him on Twitter: @will_bracewell

Óengus & Ibormeith

Not sure who did this, but I would like to, it's beautiful.

I made it safely over the 20k mark the other day, whilst bringing these two characters to life. Óengus is one of the Tuatha Dé Danann of Ireland, who saw a beautiful woman in his dreams: Caer Ibormeith. He and his family searched the land for her, and eventually found her chained by a lake along with a hundred other maidens, all doomed to turn into swans for one year every second Samhain. It was said that if he could choose her correctly from amongst all of those swans, she would regain her human form and they would be wed. 

I stumbled across this legend by chance, whilst looking for characters to bring to the Feast of Age. When I read it, I knew that I had to include them. Another story of swans, sharing similarities with the one that I am writing. It seems to be a common Celtic theme. There were others, but this one was the most beautiful I thought.

Óengus, or Aengus, the god of love, a little like Zeus and Leda reversed. Worth checking out The Swan Thieves for more swan-related goodness.

I am struggling at the moment. Work is currently bringing me little money and a great amount of tax-related headaches: PAYE, VAT, Reverse VAT, Withholding Tax, Community Tax - and a tax department that's about as helpful as a kick up the arse. I'm sat here with a puddle of receipts about my feet and fond memories of Bernard Black turning them into a rather smart casual jacket. Unlike Bernard Black, I've been one week off the cigarettes and coffee, and the thirty-minute workout I do in the morning will take about thirty days to recover from.

Still, I do waste an awful lot of writing time online, and now that I have online tax submissions to return I'm suddenly writing a lot more... funny that, eh?

Talking of all things Irish, it is now officially December, and I know this because I have finally played this song. Yeah, you know the one. Any Brit hears that in a pub, they know it's almost Christmas; you scumbag, you maggot. Full of bright-eyed Blighty cheer. 

Speaking of festive realism, I saw this quote tweeted the other day and had to smile:

Everyone lies about writing. They lie about how easy it is or how hard it was. They perpetuate a romantic idea that writing is some beautiful experience that takes place in an architectural room filled with leather novels and chai tea. They talk about their ‘morning ritual’ and how they ‘dress for writing’ and the cabin in Big Sur where they go to ‘be alone’—blah blah blah. No one tells the truth about writing a book. Authors pretend their stories were always shiny and perfect and just waiting to be written. The truth is, writing is this: hard and boring and occasionally great but usually not. Even I have lied about writing. I have told people that writing this book has been like brushing away dirt from a fossil. What a load of shit. It has been like hacking away at a freezer with a screwdriver... 

Most authors liken the struggle of writing to something mighty and macho, like wrestling a bear. Writing a book is nothing like that. It is a small, slow crawl to the finish line. - Amy Poehler, Yes Please

Ah, Amy, Amy. Way to kill the romance, but I can't disagree with you. I've had so much encouragement lately, I should be sailing through this next novel, yet I feel as though I've hit that point in the workout (about three minutes in) where you just want to go back to bed with a tub of cookie dough. 

Never mind. I'm sure I'll reclaim my mojo soon enough, and thankfully my freezer pickings are engagingly re-readable when the thaw of dawn sheds fresh light upon them. I am plodding slowly forward. Blessedly not as slowly as Madeline Miller.

Musical Interlude: ProleteR

I absolutely love these guys. Back when I was writing Angorichina, I spent a lot of time immersing myself in the music of the 1920s and 30s. Lot of Fats Waller, Mad Hatters and Ruth Etting. The above is ProleteR's remix of one of her songs, April Showers. They really get the mood right, very evocative. They've also done a superb retake of Don't Mean a Thing.

You can find some of their stuff on the Creative Commons site Jamendo, which is where I first heard of them, using their tracks for backing on holiday vids.

They've just released their latest album Rookie. Pay what you think it's worth. Already got my copy.

Extremely talented group, also on Twitter.

If Only...

Found Here