Day 1

To new beginnings.
Lets get cracking.
I am going to get cracking and write 400 words today (not counting this blog)
I can feel green shoots of hope sprouting up between my toes.
I am grateful to all the bloggers and professional writers who take time to write inspirational pieces which get me going.
Thank you.
and to all the people who read my blogs and don't put up get a grip grow up girl comments
Thank you.
I am off now to get some lemons and make lemon curdy pie.
and then I'll get the writing done.
After I clean up some here
OOPs
I'm off again with the long finger thingy!!

Bad Girl
Concentrate.
Write first
Chores later
Write first
everything else later.

Where did all the time go?

I am quite disgusted with myself.


-

I have neglected my writing.
Nothing new there.

Why have I been putting everything on the long finger you may well ask?

Why did I sit through Tango and Cash last night when I could have been tooling up a few stories? Please don't be offended Stallone and Kurt et al.

Can't answer you.

Writing defines who I am.

Its the first thing I think of when I awake and the last thing I think about at night. But I have a job, 2 kids, a husband, a dog, a rabbit, and since August a second job. So I am busier than ever.
So time is limited.

Surely SURELY I can get out my laptop with plug in key board and get cracking.
I think I need (to paraphrase my self in full Mom mode) an attitude adjustment.

I can't believe its not Butter!

I cannot believe it's almost a month since I last logged on to comment! Where did that four weeks go? I have absolutely no idea.

I had a bargain struck with my writer self to take part in the Flash fiction challenges set by Chuck Wendig each week - but that went the way of 'best laid plans of mice and men' sorry Chuck. (I've only missed 3 really)

Then I was trying to think of the why. In other words I was trying to come up with a good excuse which didn't ring hollow to my own ears and I have to admit I had none.

Busy in the 9 to 5, no change there. Busy raising my kids, no change there. Busy running my house, walking the dog, minding my husband, no change there.
No the big change came from me.
I had tried and failed to put some writing time in to action each day.
Then one day became a week and a week became 19 days.
How did this happen?
Because I did not prioritise my writing.
Thats why I am typing this at 11pm
The dog got his walk in before I got the laptop out.

Just realised due to some faulty maths its only 19 days and not actually a month. Oops.
So just have to get chopping again.
Bum in seat and all that.
Seth Godin gives great advice about getting yourself in action - read his blog about looking for the right excuse at http://sethgodin.typepad.com/seths_blog/2011/05/excuse-112.html

I think he set me straight.
I think.
Hmmmm.

How do you measure success?

I got a great book from the library.
Its called How I got published and its bursting at the seams with articles from great authors like Clive Cussler, Marian Keyes and David Brin to name 3 of the many many fine writers who took part. The book is edited by Ray White and Duane Lindsay and they have broken it up in to sections like

1) writing a synopsis

2) gripping title catchy tag line

3) getting to know agents and editors

4) Query letters
etc

All the articles are fascinating in themselves but one in particular piqued my interest. It's by a man called Keith Raffel and his question was 'What do you consider success?'
He published a book which got rave reviews and sold well. So he succeeded in all the steps to getting published and beyond. But he remained dissatisfied with his success. Why? Because he had not set his writing goal before he began. So every milestone he passed he was thinking about the next one.

He made me stop and think.

What do I consider my success to be?
I started this blog just one year ago and I have managed to post on it most weeks. This is a success but I am dissatisfied with it because I feel the quality of the writing in these posts could have been better.
The aim of the blog was to take part in the flash fiction challenges set each week by Chuck Wendig on terrible minds and that has been a success. Again maybe the quality of the writing could be improved (enormously).
So if I were to measure the blog simply as a) being activly publishing on it (score 1) and b) writing the challenges each friday (score 1)
I have reached my target.

But I want more from my writing.
I want to earn money and I guess some sort of acknowledgement that I have enought talent to be doing this.

Realisation! I need to start completing pieces to send out to magazines or papers.
What about competitions? I hate them. To be perfectly honest I feel like I am back doing exams in school when I do them. But I think they are a necessary evil to get know as a writer.

So my next target?
To get published.
Somewhere.
By Somebody.
For a something.

End of!

Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge.

Flash Fiction Challenge: “The Opening Lines, Revealed”Ahem, ahem.

Hear ye, hear ye.

Here are the three opening lines I’ve chosen:

Brendan Gannon: “Everyone else remembers it as the day the saucers came, but I remember it as the day a man in a suit shot my father.”

Joe Parrino: “Three truths will I tell you and one lie.”

Delilah Dawson: “Thursday was out to get me.”

MEN!
“Three truths will I tell you and one lie.”
Michael said throwing his naked body from the bed.
Here we go again I thought him and his goddamn mind games.

"That was great sex"
"I thought so too matter of fact" then I thought he always says that. What if that's the lie and hes bored with me?

"I love your cooking" ditto. He tells me every evening when he comes home from work. Is he just saying that so I'll keep feeding him?

"I wish I had your job" I always thought he said that because I earn more than him and I have shorter hours and he loves kids. So teaching 7 year olds would be right up his street.

"I miss you when you're not with me" He said that last night as he was leaving, he was going to show a young couple a house in the new estate on the other side of town.
What if he was lying and he was going to meet someone else, a woman for better sex and better food and a better time?

Whats he doing with me so?
I could hear the shower going and he was singing Hit the road Jack.
And I thought I am sick and tired of his mind games.
So I followed him in to the shower and I asked real nice 'Which ones the lie Michael'
he had his eyes closed so he kind of sniggered and said 'Baby, you're supposed to figure that out by yourself' so I jabbed him, not stabbed, jabbed with the carving knife I'd picked up on my way through the bedroom to the en suite. That got his attention.

'What the hell is that?'
'Its a knife asshole whats it look like? now answer the question?
'The lie was a lie, OK all the statements were true, I love your cooking, can you put down the knife please, sex with you is fantastic'
He was trembling in the warm water and I felt sorry for him - just a bit.
Why all the mind games?
'Isn't it obvious? you have everything going for you. You earn more, you have a better job, everybody loves you.'
I sighed then.
'I'll help you pack'

Happy first anniversary Mutterings!

Hello
Welcome to the Party
We are one year old today here at Mutterings.

(that we is me and my alter ego the writer (her ego is so big it counts as 2) I'm just saying)

a little something to kick you off.
Relax
Enjoy
Something good to drink?
Some nibbles?

Some good music

Mumford and sons The Cave

Jerry Fish and the mudbug club True Friends


The commitments Try a little tenderness


Some good laughs

Michael McIntyre in Dublin

Graham Norton and will.i.am

And thank you for stopping by blogosphere friends!

Almost one year old.

It’s almost a year since I pitched up my little blog on the blogosphere. And I’ve enjoyed everything enormously.
I feel like I should throw a party with pink champagne and canapés (sounds posh!) to thank everyone who has stopped by and commented. So nice things to eat and drink will be provided.

Nice music to listen to (Jerry Fish, Mumford and son, some Smokie to get you dancing.) and subdued lighting so everyone looks good. To be fair after enough pink champagne everyone looks good.

And for conversation we’d need some really interesting characters but not bossy cranky annoying ones. People who could keep the laughs going, Michael McIntyre for early on while the kids are still up because all his humour is PC. Graham Norton because he would stop everyone from getting all serious and morose (morose can be a big problem at parties). I had thought about inviting some authors (my heros) but I want this to be a fun event and if my idol appeared I just wouldn’t enjoy myself I’d be too in awe to speak let alone have fun.

So if you are a chatty type with an interesting turn of phrase be sure to call by on August 8th which is Wednesday next week. We’ll have a blast!

Men you are strange beasts!

This is my friends story and will really only appeal to women who are
married to men who are driving them crazy right now.

She looked tired so I asked her
'What you been up to?'
'Painting.'
'Painting?'
'Yeah the whole sitting room. And I had to do some of it 2 and 3 times to
get the colour right.'
Couldn't figure that one out so I asked 'Were there stains on the walls or
something?'
She looked at me then 'didn't I tell you?'
'Tell me what?' I leaned in closer expecting something juicy or gossipy or
both.
'Well remember a couple of weeks ago there was a Rugby match'
I nodded and said 'ah haw'.
'and Derek (not her husbands real name) asked a couple of his mates and
his brothers up to our house to watch it.'
I nodded and said 'ah hum'.
'And I told you he had borrowed a projector from work for the special
occasion' when she said special occasion she rolled her eyes like one of
those dolls we had growing up. The ones that were meant to be sweet but
could also be freaky and scary.
Again I nodded encouraging her to continue.
'Well he wasn't happy with the picture clarity on the wall so he painted a
big white rectangle on the wall'
'WHAT?'
'Oh Yeah he went out to the garage and got himself a brush and a big tin of
Jasmine White and drew himself a patch slap bang on the middle of the wall'
I was speechless.
'Was it ...neat?'
'Oh no totally fuzzy around the edges'
'Did he help with the painting, fix up the damage, make amends?' I asked
meekly.
'Oh no. He's actually being very clever. He's stayed away every night
this week until I got the job done. I probably would have stabbed him with
the paintbrush so it's just as well.'
'Could I just ask one thing? What colour was your sitting room painted in?'
'Pale Cream'

Men you are strange beasts to us girls.

final mention of 50

Ok
I am not going to jump on to the band wagon (s) critising this book series.
I will admit however to being 50 shades of green over her achievement with (if we are to believe the blogs abounding on this) poor writing, plot and characters.
I am thinking so much is wrong here and yet she is a big sucess.

Why?

And then it hit me.
She-Finished-It!

Sounds simple doesn't it?
So I am off to my WIP and get cracking. I am going to ignore editing until I have the story on paper. Then I will worry about polishing it into something people might want to read and even (thunderclap) pay money for.

Check out Ellen Degeneres reading from the novel 50 shades of Grey on this link

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=on3JCwnwHbU

Who can you trust?

Flash fiction piece from Chuck Wendig.
The first sentence is from a random sentence generator - you have 1000 words - genre is up to you.

The noticed android walked past the wondering chamber.
Jed held his breath. You couldn’t tell the latest androids from the human population but this one was after some sort of mishap because his left leg was wobbling a bit and every time he took a step a little eek could be heard.
Jed was fascinated he nudged Chuck sitting across from him.

‘Uh’ Chuck was eating a barbequed steak burger in a large sesame seed bap he had at least half of it in his mouth and couldn’t hardly chew it. Complicated sentences were out of the question. Jed jerked his head in the direction of the android. Chuck stared his mouth fell open and half a partially chewed burger threatened to fall out. Jed kicked him under the table and his mouth snapped shut. ‘finish eating quick’ Jed snapped ‘we are going to make a few bucks ok?’ Chuck nodded swallowing coke and burger furiously. He wiped his hand across his mouth spreading grease and barbeque sauce across his cheek. ‘Right’ he looked at Jed ‘what now?’

‘I am going to instruct him to walk in to the wondering chamber and you will get up and follow us in there'

‘They have cameras and shit inside there in case anyone tries anything stupid.’
‘I know that! But out here someone else could spot him. I don’t want any government officials noticing him and carting him off to the mechanics. It’s the nearest place to get him alone.’

Jed stood dropping a balled up napkin on the table. ‘clean your face. You’ll draw attention covered in ketchup’ he sauntered slowly over to where the android was standing pretending to be adsorbed in the digitally created landscape outside. A forest of green leaved trees with a babbling brook gave way to a large open meadow covered in wild flowers.

‘Excuse me buddy’ Jed leaned close to the android ‘I want you to go in to the wondering chamber’.
The android took a quick photo of Jed, showing his clothing (lumber shirt, jeans and work boots) and a clear trace of his iris. He turned and walked to the wondering chamber and waited inside for more instructions.
Jed was behind him and Chuck followed in seconds.
‘What now?‘ Chuck asked checking nervously behind him every two seconds.
‘Hey Buddy’ Jed addressed the android ‘destroy all records from when you entered this burger joint’
‘I cannot do that, its against regulations’ his voice had a tinny quality but was very close to human.
Jed was nervous and Chuck’s agitated fidgeting was getting on his nerves.
‘I do not wish to be photographed. You photographed me with out my permission. I request all photographs be destroyed immediately.’ Jed waited sweat glowing from his skin in the unnatural yellow lights used in the wondering chamber.
‘I have done as you requested’
Chuck made the same statement and again the robot agreed.
Jed then reached inside the androids collar and flicked a switch.
‘Come on Chuck lets get out of here. This piece of robot is going to pay off most of my mortgage and yours too.’

Chuck didn’t answer. He’d never told Jed that he’d lost seventeen years of his life going into the wondering chambers in this city. He’d never told him about the years it had taken him to overcome his addiction. He snorted at that. Addiction. It was only addiction if you couldn’t pay for it.
But with this robot he could pay off his debts and live!
‘Sorry Jed’ was all he said then he swung his tool bag high and hit his friend killing him instantly.
He lifted the android on to his shoulders and left by the escape hatch behind the burger joint they’d spent the morning wiring cameras to.

‘People do insane things in the wondering chambers’

Chuck Wendig Challenge rewrite a fairy tale in a modern setting.

Puss in Boots in a modern setting.


From the obituaries in Cork Today!

Today, peacefully at his residence in the exclusive suburb of Montenotte in
Cork City, Robert Maxwell of Maxwell Mills passed away. Surrounded by his
family, sons Michael, Robert and Toby and extended family.

Maxwell Mills ltd has been passed on to his eldest son, Robert Junior seven
years ago, Michael Maxwell the second son has emigrated to the United
States where he set up a franchise buying top quality wheat for the mills
in Ireland.


The youngest son Toby remained as a care-giver to his elderly father for
the last six years. He was unnamed in the will.

Toby looked up at the cracked paintwork on the ceiling. An old leak had
stained the plaster work and mould grew along its fault-line.


It was cold and draughty in the studio but he had no where else to go. The
minute they had buried his father his brothers had thrown him out of the
family home. A 'useless waste of space' was what Robert had said as he
slammed the door behind him. Toby didn't even have the bus fare to get into
town so he'd stumbled down the hill and managed to find the door to this
shabby building not quite closed and not quite open.


There was somebody humming nearby, Toby glanced around and found a pair of
startling green eyes watching him from behind a huge easel. Her movements
were feline, graceful as she quickly ran charcoal across the page.


'Good morning sleepyhead' she smiled 'did you have a good rest in my bed?'


Toby slid his legs off the bed and managed to get his body sitting upright.


'What are you doing?' he asked the girl. She was dressed head to toe in
black and she wore a knitted black beanie cap. He really didn't think it
was that cold this morning. A pair of black gloves rested on one knee just
visible under her easel. She was very slim but her body gave off waves of
energy. He'd never met someone like her before.


'I am capturing your sleeping form' she said 'course you've gone and moved
now and spoiled it all' She took a rag which was casually draped across the
top of the easel and wiped the charcoal smudges from her hands. Replacing
the rag to its home she tucked her gloves into her waistband and stood,
stretching and yawning as she did so.


'Time for breakfast. You hungry?' Toby nodded. Casually she looked him up
and down her gaze sultry. 'Toby, you and I have something in common. We've
both been cheated by Robert Maxwell'. And she turned and walked through the
doorway behind her.


She stood at the kitchen window watching a chaffinch hopping about on the
branches of a huge sycamore. She was spooning sardines straight from the
can into her mouth without a glance. The smell of fish in the small
kitchen was over powering. Toby felt nauseated.
'Would you like some coffee and some soda bread?' he noticed the soda bread on the table 'hey you got Brennans best, it's the brand I always got for my father'
She looked at Toby then her brow furrowed. 'I picked it up last night along with these' and she upended a knapsack onto the table, a wallet, a set of keys, a
mobile phone, a cheque book and some clothes, all belonging to Toby poured
onto the table. 'How did you get these he spluttered in amazement' She
shrugged her shoulders then. 'I've been watching Robert for a while now, I saw him toss you out last night. I was going to invite you here but
then' she paused 'you invited yourself in'. She tossed the empty can out
the window and poured two steaming mugs of coffee. 'You had better eat
something, keep your strength up. We've a lot to get through'


Toby wasn't sure what they had to get through. His head was still reeling
from all the events of the last 24 hours. Toby sighed. It was finally
dawning on him he had no one to depend on except himself and maybe this
girl.


'We both know what Robert did to me it seems. But I don't know what he did
to you. I'd like to know.' Those green eyes were burning into his. 'You
think maybe I'm some nut job. After your brother for his money?' she
snapped. Toby nodded, might as well be honest when you've nothing to
loose.


'I was making a living, nothing extravagant, enough to get by when I met
your brother. He commissioned me to do a family portrait, him, that frigid
bitch of a wife of his and those two brats. Anyway when he comes to pay me
he gives me a cheque, for double what I asked only its unsigned see. He
wants me to copy his old mans signature on to a blank sheet of paper. And
then he'll sign. So I don't want to do it but my rents due on my little
studio and I haven't eaten all week. So I copy it down and I get it
perfect.' Words pour out of her like hot molten lava full of spite, she says this last bit with more than a hint of pride.


'So what happens next' Toby asked. 'He used that forgery to write you out
of your fathers will and the cheque he gave me was reported stolen so when
I tried to cash it I got arrested'.


Toby's mouth fell open.


'So tonight Toby Maxwell you and I are going to pay Robert a visit and
we're both going to get what's owed us' and she clinked her coffee mug to
his with a saucy wink.

Lovemaking is radical, while marriage is conservative!

Lovemaking is radical, while marriage is conservative. -Eric Hoffer,
philosopher and author (1902-1983)





















This lovely quote came to me today courtesy of the Word-a-day people.
I was signed up to this fantastic site by a good and thoughtful friend who
understands my need for words.
Especially new and wonderful words and the history of words.
And wonderful bits of wisdom and quotes from wonderful writers.
These little nuggets of joy appear in my in box while I am at work (paid
work).
And they're great.
And they get me thinking.
Especially todays quote for the day.

WE/I perceive making love as something exciting, forbidden and dark.
While marriage is conservative, dull and predictable.

Its confusing really because we can't have marriage without love and
lovemaking being a big part of it.
Who will stick with you through thick and thin and put up with all your
craziness if they don't love you?
No one.
That's who.
Conversely you must love your chosen partner a great deal to put up with
all his or her nonsense.
I know this is my excuse when my Hubster is rubbing me up the wrong way.

But what about lovemaking.
We can have sex with strangers.
There is a whole (illegal) industry built up around this.
It exists, but its not something I want to discuss here.

The treacherous territory is when you fancy someone, someone at work or
from your local sports club or your school.
Someone you've admired for a very long time from a distance.
Someone you've built up to something really special. And then you get it
together.
Wow!.
Bam!
Its a disaster!
That's what we're scared of isn't it.
Being below par.
Especially in the eyes of this God/Goddess we've created in the active
green goo of our imagination.
Facing up to the fear of appearing less than we want to be is truly
terrifying.

I must go now to my dull predictable marriage and make some radical love
with my Hubster!

Embrace your inner Chicklitter.

I have not been blogging regularly of late mostly due to time constraints.
The routine that the school year gives me helps me schedule in writing time
at the same time each day.
Now that we are out of school I cannot find a regular slot to sit and think
each day.
I can't even get the laundry and house work done either.
My days end when the day ends.
D'ya follow?
Or to put it another way its light some evenings until after 10pm and
that's when we get home.

In the beginning I created this blog to act as a tool to take part in
writing exercises such as Chuck Wendigs Flash Fiction and anything else I
came across.
It also allows me to comment on other peoples blogs and get involved in
discussions online which I feel strongly about.
So I am really happy I started this blog. It was like my own personal
commitment to my need to write.
And I must stop neglecting it. (Bold! slap on the wrist for that)
But!
It has become clear to me that even though I get stuck in to the CWFF
challenges every week (I don't post if its not finished or total crap)
I write Chicklit!
Not horror/fantasy/science fiction or young adult fiction.
Nope I write about relationships.
What I write is a little different from the other CWFF participants.
So perhaps I don't really belong there.
(But I must add all the people from that writing arena have been incredibly
kind and supportive so for that I am truly grateful).
Eventhough my characters don't lose limbs and end up in alternate universes
we were still welcome at the CWFF shindig.

I was a little down when this thought first popped up.
I didn't want to give up writing because I really enjoy it.
I enjoy the process very much.
Perhaps if I ever get to the publishing stage I will not like that part so
much.
But at the moment as a writer I am my own boss so I have enormous artistic
freedom.

I guess I felt down because so much of the stuff in the Chicklit world is
packaged in pink and to be honest badly written.
But then I started thinking about writing I really like and would they be
called Chicklit or literature.

Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe - all about relationships is
it Chicklit though?
Rumour has it - funny witty silly definitely Chicklit
Perhaps I'm just a snob?

Folks its time.
Time to embrace my inner Chicklitter that is.

The Crooked Tree

Chuck Wendig Challenge - write a story inspired by this photo taken by Chuck Wendig.

Its a beautiful haunting image and makes me remember my father who passed away 18 years ago.
All my education about trees came from him.
His favourite was the Oak tree he liked their majesty.
This is less a work of fiction than a reworking of old memories.

The Crooked Tree.

My father planted trees when he was a young man. Before he married my mother and began that battle of wits called marriage. And before I or my siblings came in to this world. He planted majestic Cupressus Macrocarpa (Monteray Cypress). We always called them by their latin names because we didn't know they had another name. To us they were always there, tall, dark and brooding like Heathcliff. But where he planted them the soil was shallow and one night a storm tore one of them from its anchors and it stretched accross the rock and out into the air horizontal like a giant green arm pointing to the sea.
The tree had been planted to give shelter from a sharp south west wind that ran along the mountains and landed against the westfacing wall of our home. Severe gusts would make the lino rise and that bubble of angry air would run along under the floor covering making us all squeal and think of ghosts and banshees.
I think it was an excuse for my mother to scare the living daylights out of us. But usually it backfired cause no one would venture up the stairs at bed time when all the light and heat was downstairs by the old stanley stove.

That west wind could be very determined driving rain in horizontal sheets into the walls of our house so that eventually it would find the crack on the chimney. Then it would gather soot and travel down and in the morning before breakfast a river of black water would be running across the kitchen floor. Those mornings my mother resembeled a banshee more than any rogue wind travelling in under the floorcovering.
She would get old rags and cups and bail the black strong smelling water into a dish all the while keeping up a monologue of how awful her life was. As kids we knew how to act out our parts "say nothing and argue nothing"
Aren't kids amazing!
They just know how to be invisible when they have to.

One day when I was collecting the calves from a field near our house I notice initials carved into a tree. They were the same as my brothers so I assumed it was his handy work but when I mentioned it to my father that evening he smiled and said no "if you look again you will see 1938" is carved next to them". Well I was none the wiser so he said his brother my uncle had carved his initials there before he left for the states. He went to live in Boston and he never came back to Ireland.
He died some years back.
I never met him.
I often wonder what he was like.

Aisle nine at the grocery store.

Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge.





I don't know what goes on at your store but in my local giant grocery store
they keep all the really neat stuff on Aisle 9. Stuff like jewellery and
lingerie and you can get perfume too. Oh and chocolates, beautiful
handmade ones. Everything close by so no chance of a guilty conscience
stopping you.
Aisle 9 is also where all the best marks go.
They're usually businessmen buying stuff for their girlfriends. Things
they don't want their wives to know about so they always carry cash.

I work in the local library its good steady work with a good steady income
but there's very little left over at the end of the week for any little
extras. And besides it's dead boring. Aisle 9 allows me to indulge in a
little harmless action and no one gets hurt well no one I care about.

I have a wire supermarket basket on my arm and I've put a really slushy
romance novel on it, it's to match the summer blonde I've been dying my
hair for the last couple of years. Makes them think I'm blonde and stupid.
Men love that.

I swing from Aisle 10 stationery and magazines into Aisle 9 and I spot a
couple of likely marks. One is older and tanned and wearing gold
cufflinks. I dismiss him instantly. Anyone displaying his wealth so
obviously is either broke or used to being a target so very cautious. The
second one is younger and definitely nervous. His hair is blonde and cut
quite short. He is looking nervous. Nervous is good. Nervous men make
mistakes.

I decide to make my move. I saunter past him and stop at the chocolates
checking out the ingredients on a pack of Lily O'Briens hand made truffles.
they look delicious but I know they are too expensive for my salary. I
drop them in my basket. With a sigh I notice my ankle strap is undone. I
drop my basket on the shelf and slowly run my hands down my leg to fiddle
with the strap. As I bend down my soft summer dress rides up and exposes
more thigh than is really in good taste. Mr Young Mark is lapping it up.
I can just see him change his stance so he can watch without being spotted
on the CCTV. Dirty boy!
Maybe I should drop something next to him and give him a flash of soft
curving breast? But no I think that would be over doing it.

Time to move in for the kill.

I straighten up and suddenly get very interested in the perfume in the
shelves where I rested my basket.
Mr. Young Mark is trying not to look at me but he can't resist shooting the
odd look at my legs.
I mean come on he's only human he's just had an eyeful of my thighs. And
they're good. I know because Rose keeps telling me how beautiful they are.
She's here now working on the till.
I lean towards him to take a bottle of scent off the shelf I know he's able
to smell my body so close to his.
I stand just behind him so when he turns he bumps into me not the other way
around.
He looks confused and embarrassed.
I act as though I can't even see him. I have his wallet and while he is
apologising I rifle the cash and drop kick it under the display of fancy
lingerie
He is still apologising.
I wave him off as if he were a nuisance mosquito.
'what ever' and I turn and and walk off up to aisle to the jewellery.
When I check his cash all I got was a fifty!
Lousy waste of time.
Only a cop would carry such a paltry sum.
It's marked.
Quickly I drop the money into the bag of an old lady walking past.
Seconds later Mr Young Mark and the shop security officer arrive.
The security officer asks me to accompany them to the office.
I flick back my summer blonde hair and look all puzzled.
I make sure my chest is almost in their face. This little dress I'm
wearing doesn't leave much room for hiding things.
'Why?'
'We just need you to accompany us to the office'
'I'm not going to any office with you boys get a female member of staff and
I'll think about it.'
Mr Security Officer arrives back with the old lady from Aisle 9. She is
holding a fifty euro note with a red X on it in the air like a flag.
'I think you dropped this dear'
Rose walks past then shaking her head.
She always said one of these days I'd get caught.
But hey that's half the fun. Isn't it?

Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge.

This is a piece inspired by Chuck Wendig Challenge to use the words
Saw
Milkshake
Bath
Flowerpot
Wheelchair
Bully
Zoo
Heretic

I used (chain)saw, flowerpot and milkshake.







Impending Storm
A storm is promised from the west coast tonight. It is August and the sun is very bright. The air feels cool because it is moving so fast. Katie is sitting on her haunches, using the north gable of the farm house for support. She is watching the clouds draw shapes on the blue waters of Kenmare Bay. Her sweater will be chalky when she moves away but she doesn’t care. It is the only place where there is some reprieve from the incessant high pitched mewing of the chainsaw.

The constant noise has whipped the dogs into a frenzy chasing each other and any cat or bird that strays into their path. They swoop past Katie pausing only for the briefest of pats.

Ann is in the kitchen washing lettuce. There is a neat stack of tomatoes glittering on the draining board. She is watching through the window as she works. It is south facing and when the sun rises above the valley rim it gleams harshly off of the stainless steel sink. She is watching Sam working with the chainsaw under the ancient oaks.

Even though the noise from the saw is almost unbearable here so close she doesn’t leave her vigil. Sam who is manning the saw is wearing the only pair of earmuffs. They are bright orange and sit slightly crooked over his soft cloth cap. He is cutting logs for firewood with an old Stihl saw that had been his fathers. Great arcs of saw dust fly through the air and a small mound is growing at his feet. The dogs dart past him at a furious rate, careful not to get too close, the small mountain of saw dust remains untouched. Logs tumble in to a rough pile right and left of his work area.

A great axe lies against the wood shed. The wood shed is already half full of logs split that morning. He will chop these after lunch.
Ann picks up a milk shake and moves towards the door: it is time for lunch. The wind has blown all the petals off the geraniums in the flowerpot on the window sill. She notices the great oaks behind Sam are swaying their leaves turning back to reveal their paler underneath.
An omen of the gales that are to come.

The Hospital Consumed the Silence.

Chuck Wendig Challenge. Use a random sentence generator to produce a story. limit 1000 words any genre.
I have to say I am not so happy with this piece. But I missed the last couple so I was determinded to do it this week.


The Hospital Consumed the Silence.

May lay on her bed. Sweat beaded her upper lip and a glassy sheen stared from her eyes. She bunched the sheets between gnarled fingers. Thin skin barely covered the blue veins that snaked across sharp aged bones. She pulled at the blankets and moaned softly. The nurses checked on her every ten minutes but it was no use. Even trying to keep her comfortable was becoming more and more difficult.
One of them was with her now, her starched white uniform pained Sams eyes ‘not long now’ she said frowning at her watch as she checked Mays pulse.

Sam sighed. There was nothing to do but wait for the end. The doctors had been around earlier mumbling something about catching it earlier. But Sam knew they were lying. They wouldn’t meet his eyes. Except for the boldest one, he looked straight at him and through him. ‘There is nothing we can do. Perhaps if you came earlier?’ They wanted you to believe it wasn’t their fault. That after years in college and working in the hospitals they still knew squat about anything unusual. He had made Sam uncomfortable they way he had looked at him. Sam wondered if he knew something about them.

And what was unusual about ‘Parsis’ fever. Nothing much. Just your common or garden viral infection. Causing the usual high fevers and hallucinations. And of course eventually killing you off. That’s the nasty part. Oh and it’s been eradicated for over 2 centuries.

That caused a lot of questions once they figured it out. Of course that was what threw them these mugs playing at doctor. It wasn’t supposed to be here.

Trouble was Sam didn’t think they’d be able for the truth. The truth about May or him for that matter. Would two old souls who had managed to survive death for five hundred years blow their minds?

May had been talking about being in Egypt and Persia and meeting Isis but the nurses had put it down to delirium. After all their tiny brains couldn’t cope with the idea of immortals. That was the stuff of legend.
Sam snorted at the thought of it. ‘Did you say something love?’ the nurse asked. But Sam only shook his head very slowly.

Immortal. If only that were true we wouldn’t be here. That’s what got us in to this mess.
Sam cursed himself. If he hadn’t gone out for some fresh air leaving her unprotected. If that old witch hadn’t got it into her head to drink our sons blood to gain immortality. If she hadn’t been infected with Parsis. If May hadn’t tried to fight her off. So many if’s.
May never really got over that. It was a bite from that old demon that had infected her. She’s had Parsis for nearly four hundred years but now Sam couldn’t care for her any more. He was tired. He was waiting for her to pass on into the next realm. And then he would go out into the forest like his ancestors before him when they had tired of living and let the life force flow from him. He felt lighter already having made his decision.

May’s breathing had steadied to a very shallow pull on the air around her. Her hands released their grip on the sheets. She sank back into the pillow. Sam watched the life force flow out of her. The room grew silent without her moans and raspy breathing. The silence grew and grew until suddenly the hospital consumed the silence.

Creative Writing books.

I don't have any books on creative writing.
Basically because I don't have any extra cash for spending on luxuries such as books.
Austerity anyone.. . . . . else?

There is a vast and excellent data base of free writing advice available online, Chuck Wending with his 25 of anything series, Janice Hardy with her real life diagnostics.
I am eternally grateful to these people for keeping me sane. Because for me writing is like therapy and without it I am one grumpy bunny.
So every week I attempt the flash fiction challenges set by Wendig. And every week I check out the writing advice from Janice Hardy buttttt what I love on her site is the real life diagnostics. This is where a wannabe writer wants some feedback on a piece. Say its an introduction to a scene or a piece of dialogue - they say what they want to achieve with a piece and Janice points out the bits she would change. And I quickly add here she is ever so gentle with her critiques and at the same time surgically precise. Truly fabulous.


Any way what got me on the topice of Creative Writing books is my two best writer friends got me one. A great big red one that looks very scary. It looks very much like a serious-must get your act together-stop messing with your hair-this is important kind of book. And it is all that and more. Its Creative Writing edited by Linda Anderson and its used as a text book for the open university course on creative writing. I checked it out on Amazon and it got 7 five star reviews and 2 four star reviews. Out of a total of 10 reviews. Thats pretty good.


I am a little intimidated by it.
However
One of the reviews suggested setting a time line and working through it chapter by chapter. On the OU course they do a chapter per week. So I might try something like that. I'll let you know my progress. Some serious work for the summer.

Hello May

I'm sorry. Is it just me? or did the Month of May become a non-event in the writing area of my life. There was a total lack of any blogs anyone would want to read. (So I didn't publish them)

Apart from having my precious writing time interrupted by family I just couldn't seem to get the words to flow. I have read all the pieces on how to carve out a time and place for writing. And I have more or less done that. However as Chuck Wendig says over on Terribleminds if you don't take it seriously then no one else will.

But.
I just don't know how to make something that hovers between hobby (everyone elses perspective) and desirable career (my perspective) become important.
Hubster has taken the view that every time I take out my laptop that he bought (big mistake) I am about to do some web browsing or software analysis for him. Or his company which becomes our company when it suits him. Its gotten so bad that I can't even take the laptop out myself now. I feel like a kid sneaking in to the teachers office expecting to get caught.
I hate this.
And the kids who are old enough to have opinions and go to school unchaperoned want their mother to help with "study" for their summer exams. So I silently fume and resent them wanting my time. This is quickly followed by guilt (so quickly in fact that I think they shared the ride here).
And what is making me nauseated is I know I am the person responsible for creating this circle of demands around myself.
How do I break this cycle of demand - resentment - guilt - fear.
Arrgh!
Help!

'Give me a daisy a day dear...'

or so the old song goes.

I was listening to a Radio show the other day and they were discussing
books and writing.
Now I had missed the start of the show because of that pesky interrupter of
all things fun - paid work - so I didn't catch who was speaking.
But one of them said that to get a character to come to life you must have
the right name.
Once the right name lands on your desk you can get cracking.

This was a few days ago and I gave it no thought because I thought it was a
bit mad to be honest until...
(Drum Roll Please)
'Daisy' landed on my desk (really the inside of my skull).
You see I had this character in mind,
an older lady
I could see her house
her daily routine
her sense of humour
but I couldn't settle on a first name for her.
I had her surname but I wanted a girls name that would suit her.
And then Bingo! (or rather Daisy ) landed.
And its just perfect.
She's a bit of a scut so I didn't want anything too weighty
and because she's in her seventies it couldn't be a modern name.
And now that I have that she's absolutely bubbling with life and demanding
to be written.
so I'm off to do that.
How's your day going?