Looking back - and looking forward.

I'm going to take a break from the Scribbles over the next week - unless something awesome happens that I need to share - so it seems a good time to look back over my year of words.

I've been published - six short stories in five charity publications. And I was runner-up in a short story competition, to be published as an anthology ebook of winners and runner-uppers in 2014.

I parted company with my agent. An unfortunate event, but the silver lining is that it has forced me to write what I enjoy writing rather than what I think will please other people. Whether that means success or failure in the future, I do not know...

I edited the heck out of Rurik and submitted him to new agents. He's been thoroughly rejected by 'the industry', in spite of being favourably received by readers...I've even been asked for the next story in the series.

I started a new WIP - Ani's story - which is coming along slow but sure after I finally found my voice (with some help from Les Edgerton).

I attended the Festival of Writing, a great weekend with old and new writer friends.

I started Squidge's Scribbles late in June, jumping straight into the Ultimate Blog Challenge in July. I really enjoy blogging and it appears there are quite a few folk who like what I say; today, I'm almost at 9000 hits and have a small band of followers, so at least I know I'm not talking to myself most of the time!

I did a little bit of paid editing work for a publisher - and a lot of unpaid editing for fellow writers. It's really satisfying to see good stories grow and develop into some brilliant work when authors take on board the feedback and apply it in the way that suits them.

As for 2014...

Well, Granny Rainbow will be published in January if all goes according to plan via Panda Eyes, a local indie publisher. Getting the work formatted, edited, contacting printers, working with a publisher and cover designer AND seeing my characters come to life in illustrations has been the steepest of learning curves, but I am looking forward to getting a book of stories (that are entirely mine) out to an audience. I'm also scared witless for the same reason!

I will write, of course, though which project to focus on, I have no idea. Depending on the success (or otherwise) of Granny, Rurik may or may not be self-published. Ani's story is still begging to be told, as is Peril in Pergatt, the next book about Rurik. Add to that blogging, Word Clouding, Helping on the Stories for Homes blog...there will be lots of words.

But between now and then comes Christmas and New Year. A chance to take stock and count my blessings in what has been, on balance, a very good writing year. Thank you, dear blog reader, for sharing the last six months with me. 

As we finish 2013 and turn our faces towards 2014 and whatever it may hold for us, all that remains is for me to wish you and yours a very

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

(Source; 'Tales from the Rainbow Room' blog)

Blog Challenge - finished!

Well, I've done it. Finished the month, having missed only the day I was in hospital with my son. I consider that, near-as-dammit, 'challenge completed'.

Thirty posts in thirty-one days.

This time round, it's been exhausting! I'm not sure whether it's because the first challenge I did was in the holidays, so I had more time to write? This month, I've been so busy with stories and preparing Granny Rainbow for publication, the challenge became a chore rather than a joy.

Don't get me wrong - it has been fantastic to be a part of the facebook community and I've logged onto blogs I never would've found otherwise, meeting some really lovely bloggers on the way! I hope to keep visiting some of those which really tickled my fancy...

But the amount of creative energy it has drained is enormous, in spite of the fact that - I'll admit - I cheated a bit by posting flash fiction I'd written over the past year or so. In reality, I've probably only written 15 new posts during the month.

It's also made me question why I'm blogging.

I know that: a) I like writing b) I'm slowly putting myself 'out there' as an author without (I hope) beating everyone over the head and screaming 'Lookit! I write stories! Read them! Buy them!' and c) I'm sharing what goes on in my life and my writing. (Look here if you do want to buy books with my stories in though!)

For me, blogging's not a business. I want it to be, primarily, a shared conversation between me and you - like a quick chat over coffee, a chance to catch up.

As of tomorrow, it's back to just 2/3 posts a week so I can get back to writing my stories, but don't worry - I'll let you know what's happening.

I'm still looking forward to our next chat, but for now... catch you later!

Katherine x

A little bit of flash - Jennifer

This story had to be created around a song title. As a huge fan of the Eurythmics, I chose 'Jennifer' from the 1983 album 'Sweet Dreams (Are made of this)'. 

'Jennifer, with your orange hair

Jennifer, with your green eyes

Jennifer in your dress of deepest purple

Jennifer, where are you tonight? 

Underneath the water...'

The newspaper slips from my nerveless fingers.

I stare at the vendor, his face swimming before my eyes. I think he speaks, but I can find no answer in the depths of my agony. I stumble away, staggering along the pavement like a drunkard.    

My only thought – underneath the water! My heart tears.

I think I shout her name - Jennifer! - and gasp with the pain of knowing she will never reply.

Memories assail me...

In a room of ordinary people, she had been extraordinary, her rebellious nature evident from the brilliant orange crew cut which clashed with her dress of deepest purple. Green eyes, the same colour as the scarf draped casually around her throat, had flickered over the rest of us with something akin to amusement…and finally rested on me.

Eventually I had asked – no, I think I begged - this fascinating creature to step outside; the building we were in seemed too small to contain her. I wanted to experience her company unfettered by the confines of bricks and mortar and glass. 

Her breath had been warm against my ear. “In the park, on the little bridge,” she whispered. “Give me ten minutes.”

Now, guilt overwhelms me and forces me to my knees.

I had been late, but I had remained on that bridge until the last champagne-soaked partygoer had left and my hopes had shattered. I remember screaming to the stars; ‘Jennifer! Where are you tonight?’

If only I’d looked down.

Rudvargrad Times, April 17^th.

Breaking news; The body of a young woman, strangled with a green scarf, has been discovered in the lake at Dibrovik Park. Police are appealing for anyone who might remember seeing the woman’s distinctive orange hair and purple dress…

(The song – ‘Jennifer’ by the Eurythmics, 1983.)

A little bit of flash - His other love.

Inspired by our own much-loved Moggy Traveller, and the hours my hubbie used to spend looking after it... 

It was to be her final triumph, the life insurance.

She had planned it to the last detail.

He’d spent hours on the blasted thing, leaving her alone in the house with a silver screen of flickering images for company.

Each evening, he returned from work, wolfed his dinner and donned the tatty, oily jeans and grubby jacket to which the smell of oil, fiberglass filler and Swarfega clung. Then he disappeared into the garage.

Hours and hours he spent in there, rebuilding.

‘It’s an investment’, he told her. ‘It won’t cost us a penny in road tax once it’s done, and I’ll be able to maintain it myself.’

But already, the restoration had taken thousands. From their holiday fund.

Her dream - of a beach hut with an infinity pool on a desert island - had slipped away.

Every moment he spent with his new love, hate ate her up a little more. At Christmas, she even hung a bunch of mistletoe over the bonnet...he thought it was a great joke.

So he wasn’t the only one who spent hours reading the Haynes manual for the Morris Traveller. Or who knew how to tighten a brake union.

When the money finally arrived after the tragic accident, she smiled bravely.

‘I kept asking him if he knew what he was doing,’ she murmured through her tears.

He wasn’t the only one who knew how to fix up a car.

A little bit of flash - Something in my pocket

Pastor Weinbaum’s sermon was dragging.

‘The ungodly shall burn in hellfire...’

At least I’d be warmer, I thought; frost had bitten hard last night. It was the first time I’d needed this coat since last winter. I shoved my hands deep into its pockets in a futile attempt to thaw my half-frozen fingers.
‘…haunts of the wicked, where all manner of debauchery…’

There was a small rectangle buried deep in the pocket. Intrigued, I drew it out. I turned the pink card over and read the words printed on it.

The Emporium  of Delight.

My hand snapped shut over the ticket, my fear of discovery now, as great as it had been then. Heat flooded my body - surely the pastor must feel it radiating from me?

‘…women of ill-repute! Gigolos! Alcohol!’

How could I possibly explain the lure of prohibited pleasure? Memories filled my head. I’d felt like a sparrow among birds of paradise; heady from exotic scents, dazzled by a rainbow of colour and bewildered by music of a kind I’d never heard before. How could I have forgotten the decadence of the interior, all red velvet and gilded wood? Or my first ever sip of champagne from a crystal flute? Or the young gentleman in the peacock blue waistcoat who had flirted so outrageously with me and asked to see me again?

A secret smile tugged at my lips as I stopped listening to the pastor and considered the request.

Maybe he would, I told myself.

When Squidge went skiing...

Yesterday, I had my first ever skiing lesson.

To understand just how momentous an event this was, you have to know something important;

1. I hate being cold.

2. I can't roller skate or ice skate.

3. Skiing has never, at any point in my life, appealed to me. 

So why the lesson?

Mr Squidge has been skiing - once. Years ago, when he was young and fit and a student; the memories of that time have lived on. (Even though he smashed his hip on a rock - because falling over was an easier way to stop than the method taught - and he still has a dint in his thigh as a result, twenty-five years later)

My daughter went skiing earlier this year with school, after a series of lessons at the Tamworth SnowDome. She loved it. 

My son...wants to go skiing.

We have also recently bought, via a charity auction, a week in a friend's flat in Aschau...which has a skiing resort.

Result; they've ganged up on me.

Now, assuming that we can actually book a holiday when there's snow on the ground and which fits in with school term times (like looking for a needle in a haystack, unless we pay extortionate prices for flights and ski passes because the tour operators have got school holidays marked in dark red 'this is where we make the money' ink)  I did say that I was prepared to skiing. 

Once. To try it. 

So the lesson, Katherine, I hear you ask - did you enjoy it? Did you have fun?

Erm... they are not the words I would use to describe the two hours I spent at the SnowDome in Tamworth. I didn't HATE it, but it wouldn't be what I would call fun. I did spend a lot of time laughing - at myself. I am not a natural skiier, and would probably be best repeating the whole of lesson one because I didn't feel comfortable and confident with what I was doing today. I could have done with longer to master the basics

In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if there's a video on YouTube somewhere; me going down the ski slope backwards, on hands and skis with bum in the air, doing about 55 miles an hour before crashing into the barrier at the bottom...

Will I go back? Probably. Will I get better? Maybe. Will I ever enjoy it? That remains to be seen. 

But my favourite choice for a holiday is still sun, sea and sand.

A little bit of flash - Last line/First line

This snippet was based on using the last line of the previous entrant's story as the first line of my own...I picked up a killer.

His words trailed off as the officer disintegrated before his eyes, part of him flying into the hedgerow, part into the row of chrysanthemum’s behind them.

Damn these artificial police officers. The mark 3’s just weren’t sturdy enough for field work.

Ten of the mark 2’s had exploded before anyone realized that a blip in their circuitry was reacting to exposure to chlorophyll and blowing the systems. The Mark 3’s were supposed to have been fixed. At least this one had been OK until he sniffed a daisy.

Matthison pressed the button on his intercom.

“Er – Trath? We seem to have sorted the chlorophyll problem.”

His earpiece crackled with static, then Trath’s voice exploded in his ear.

“Really? Hey, dude, that’s good news!”

Matthison’s face twisted into a grimace within his isolator mask. He’d hoped for success: then the artificials would be out here 24-7 instead of him, looking out for the enviros who were trying to destroy the pure-bred pollaxes. Why the grath couldn’t they see that pollaxes were the only way to feed the population since the Great Contamination? If they got the artificials right, then he wouldn’t have to risk his own ass in the storm of hatha-particles which still filled the atmosphere. Matthison cleared his throat and flicked the intercom switch again.

“Not exactly…they’ve developed a severe case of hayfever instead.” 

Granny Rainbow takes a trip to the printers: Part 1.

When I first thought of self-publishing Granny Rainbow, I knew I didn't want to go via Amazon. Not sure why, exactly, as most of my stories to date have been published using Createspace.

Anyway - yesterday, I went to a local printer, (Dovecote Press), who works with a local publisher I've helped with some editing (Panda Eyes). I took with me a mock-up of formatted text, (based on a 5" x 8" page size) some of the illustrations and the cover design.

I don't know what I was expecting to find at the printers - long gone are the days where huge printing presses clatter and rattle; it's all digitalised and computer screens - but there are still HUGE piles of paper everywhere and tubs of ink...

Anyhow - the upshot is that I now know;

1. A fair bit more about putting a physical book together - Granny Rainbow will be stapled and bound, not 'perfect bound.' The cover hides the staples, and I'm assured that the book won't fall apart.

2. A Xerox machine will be better for my initially small print runs. When I'm selling thousands, it switches to the BIG machine...(yeah, right!)

3. The more I can do up-front with respect to editing, proof-reading and formatting, the better it is for the printer - and the cheaper it could work out for me on unit price.

4. That my initial deadline to myself of 'before Christmas' might not be for the best - the printer advises an after Christmas publication/launch date to take advantage of all those book tokens bought as presents. This is because the printer and publisher have links to our local Waterstones store for their local history books; they are hopeful the branch will support and stock Granny too.

5. How important it is, for me personally, to deal with real people and support local businesses rather than deal with a faceless megacompany.

And the last thing I've learnt? That you can be scared and excited in equal measure when you take the plunge to self-pub because I have no idea how Granny will be received by a wider public - but I'm getting really close to the point of finding out! 

Added sometime later: On the subject of finding out what people think... I am one very happy Squidge! Have now received feedback from four young test-readers of Granny Rainbow... 4/4 likes - nay, dare I say, loves - though I probably need to adjust the intended age range to a slightly younger audience. All the stories were enjoyed,  whether they were read by or to the child, with the 'little green man' and 'black shadow' stories coming out as favourites. Also sounds like they were a hit with some of the parents too...

And just to put the topping on the lovely warm and fuzzy feeling I'm experiencing, I found out that one of those young readers has already introduced her friend to the stories I wrote in 'Reading is Magic'; they have been singing the 'Follow the Yellow Sick Toad' song and made up actions to go with it! How cool is that?!

Beginning to believe that kids really will enjoy my stories...

A little bit of flash - The Bluebird

This is a comp I set - using something visual as inspiration. You can see the variety of stories and what I chose as a winner, here. I couldn't resist writing something myself...

Every Firstday, I send the price of a ticket to the Teatr Fratang. Every Tenthday, I watch the performance, as I have done every mooncycle since the Bluebird arrived.

This Tenthday, like always, I leave the cheap floor seats behind. As the seating rises in height, so too does its price; I can afford to be high. I settle into my usual place, a skyseat in the very centre of the row. The view here is astounding – you can almost reach out and touch The Bluebird as she flies past.

When she steps onto the launching platform, there is a murmur of excitement. Blue-green feathers waft gently around her face, teased by the heat rising from the bodies beneath. Gas lamps add a mellow sheen to her golden bodysuit.

She glances over her shoulder, knowing exactly where I will be. Our eyes lock.

Ungrateful bitch.

To think I was once besotted with her flawless beauty and exquisite performance.

‘My art is for all to enjoy.’ That is what she dared to tell me when she refused the rare blue silk I offered her - my last, desperate attempt to win her over. Well, if I can’t buy her for my own private entertainment…

The Bluebird steps to the edge of the platform and stretches out her arms, readying herself for the first leap.

My eyes drift upwards. To the ceiling, where the ropes and ribbons so integral to her performance, are secured.

Well, all except one.

Knitting socks...and how it helps writing

I bet you're wondering how the heck I can combine knitting socks with writing? All will become clear... I hope!

I like knitting; I'm a pretty accomplished knitter. A few years ago, for a challenge, I taught myself to knit socks. They look fiendishly difficult, but are actually quite easy once you get the hang of where all the pins go. Most of the time, I knit on three pins - on a triangle, if you can imagine that - and except for the fiddly bit when I shape the heel, I'm basically knitting a continuous spiral. On three pins.

See what I mean about the triangle?

(This is where the link to writing comes in... but you don't have to be a knitter to understand it!)

It's this triangular aspect that's important to writing.

Y'see, I did an online self-editing course a little over twelve months ago, run by the Writer's Workshop. (Fab course - one's just about to start again, well worth the money and I guarantee you'll never look at your WIP in quite the same way again after doing it!)

In one of the early lessons, we were given an exercise; to write a maximum of 3 sentences per chapter of our WIP, describing what happens and how that moves the story along. Essentially - where did the scene start, what happens and how do the characters react, where do they end up as a result?

Remember I told you about the three pins? And knitting in a spiral? Well, my story-telling and knitting of socks just morphed into a knit-a-story analogy! Let me explain...

When I knit, I complete three pins worth of stitches to complete one circular row. Three pins - three stages in my chapter. So I can view one row knitted as another chapter completed. And then I do it all over again... I end up a little further along the sock/through the story as a result of this continuous circling; the sock grows, the story develops.

My current WIP, Ani's story, doesn't look like it is going to have chapters. Does that muck up this analogy of one round of three pins equals a chapter?

Not at all. I still use the same three stages (starting point, action, where d'you end up?) over and over again to develop my storyline - but they won't be defined by chapter breaks. If we think of it in knitting terms again, it's more a case of sussing out when the sock's long enough (without counting the rows) before I turn the heel. Or - as was the case with my last pair of socks, knitted from leftover sock wool - when does it feel right to change to a new colour?

Look what I ended up with when I used that method!

I just hope Ani's story ends up as colourful as my odd-bod socks... and that I've not stretched this analogy too far!

A little bit of flash - On the fourth day...

We were given the starter paragraph (in bold) for this one - and we had to do the research to make it authentic in historical detail. As a fantasy writer, I actively avoid research, so this was a challenge and a half... The end result is set circa 1290AD, and relates to Stuttgart.


After four days of rain, when the Neckar River was at its angriest – swollen higher than anyone had ever seen it before – Wilhelm’s life was changed forever. The river was at bursting point with the unstoppable effluence cascading down from the Swabian Alps. Even the infinite, thirsty root system of the vast Black Forest did little to assuage the onslaught.

On that black foreboding day, Wilhelm did not envy the men who, even in these atrocious conditions, continued to raft the best timber the Black Forest could offer on the back of the ‘wild fellow’.

The rain had stopped by the time he set off for his rather less dangerous appointment, and Wilhelm was glad of it. He had not wanted the new woollen mantle to be ruined on its first wearing; he would not regret spending a single pfennig on it, if Count Wurttemberg approved. And at least it hid the worst of the ink-spots that continually stained his tunic. There was, unfortunately, absolutely nothing he could do to hide the ink stains on his fingers...

As he wove between the half-timbered houses, the smoke from their chimneys stinging his eyes, Wilhelm felt a sudden surge of pride for his home. The pasture which had once been home to Duke Luitolf von Schwaben’s stud horses had witnessed the growth of a settlement, a settlement raised to the status of town a little under sixty years ago. And now – now, it was on the verge of transforming into a city. Stuortengarten needed only one more thing before it could be granted that elevated status…and Wilhelm hoped he would be the one to supply it.

The moat around the simple fortified castle had widened by half again, thanks to the four-day long deluge. Pausing at the bridge to gather his thoughts, Wilhelm tried to wipe away the worst of the mud which had splattered his longbraies and shoes, but only succeeded in making things worse.

With a sigh, and hoping the mantle alone would be enough to create a professional appearance, he gave it up. Instead, Wilhelm checked that the parchment was still tucked into his belt. It was.

On it was a simple sketch, but one Wilhelm hoped would grace the new city’s arms for centuries to come. Two black stallions, surrounded by branches and leaves. Stuorten and garten – mare and pasture - a canting coat of arms to pay tribute to the city’s humble origins. He took a deep breath, and marched over the bridge.    

A little bit of flash - The Shipping Forecast

On my way to the harbour, the skipping chant gets louder; I pause to listen.

‘Viking, Utsire - North and South
Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne.’

The names have lost their meaning now…there is too much water, and weather patterns continue to become ever more unpredictable.

‘Dogger, Fisher, German Blight.’

I can’t help smiling. As a child, I thought that a dogger must be someone like old Tom, his hunting hounds running at his heel…and I used to feel scared in case I caught German Blight; was it like marsh fever, which struck suddenly and fatally?

‘Humber, Thames, Dover, Wight.’

The estuaries were swallowed up in the rising waters and London disappeared before I was born, when even the newest Thames barrier proved insufficient. Vast swathes of prime agricultural land were lost from Norfolk at the same time; the latest genetic crop variants are still unable to tolerate the salt-poisoned fields, but we live in hope.

‘Portland, Plymouth,  
Biscay, Trafalgar.'

There's an elephant called Trafalgar in Twycross Zoo - the only one to survive the flood of 2078.

'Fitzroy, Sole,
Luuu-ndy.’ 

Perhaps, one day, the waters will recede and we can reclaim something of what has been drowned. They used to build dykes in Holland…we can build them again.

Higher.

‘Fastnet, Irish Sea, 
Shannon, Rockall, Malin, 
Hebrides, Bailey, 
Faaaair Isle.’

This was once a fair isle indeed if you believe the archives. I’ve pored over all the pictures; The White Cliffs, the Broads, Westminster…so much lost to us.

‘Faeroes, Southeast I-celand.’

As the chant ends and is replaced by laughter, I heft my camera higher on my shoulder and prepare to board.

They call my job ‘Reconnaissance’; a fancy way to say I record the appetite of the water, noting where it’s nibbled the rocks or taken fresh bites of softer sandstone.

Eating my world.

A little bit of flash - Fever.

38 degrees.
The doctor said it was nothing to worry about, probably just a virus. Keep him off school.

41.2 degrees
Another visit to the doctor. Unusual for the fever to have spiked so quickly, but it would pass. Keep giving the magic medicine.

43.6 degrees
Convulsions. Flashing blue lights clear our route to the hospital.

45.8 degrees
Medical staff surround the bed. Sponging with cold water does nothing to bring the temperature down. My boy…

47.7 degrees
The plastic sheet on the mattress has begun to melt and stick to his body. A nurse whispers ‘is it another one?’

49.1 degrees
It shouldn’t be possible – he’s hanging on, but god knows how. We can do nothing but listen to his ragged breaths and the bip bip bip of the monitor.

50.3 degrees
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.    

4 degrees
Autopsy Report.
Initial examination of the deceased showed a viscous grey liquid seeping from the nasal cavity. On opening the skull, it appeared that the brain had melted. Fifth recorded death with identical symptoms.

This is a new locus of infection; twenty three pupils from the deceased’s school, seven members of hospital staff and the child’s parents are already displaying elevated temperatures.

A little bit of flash - Characters

Not strictly speaking a story - but the challenge was to show character-in-action. Both are sketches of characters who I'm hoping will appear in future Rurik stories...

Feliks

The crowd parted.

Into their midst strolled Feliks, his left arm curled possessively around the waist of a Ladylark. As the men fell back he acknowledged them with a wave of the ebony cane in his other hand, the ruby in its handle throwing shards of blood red light over their features.

“Are you having a good time, boys?” The question fell into deep silence. Feliks’ grey eyes narrowed. “It seems not. Rosa - sing!”

The woman at his side planted a kiss on his cheek before wriggling free of his embrace.

Feliks turned towards the bar. “A bottle of Bloodboil, and be quick with it.”

The barman almost ran across to the raised platform, but Feliks still arrived first. The gentleman lowered himself onto the couch, crossing his legs carefully so as to avoid creasing his linen trousers. The cane was laid aside as Feliks fetched a thin silver case from his pocket.

The barman, a sheen of sweat visible across his bald pate, struck a match.

Feliks opened the case and placed a dark cigarette between his lips. He leaned forward to touch it to the flame, which trembled only slightly in his employee’s hands. When a wisp of smoke rose into the air, Feliks waved the man away. 

With a sigh of satisfaction, he loosened the cravat at his throat, undid the gold buttons of his jacket and draped a silken-sleeved arm along the back of the couch.

He took a deep pull on the cigarette, rolling the smoke around his mouth while he surveyed the silent men standing beneath him. As the first notes sounded on the piano, Feliks blew out a perfect smoke ring. 

The diamond in his tooth flashed as he grinned. “Sing, boys! Sing!”

Amba.

 A grimy hand snatched the bread virtually from under the stallholder’s nose.

“Oy!”

But already the thief was out of earshot.

Amba scurried between the long skirts and greatcoats and market barrows, her eyes darting from side to side in a constant search for uniform. She clutched the loaf to her chest, drawing into herself what little heat remained in it. Gradually she slowed her pace.

Only when she was absolutely certain that no-one was after her did she stop. Amba allowed herself a triumphant smile. It had been so easy!

She tucked the loaf into the waistband of her skirt in an attempt to keep it clean and flicked a black flea from the golden crust. They would have a feast tonight – providing she could get it home safely. Almost absently she scratched at a couple of bites on her arm, considering the safest route to take with her treasure.

A pungent smell wafted under her nose. Amba sniffed the air, trying to pin down the source of the deliciousness. Her eyes widened. Over there!

The barrowman speared a fat sausage from his makeshift grill and slapped it between two slices of thick black bread. The sandwich joined several others, all kept warm on a metal tray heated by several candles.

Saliva flooded Amba’s mouth. What a prize that would be, if she could get it.

 

She moved steadily towards her target, taking a circuitous route just like Pa had taught her, all the while scanning faces, making sure that they hadn’t noticed her. She was almost there. Within touching distance. Wait! Wait…till the barrowman turns to the grill again…Now!

Her hand shot out and closed around her prize. She snatched it back and spun away…but she’d been careless! Over there - the unmistakeable navy trousers and red coat of a Protector.   

Progress on my writing targets - how much have I achieved?

Some time back, I set myself some targets in my writing. You can see them here. I looked back over them today, and have surprised myself with what I've achieved.

1. Get Rurik ready for York; York is a dim and distant memory now, but Rurik was there! Admittedly he got conflicting reviews (!) and since then, has been tweaked to reduce the 'ring problem', but that means he's...

2. ...ready to submit to agents again. Over half term next week, I shall be hunting children's agent details, ready to send Rurik out into the world again... And if all else fails, I may self-pub.

4. Plot ideas for a new book; (and yes, I've missed number 3 out - I'll come to that in a minute!) I have begun to jot ideas for not one, but TWO completely different stories. One fantasy, one historical. I've been very organised (for me) and kept them in separate notebooks so they don't get confused, and I've taken the 'just do it' approach to Ani's story, which has been a bit of a revelation.

5. Be more disciplined about writing; since giving up work, I have not felt under as much pressure to write, which oddly, has meant I've been more productive. I have the freedom to clean the house in a morning for example, then write for a couple of hours in the afternoon. The Ultimate Blog Challenge has helped, as have the challenges on terrible minds and the latest charity collections by the short story group I belong to. On the whole - yes, I now write every day - blog, flash, on the laptop, in a notebook, on rough paper...

Finally.

3. Self-publish Granny Rainbow; She's formatted, looking lovely, and out with some young readers at the moment. Laura is working hard to get the pictures finished this month (studies permitting), and I am waiting to hear when I can meet the local publisher to see if he wants to take Granny on. If not, I'm ready to go POD. A friend is playing with cover ideas and I've also been researching local independent bookshops with a view to asking them to stock a book which has been written and illustrated by local folk ('It's a local shop, for local people!' The League of Gentlemen). All this - without a physical book in my hand. I think it's the area where I've had to do the most, yet I'm still a way off achieving the end result. But it will come, hopefully before Christmas.

So there you go.

Squidge is on track and feeling good, though she's becoming aware that she needs to stop herself from getting too distracted by all the 'little' writing projects and keep focussed on the bigger WIP's.

A little bit of flash - Advice

All based on my own personal experience... 

Primary school dress code (females).

Don’t be tempted to buy expensive items to wear at school. Buy from Primani or a charity shop, so you won’t get upset at the glue/paint/snot/pigeon poo that finds its way onto your clothing and never, ever comes off.

Wear what you want to wear, even if it’s a bit different to what is currently fashionable. Better to blaze a trail than follow the herd. (Don’t worry that the Year 6 girls don’t agree with your choices – you can get your own back when they arrive, completely overdressed, for the school disco).

Always check the back view of your reflection. You might be able to ignore it, but the kids will tell everyone about your horrendous VPL.

Do remember to wear several layers, as classrooms are either red hot and stuffy or freezing. The upside is that when you look like the Michelin woman, children just bounce off when they run into you on the playground.

Choose shoes carefully. The one day you decide to wear heels will be the day after rain, when the teacher takes the class out onto the field for an inventive lesson in spelling. 

Don’t wear anything the same colour as the school uniform if you are vertically challenged. It’s not good for morale to be told off by a dinner lady who has mistaken you for a pupil. 

'Can't you see I'm getting older?'

It's a line from George Micheal - his album 'Older' - which I bought the year I was 30. I suppose it came to mind because last Sunday, we had a family celebration for my mum's 70th. So 'age' was very much on-topic, especially as we sat working out how many grandchildren would be 18 the year I was 50!

Sometimes, my own age takes me by surprise. Not that I feel ancient - just that I suddenly catch sight of myself and think 'how did I get so grey?' or 'when did my daughter get taller than me when she's not wearing heels' or 'exactly how old am I again?'

When I was 40, we put together a load of photos of me growing up and I flicked back through them yesterday evening. Made me laugh - I obviously had a thing about dressing up even when I was little (I could've posted a picture of me as Great Uncle Bulgaria, from The Wombles...but wasn't brave enough!)

I thought I'd share a few of them with you, so you can have a laugh at my expense this wonderful Wednesday!

Toddler Squidge

Dressed for a dance show

'Big School'

The Uni years

2004 - the grey creeps in

        

2006 - 70's night

A little bit of flash - 'It rained anyway...'

My sister always plans everything to perfection.

“Quentin and I will be married on Moonlight Island as soon as it gets dark,” she told me. “I shall be Ophelia, and he, Oberon. Fairy lights will twinkle in the trees and the lake will be full of our guests, watching from candlelit gondolas. There will be swans and mermaids -”

“Mermaids? “

“Mermaids, yes. And afterwards, the new Mr and Mrs Farquason-Smythe will be rowed sedately back across the lake to the sound of haunting music.”

“What, as in ‘whoooo’?”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll proceed to the magical gazebo - ”

“A tent that does tricks?”

“Jane, you’re not taking this seriously.”

“Sorry. Carry on.”

“Proceed to the gazebo, where we will partake of a sumptuous buffet, followed with starlit dancing on the lawn until the small hours.”

“Riiight…”

You see, that’s the problem with Marcie. She never does things by halves; her wedding day is Midsummer’s Eve, so now we’re up to our necks in Shakespeare, impractical gossamer gowns, mermaids and fairies. I swear she’s even organised a balmy summer evening.

I tried to sound a note of caution, but she would she listen? Would she heck!

Nothing would go wrong, she assured me. Her wedding was planned to the nth degree. Everything was sorted, from the bridesmaids disguised as flower fairies to shower the newlyweds in rose petals to her exquisite designer stilettos and matching fairy wings. Woe betide anyone or anything that spoils her dream.

But there are some things you just can’t plan for.

It rained anyway.

Colouring in - how hard can it be?

My son has just started an art project at school, where he has to focus on a particular artist.

He's a pretty good artist himself - he prefers to draw very detailed miniatures in black and white - hence his choice of artist: the wonderfully talented Chris Riddell, who illustrated the amazing Edge Chronicles, Coraline, the Grayeyard Book, Platypus and loads of other titles of his own and others authorship. (And his blog is amazing - lots and lots of sketchbook pics!)

T was really excited, thought it would be a great project. Based on what his sister had had to do two years ago, we knew you had to reproduce pieces of the artist's work, which, given that Mr Riddell works mainly in black-and-white, T thought it would be right up his street.

Until this week.

For homework, T had to use coloured pencils on his chosen image. Not a problem, we thought - all Chris's book covers are in colour.

There's just one teeny-weensy problem.

T hates adding colour to his drawings. (Unless it's great big, bold blocks of it on robots and fantastic creatures.) He feels that it ruins all the hard work and detail he's put into the basic pencil drawing, and he is never, ever satisfied with the end result - because he hasn't chosen to use colour often enough on detailed pictures to get good at it.

So then we start to slide down a vicious spiral...

'My colouring in is rubbish, so I won't do it...which means I'm not getting better at it...which means my pictures look rubbish...so I'm not going to colour anything and why does the teacher want colour anyway? I don't like colour - I like pencil! Why can't I just do it in pencil?'

I like drawing and colouring - heck, I even had some designs made into rubber stamps a few years back - and I'm trying to help and encourage as much as I can. Ultimately though, it's up to T, and whether he can accept that school art is there to broaden his experience, allowing him to use different artistic media.

But it did set me wondering. Do I do the same in my writing sometimes? Stick to what I'm comfortable with, refusing to push the boundaries of my creativity and refusing to persist with something 'cos it seems too hard?

Well, blog reader, you'll have to be the judge of that. Every even-numbered day through October, I'm posting 'a little piece of flash', here on Squidge's Scribbles. I consider them my 'practise pieces' when I'm trying something different - you'll have to let me know whether my 'colouring in' is OK?

Or do I have to practise a bit more?

Note - added later by viewer request...one of T's pencil drawings and THE coloured-in one that sparked this post...

A little bit of flash - 17 Nouns

This story had to be woven around 17 nouns, taken from the 17 entries to a previous comp. The nouns are in bold...


Because of the invitation, I faced an agony of indecision. Did I dare bridge the yawning gap between us?

I only saw him yesterday.

Before the temperature had risen too high, I’d gone to the beach. I’d danced along the shingle, laughing like a child, revelling in my aloneness.

But someone had laughed with me; a man, standing on the balcony of the old colonial mansion which overlooked the river. “What’s your name?” he’d called.

Should I have answered? I wasn’t supposed to, but there was something about his smile…so I did.

Today, while I feed endless lengths of material towards the darting needle of the sewing machine, all my thoughts are of him. Of his pale skin and hair, and of the eyes which I am certain will be as blue as the sky above my head. Such a contrast to my own dark colouring.

He is a free spirit…I am tied.

“Get stitchin’!”

Marla punctuates her order with a slap, so I stitch carefully around the cuff, hiding my terror of her. My pitiful salary is hers to command…the sun seems to shine less brightly as I remember that.

So now, I am back at the river house. I am no fool; this is no courtship. I am merely an amusement, a fact confirmed when a glass is raised in a mocking toast at my approach.

Strangely, my thoughts turn to Marla. I can earn more in one night here than in a month with her.

When the man smiles, his teeth shine in the candlelight.


Picture credit: Delia Tournay Godfrey

Don't forget, blog reader, that you have a chance to 'Challenge Me'; give me 3 unrelated items which, if chosen by my family, will be woven into a unique piece of flash and posted on the 31st. Leave them here if you fancy having a go...