Reviving the Art

Tags

Dorset, illustration, writing

Jenny’s inspirational book

A couple of weeks back I had the pleasure of dropping in to a signing session at a local bookshop. The author was Dorset writer Jenny Hunt, and the book was her A Year on Chesil Beach – A Sketchbook. I enjoyed chatting with Jenny and bought a copy of the book. It’s a thing of beauty (and of wonderful observation) before you read a word – a facsimile of an artist’s sketchbook printed on heavyweight paper and ring-bound. It is obviously a labour of love, and, since I live close to the Chesil beach and know it very well, it touched me to the heart.

It also fired up an idea that has been mulling away at the back of my mind for some time. Why not take the plunge and illustrate my own books?

Well, you may ask, are you any good at art, then? The answer is that I was quite good at it when I was younger, though I had only limited formal training. Having said that, I had only limited formal training at writing, too – and I’ve never let that stop me. And so I found myself, the other day, purchasing a set of fine point pens and rummaging in a cupboard in search of drawing paper and pencils and nervously asking myself what sort of effect I wanted to achieve.

The answer, as so often, was staring me in the face: the lovely Q (for quirky) that stands in the heading for this blog. The plant-inspired stories I want to illustrate are highly-stylised, intricate, semi-naturalistic and faux-medieval. My Q is in the style of William Morris and the Arts and Crafts Movement – which is, er, highly-stylised, intricate, semi-naturalistic and faux-medieval – and also largely out of place in the modern, high-speed, throwaway world we live in. Perfect! That’s exactly why I like it.

The ideas began to germinate thick and fast, just like the medieval-style plant scrolls on Morris wallpaper. I have some intense research to do, and the work will be slow, painstaking and probably deeply unfashionable, if I can manage it at all. I don’t care. Will it be saleable? I don’t care. Will it even be printable? I still don’t care. It’s right for me, and hopefully I can produce something I love. Commercial considerations don’t come into it.

The first experimental drawing, based on one of my own plant photographs, is already taking shape. I just couldn’t wait to get started. So watch this space – I’m happy to share my experiments (successes or failures) with readers of this blog. I doubt I’ll manage to produce anything as beautiful as Jenny’s inspirational book, but it’s going to be fun trying. Life for me these days is not about being as good (or better) than anyone else, or selling things, it’s about the satisfaction of creativity. So here I go, it’s time for my own little artistic revival!

 

For information on A Year on Chesil Beach, see the website: http://www.archaeopteryx-imprint.co.uk/shop.php?product/page/117/A+Year+on+Chesil

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Books for Free?

Tags

authors, free e-books, publishing, social media, writing

I’ve just read a cri de coeur on social media from yet another writer ready to throw in the towel. Not that she intends to give up writing, you understand – what she is giving up is the unequal struggle to make even a very modest living from it.

When I began writing novels I certainly never expected to earn a living from it – but even I was taken aback by the amount of effort (writing itself, promotion) that I needed to put in to receive even a tiny return. The increasing expectation for the written word to be provided for free, at least over the internet, certainly doesn’t help.

I have long since thrown in the towel myself. The struggle to sell reading material, even at a very low price, became more trouble than it was worth when it began to affect my health. I still have books for sale, all inhabiting the murky lower depths of the Amazon rankings – but I no longer put myself through the soul-destroying process of trying (and failing) to promote them. I write for fun these days. And in a sense that makes me part of the problem for the struggling writer.

Why is this? Well, my future writing is likely to be available for nothing. Anyone who wants a copy can have it. I might even serialise my work (I still think of it as work) on this blog. This allows me to concentrate on my writing without the stress of trying to run what is effectively a failing small business. It’s the only way forward for me.

If I were the only person in this situation it wouldn’t matter. But I suspect increasing numbers of people feel the same. The result can only be that the internet, in all its forms, is flooded with even more ‘free content’. It’s already easy to find free downloads of books (legitimate or not) and to read newspapers and articles of all kinds. This blog post, which takes time and thought to write, comes to you free of charge, my dears. No-one need ever pay for something to read – so why would they? Pretty soon only the best known authors will be able to get away with asking people to pay for their books.

So must we all go with this inevitable flow, or is there a solution for the struggling author? The only one I can think of is to give e-books away for nothing – and charge for advertising space, in the way many blogs (not this one!) already do. Many other kinds of entertainment, and the internet itself, pay for themselves this way, whilst making the content free to the user. What do you think? Would you mind finding pages of cleverly targeted advertising (I’m sure that’s possible) in your e-books if you received them for nothing? Authors and publishers already use the space at the ends of e-books to advertise their other titles – isn’t this just taking it one step further? The author then gets paid from the advertising revenue rather than directly from the audience. Does it matter? I’d love to know what you think.

Writing about the Elusive

Tags

memories, writing

I am trying to write about very specific feelings – the sort of feelings that surface, just briefly, when a memory is triggered: the smell of something takes you back to a time and place, or a sound that does the same thing. These are very transitory feelings, hard to hold onto and harder to describe. For instance:

When I think of a village I knew as a child – a place with a duck pond – it brings an instant sense of late-afternoon summer warmth, of the smell of the pond, the dusty colour of worn red brick. But there is something else – a sort of essence of childhood that is far harder to identify. The more I try to think of it by reliving the memory, the harder it is to find. So I am unable to express it in words – I can only feel it. This is deeply frustrating.

These elusive feelings often relate to nature (for me), and I have wanted all my life to pin them down, write about them –  in effect, show them to others. For instance:

The feeling I have standing before a wild hedge in a quiet country road. It is mid-spring, everything is growing furiously; it is late in the day, on the edge of twilight. The trees are darkening, everything smells damp and earthy and lively, the white flowers in the hedge-bottom glow in the half-light… You get the picture. There is a very specific feeling associated with this scenario, and I’ve felt it many times. I suppose it’s a feeling of being at one with nature. But it is so fleeting. I can describe the surroundings – but does that convey how it feels to be there, to a reader? I rather doubt it. And trying to write about it has made the feeling dissipate.

I have all this on my mind because my current work in progress is a rather arcane piece that I feel requires me to capture fleeting feelings of this type – temporary reactions, impressions, scraps of memory – and put them securely into words so they can’t fade away. This is proving so difficult that I don’t know if I’ll ever succeed. I have a feeling, though, that the attempt will leave me a better writer. I’ll let you know how I get on.

The End of the Publishing Dream?

Tags

publishing, social media, writing

I received a little billet-doux yesterday, with ‘love from WordPress’, informing me of an upcoming change. It wasn’t an enormously important matter, but I felt it put one of the final nails in the coffin of a dream. What dream is that, you ask? Why, it’s the dream that you could sell your books through social media – sell them with minimal marketing knowledge and at no cost. Technology would do it all for you – open up a world of potential readers at your fingertips. All it needed was a little effort and anyone could sell their books with ease. Write it, publish it, sell it. Just like that.

I got involved in this wonderful dream on the (erroneous) understanding that I would write the books and modern technology would sell them for me. Of course, I overlooked the fact that the internet is run by big business, and business doesn’t get to be big by giving away too much for nothing. Little by little the freely-available opportunities on social media have been chipped away and replaced by new opportunities to place paid-for ads.

Now, I’ve spent a lot of time on social media. I have read posts, chatted to people – and, in particular, dutifully endured the carefully-targeted ads that have been so artfully placed in front of me. I feel I’ve done my share of being advertised to by big business. Is it really asking so much that I be allowed to tell people about my books without being obstructed at every turn and money being demanded? Apparently it is. The publishing dream for many of us has faded to a shadow of its former self. These days it takes lots of marketing nous, time and, yes, money to stand much of a chance of even moderate success.

Yes, yes, you say – but what exactly was in the ‘billet-doux’ you mentioned at the start of this post? Do tell. Oh, that. It’s a minor thing, really – a change of policy by Facebook which means I will soon no longer be able to get blog posts like this one to appear automatically on my FB profile. This is the last one that will appear that way. A small irritation, and one you can get round, but it takes longer to do. One more straw on the back of a camel that is becoming decidedly wobbly under the load. (I’m depending heavily on old sayings today. Sorry.) But it makes the point: the restrictions and obstacles that social media, and indeed, Amazon, are placing in the way of authors are building up.

I for one feel it’s enough to make me retreat to the unread, cobwebby corners of my blog and publish my writing there, free to all. Not many people will find it there – but not many find it on social media or Amazon either (unless I pay for it), so I can’t see that I’m significantly worse off.

I suspect, too, that I’m not the only one who feels like this, that the wonderful publishing dream is over. Will disillusioned authors start to leave social media (and Amazon) in droves? There are an awful  lot of them. And who will be there to read all those carefully-targeted ads then, eh? Not me. I think that’s called killing the goose that laid the golden egg…

Unknotting the Yarn

Tags

writer's block, writing

What are you to do, as a writer, when there is a Big Idea bursting to get out of your head? Celebrate? Maybe. But what if you can’t find the words to express it? It’s frustrating when you sense the idea is good but can’t find a way to winkle it out of your brain and onto the page – when all your efforts look, well, lame, when you read them back, and not as you intended. Or you seem to be endlessly repeating yourself – saying the same thing in different ways, and not progressing. Not good. So you stop.

Some people throw up their hands at this point and wail, ‘Writer’s block! What can you do?’

Well, to begin with, you can go back and re-examine the Big Idea. Had you truly given it enough thought before you leapt in and started writing? Come on, now, be honest. In the heady rush of initial enthusiasm have you neglected to put even the haziest of plans on paper? I’m not suggesting you make a full and detailed plan at this point, especially if you’re a seat-of-the-pants writer who likes to make it up as you go along. But it’s not a bad idea to write yourself a considered description of what you want this piece of writing to achieve. What are your main aims in this work? What do you want your readers to feel? What do you want them to think? What exactly is it you’re trying to create?

Now think about your theme (or themes): nice and clear, or hopelessly muddled? Tell the truth now.

If you struggle to name your aims and themes, it’s no wonder you’re having trouble expressing them in your work. Figure them out, explain them to yourself and write them down. Once you’ve unravelled this knot in your yarn (so to speak), with clear aims and themes, the way forward should be far easier to see.

I’m only saying all this as I’ve just been through this difficulty myself. On stopping to think carefully, I realised my basic idea was far too vague. I’m a seat-of-the-pants sort of writer myself, I admit, and don’t take happily to rigid writing plans – but I do need some guidelines to help me along the way. So I’ve created some. Here’s what mine (a sort of conversation with myself) looks like:

Aims and Themes

Aim 1: Create a completely new style of book. (Thoughts: no pressure there, then. Needs much more consideration on exactly how to do it.)

Aim 2: Intrigue the reader with a collection of curious incidents and quirky characters. (Thoughts: can actually do that! Create helpful list of incidents and characters. Do it now.)

Aim 3: Create a unique atmosphere, make everything interconnected on multiple levels. (Thoughts: pay careful attention to word use and interconnected meanings, Kath.)

Aim 4: Involve the reader. Let them think they affect the story in the way they understand the interconnected meanings. (Thoughts: still working on that one.)

Themes: (Thoughts: bear in mind this is intended to be a short book. Please delete the 37 themes you have written down and say something sensible.)  Theme 1: The character of nature. Theme 2: The nature of character (Thoughts: far too clever for your own good.)

 

Yes, I’m approaching it light-heartedly, and it’s far from crystal clear, but it is helping me to identify the reasons I’m having difficulty and decide the best way forward. I can add to, or adapt these ideas in time, of course, but it really helps to have some sort of guide. I can look at everything I’ve written in the light of these aims and themes and see what is out of place. I have stopped going round in circles and there is a distant destination coming into focus. There will be many more knots to unravel in this piece of writing, but for now I have found the thread of my yarn and can move happily on.

Z is for Zinnia

Tags

Flash Fiction, flowers

Aunt Zinnia’s Last Stand

“Put it away, Nigel,” said his aunt. “Kites is not genteel.”

Nigel stared defiantly at his Aunt Zinnia. Genteel. Such an annoying word.

It was a large box kite he had been flying, trimmed with a flowing tail, the envy of all the other boys. Who was she to say it wasn’t genteel?

Aunt Zinnia waited, arms folded, tapping her foot. The kite continued to fly, describing glorious multi-coloured circles in the gusty wind. Nigel could only just hold on to it. It would be criminal to bring it down when it was flying so well, aunt or no aunt. He had contrived a wide hook as a convenient hand-hold.

“I shall turn my back, Nigel, and count to twenty. I expect that kite to be on the ground when I turn back.”

In later years, Nigel often wondered what had come over him at that precise moment, for when Aunt Zinnia turned and began to count, he had stepped forward and thrust the hook into her vast hat. The kite took off at speed, taking with it both the hat and the wig to which it was pinned. The sight of her dashing about the park, scrappy grey hair flying, shouting ‘Come back’, all thoughts of gentility forgotten in the urgency of the moment, was one that recurred often in Nigel’s memory. As did the thrashing he received later. But, at least, he never heard her use the word ‘genteel’ again.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com

Gentle Sales Pitch…

Tags

Larus, sea stories, Whales and Strange Stars

I don’t often spend time promoting my books directly, because I know we are all bombarded with ‘special offers’ all over social media and I find it as tiresome as anyone else. However, just for once, I’ll tell you that my Larus books (best described as Olde-English fantasy) and my historical novel Whales and Strange Stars (my favourite book ever if I hadn’t written it myself!) are all available in e-book formats for just 99p, from now until Thursday. They’re delightful books and it’s an ideal opportunity to read something a bit different this summer. I shall say no more. Sales pitch over!

You can find my books here

Y is for Yucca

Tags

Flash Fiction, flowers

Inspired by the Yucca, or Adam’s Needle

Adam’s Needle 

You could guarantee the door handle was laden with a full cargo of germs, thought Mr Adam, gloomily. The door knocker, too. Well, everything was covered in germs, wasn’t it? He was so concerned, indeed, that he had taken to visiting the doctor at the slightest indication of ill health.

In this instance it was a splinter embedded in his right thumb that had convinced him his days were numbered. The doctor would attempt to tell him otherwise, of course – but then, he always did. What did doctors know, really? In the meantime, the puzzle of how to get into the doctor’s house without actually touching the indescribably grubby door furniture, and thus acquiring a further burden of germs had flummoxed him. Mr Adam waited patiently on the door step until another visitor arrived and kindly knocked on his behalf.

“It will surely set up a fatal infection, doctor,” he said, five minutes later. He waved the thumb, containing the minute splinter, under the doctor’s nose and had to prevent himself giving a wail of anguish.

“Nonsense. It is nothing,” snapped the doctor, whose usually breezy bedside manner had been worn down by Mr Adam’s frequent visits. “Go home. Take the splinter out with a needle if you must, or leave it to come out on its own.  And stop troubling me with these trivialities. That will be five guineas.”

Mr Adam huffed at this unsatisfactory response, but he paid up and returned home as instructed.

He was found on his drawing room carpet the following week, as dead as dead could be, felled by a massive infection, as the coroner said, stemming from the splinter in his thumb.

By his side there was a note, scrawled with his left hand. It read, “I told you so…”

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com

W is for Water-lily

Tags

Flash Fiction, flowers

Inspired by Nymphaea ‘Barbara Dobbins’

Into the Lake

“That girl will come out covered in leeches,” said the Reverend, shaking his head.

But even such an unpleasant prospect could not deter Miss Dobbins from venturing into the lake. She had tried in vain to borrow a little boat, but none could be found.

“If I have no boat,” she said, quite determined, “then I shall swim.” You see, Miss Dobbins was engaged to marry a seagoing man.

I feel close to him, she thought, in the water. Swimming gently among the lily-pads with her chin on the surface, she felt at ease, knowing he was on the water, too. Even if he was far away on a great sea, the floating feeling was something in common, something she could share with him. She relished it, and she ignored the vicar’s disapproving remarks.

By the end of the summer she felt she knew the whole topography of the lake in an intimate way: the shallows, the little flower-trimmed headlands, every water-lily bud, every reed-mace. She felt part of it, emotionally engaged with the expanse of still water. The lake stood proxy for her absent love.

On the day the terrible news came, that his ship was lost without hope of survivors, she went into the lake as usual, with every sign of complete serenity.

But Miss Dobbins never came out again.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com

V is for Violet

Tags

flash_fiction, flowers

Inspired by Viola sororia ‘Freckles’

Pig News

“The freckled pig has escaped again, Miss!” shouted Irish Molly.

Miss Catforth tutted, and continued planting her violets. “Well go and catch her,” she called back.

But she knew the request was in vain. The girl was a powerful force in the kitchen, no denying it – an excellent cook – but she had no way with animals at all, unless they were about to be put on a plate. She was afraid of the pig, and it would get up to no good, left alone.

“Oh, Miss! The piglets are all out, now, too!”

Motherhood had rendered the pig wilful, and it had learned to lift the latch on its pen. No number of ingenious fastenings could keep the creature inside these days. And now she had taught the piglets to do it, too.

“Miss, Miss! They are all in the turnip store now.”

This was too much. Miss Catforth set down her trowel, stood up, and called, “Molly, go and fetch Rodney to help. Go now!”

It was very inconvenient, what with Lord Plunket due to visit that afternoon. Bad enough, she thought, that she had to plant her own violets, without having to chase pigs, too. So unladylike! What would his lordship think if he heard of it? It would seem she was in charge of a most incompetent and chaotic household. But times were hard for Miss Catforth. She needed and desired Lord Plunket’s patronage and support, or the whole farm would go to rack and ruin. She had nothing much left but the land and her good name.

In the meantime, she must get those pigs out of the turnips. In the distance she could hear Irish Molly bawling for Rodney to come out of the fields and catch the pigs, if he pleased. Useless girl.

The freckled pig, its mouth full of turnip, looked up at her with a defiant and beady eye. Miss Catforth clapped her hands and shooed. The pig continued eating, the half-grown piglets scurrying round about and squealing.

“To the devil with you!” she shouted in frustration and turned to find herself nose to nose with Lord Plunket himself.

“Oh, sir!” she said, regarding his smart visiting clothes, and her own grubby gardening smock. “I had thought you were arriving later.”

“Evidently,” said his lordship, kindly. “Now, may I be of assistance? I have some experience of pigs. Tricky blighters…”

And together they rounded up the freckled pig and all the piglets, and retreated indoors muddied, but arm in arm for tea. Perhaps, thought Miss Catforth, an escapologist pig is not such a bad thing for a single woman to possess!

The pig herself, mindful of her next exit, already had her nose under the latch.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com