Well, just one week away ‘in the bush’ (well, not quite), and my head is spinning with ideas. Nothing concrete just yet, although I have a host of notes in my little black notebook.
I’ve been wonderfully distracted on my return today by all the stories which my writer friends have been posting while I’ve been away: you are so prolific! And, of course, I just had to stop to read some of these awesome posts. Oh, and do some paid work for my website and social media clients.
Normal service should be resumed next week…plus I mustn’t neglect the work-in-progress novel.
‘Okay lads, let’s get going, the tide’s turning.’ The foreman shouted to the gang of stevedores standing at the quayside. The log vessel was docking. Ropes were thrown and secured to the moorings; shouts were exchanged between the men.
Young Eddie Stevens entered the cargo hold immediately it was opened. Jimmy McCabe was right behind him. ‘Wait, Eddie. We need to get the ropes,’ shouted Jimmy. Too late, Eddie was already scrambling over the slippery stripped logs. He lost his footing and, as the logs turned in on themselves, Eddie was sucked down like a towel in a mangle.
Jimmy tied a rope around his waist, throwing the other end to Joe Taylor. He scrambled to where Eddie had been swallowed up. Glancing behind him he eased himself down. The hold was deep and dark. The air felt thick. He called out to Eddie. No response.
Jimmy twisted and turned through the narrow spaces between the logs. His chest was tightening; his head began to pound. He reached out again and felt something yielding. It was Eddie’s arm. He felt around; found his face, soft like a baby’s. He wasn’t breathing. Jimmy clung on to him. His brain seemed too big for his skull. Jimmy closed his eyes in the dark, warm womb of the hold. His last thought was of his pretty young wife, Marie, his little son and the child Marie was carrying.
***
Marie looked at the clock; half past five. She looked down, Jimmy Junior was playing on the floor with the shiny Dinky cars which Jimmy had brought home for him a week ago. Marie smiled and rubbed her back. She was eight months gone with a little brother or sister for Jimmy Junior. She sat down, sighed and murmured happily, ‘Daddy’ll be home soon.’
Well, this one does! Or rather, I’m going away from home – just for a week – to somewhere new and exciting.
Tomorrow we fly to Botswana, to Maun by the Okavango Delta. A rather different part of Africa from where we now call home (Somerset West in South Africa). More like ‘wild’ Africa.
I’ve scheduled a couple of posts but my laptop is staying at home, so back to pen and notebook. Will there be scary, dark stories? Will there be animal adventures and tall tales set in the bush?
Not being able to write is a sad fact of life for a writer. There’s laundry to do, there’s food to cook, there’s sleep to be had. Worse, I have this pesky illness that eats up a lot of my time. I toil day in and day out to keep it at bay and under control. Sometimes, it creeps into my evenings, just when I think I’ve escaped. Worse, the horror of it all often keeps me awake at night and the dread fills my dreams with terror and sadness.
Interesting article and well worth a look, including the comments. My take on this is that you personally have to get out there, not just hide behind the computer (not that I’ve actually taken that important step…yet).
She’s put out the snacks and brought his beer, chilled, in his special glass (one of them). More beers are in the fridge; she has a pie ready to warm for half-time – steak and kidney – his preferred.
Pre-match build up: pundits pontificate; re-runs, highlights, triumphs and near misses. There is success and then there is shame. Which will it be today? National Pride is at stake, for this is the World Cup.
As she sits, small and submissive on the far end of the couch, she plays a different commentary in her head. Missed penalties, own goals, bad decisions by the ref. The repercussions: cuts and bruises (hers); failure on the field reflected in domestic disappointment.
Predictions are favourable. The odds of a positive outcome are weighed in favour. She weighs up her own odds: win or draw 20 per cent, lose 50 per cent (the chances of a beating).
I’ve been in a bit of a dark place (with my writing) as you’ll see in the next couple of days, if you follow my stories. But while prevaricating over the scene I’m busy with at the moment, I came across this happy little tale. It has cats, travel and ice cream, so what’s not […]
Once upon a time, I was a college student in New York City. Like every other English major on the planet, I thought it would be great to intern as an editor. Unfortunately, I missed out on a publishing gig and landed on the Promotions & Merchandising team at Interview magazine instead. My plan was to move across to Editorial as soon as there was an opening but that never happened because I LOVED working in Promotions. Here are some tips I’ve picked up about promoting people and products over the years:
Add value
People access media for two key reasons: to be entertained or to be informed. Most book marketing takes the informative angle. This book is about… This book is on sale… The problem with this approach is that you’re offering information you want to provide, not that readers want to acquire.
She’d taken a dislike to me, made that doll-thing with the pins stuck in it. I stole it from her house while she was out, but she saw me on the way back. She knew.
I tried to make one of her, as a precaution; sure she’d make another one of me. But I couldn’t get the likeness. She didn’t though. Those pains never returned; the ones from the pins. Just that sick feeling whenever something reminded me of it.
Folk in the village cottoned on; others had suffered too. I never said much; smiled, nodded and moved on.
The following spring, I was visited by a crow. He sat on my washing line and looked at me, his head on one side. He came every day. I fed him titbits; told him my troubles.
Other people had crows visit too; the ones who’d fallen out with her.
One spring day more arrived. First a couple; one alighted on the church spire, the other on the maypole – mine, I thought. More came, settling on her roof, on window ledges and door frames, covering the house in a black shroud.
Folk gathered on the village green. Windows cracked, wood splintered. No-one went to her aid. We drifted back to our houses.
Night fell.
In the morning, they’d gone. The little house had been stripped bare. The small, stooped skeleton pecked clean inside.
Some called it a murder of crows. I called it revenge.
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