My usual feelings on a Friday would be – Yipee! The weekend starts here – but today is not an ordinary Friday because another year starts here very soon.
If I could share one piece of advice given to me during the latter part of this year, as I’ve been trying to find the right words in the various assignments I’ve been set on my course, it would be, in a nutshell, ‘don’t over-think, just write Pauline write.’ Very true.
Have a fabulous evening.
Here’s to a happy and healthy New Year, and the exciting challenges 2011 will no doubt bring.
Keep writing!
PPx
Friday 31 December 2010
Wednesday 24 November 2010
A Dress Code?
We are going away at the weekend and I’m making a start on the packing. I have a dress I’m going to take that after I bought it caused me regret and dilemma. Looking at it again has made me ponder; something like this.
I bought it on impulse in a sale. I suppose the keen price tag and in my size was why I gave it a second look. But the real attraction was the feel of the soft material, the way it hung in easy flowing lines, and the swirl of colours, shades of blue and mushroom. Small details also caught my eye, covered buttons, slinky belt and small cap sleeves. I just loved it, and bought it.
Unfortunately the dress has hung in my wardrobe for a couple of years unworn, apart from a couple of times in the house when I’ve ‘tried it out’. Why? Because it's too short, just on the knee. Or rather I think it’s too short to wear with only a pair of tights and shoes for support; what a wimp I am!
Then I noticed the younger girls at work looking very smart in similar styles. I asked myself, what was the difference? On closer inspection it was the layer-look, boots and leggings. I had boots, suitable fine tops, all I had to buy was a pair of leggings and put them altogether. Hey Presto!
You’ve probably worked out by now what I’m trying to suggest in relation to writing. Rarely do first ideas and drafts work, as I can testify on a weekly basis; they always lack something, or plenty. Most of the main points are usually there, characters, style, plot, setting, dialogue, but they might be in the wrong order or need another ingredient to fuse the various elements together; like I said, it’s just a thought.
Don’t throw anything away, look at it from another angle, tweak with a fresh addition. I did, and was described as looking ‘cool’ by those same young girls in the office; I’ve been studying my writing more closely too.
Till next time.
PP
I bought it on impulse in a sale. I suppose the keen price tag and in my size was why I gave it a second look. But the real attraction was the feel of the soft material, the way it hung in easy flowing lines, and the swirl of colours, shades of blue and mushroom. Small details also caught my eye, covered buttons, slinky belt and small cap sleeves. I just loved it, and bought it.
Unfortunately the dress has hung in my wardrobe for a couple of years unworn, apart from a couple of times in the house when I’ve ‘tried it out’. Why? Because it's too short, just on the knee. Or rather I think it’s too short to wear with only a pair of tights and shoes for support; what a wimp I am!
Then I noticed the younger girls at work looking very smart in similar styles. I asked myself, what was the difference? On closer inspection it was the layer-look, boots and leggings. I had boots, suitable fine tops, all I had to buy was a pair of leggings and put them altogether. Hey Presto!
You’ve probably worked out by now what I’m trying to suggest in relation to writing. Rarely do first ideas and drafts work, as I can testify on a weekly basis; they always lack something, or plenty. Most of the main points are usually there, characters, style, plot, setting, dialogue, but they might be in the wrong order or need another ingredient to fuse the various elements together; like I said, it’s just a thought.
Don’t throw anything away, look at it from another angle, tweak with a fresh addition. I did, and was described as looking ‘cool’ by those same young girls in the office; I’ve been studying my writing more closely too.
Till next time.
PP
Saturday 13 November 2010
Still dreaming ...
A few days ago I ended my blog in the bath, dreaming. I had also digressed because I meant to say that while we were strolling around Morrab Gardens in Penzance, we passed the little French bistro we occasionally go to for a treat. Sitting at a window table on her own was a lady, presumably waiting for her food to arrive, drinking a glass of white wine and reading a book. The sun was streaming in through the window and she was oblivious of my envious backward look as husband dragged me away from gawping at her.
I know there's nothing unusual about someone reading a book at a table, but something always stirs in me, an irrational jealousy almost, as if I cannot do that. I think it is because I am witnessing two of the things I like to do, reading and drinking wine; the act of putting them together is heaven.
Watching her reminded me of an evening in the summer when we went on the spur of the moment into St.Ives after work. We took Max and walked along the front, around the headland, across the top of the beaches, and stopped off at another favourite eatery. Sitting directly on Porthgwidden Beach it is a perfect spot. We tucked Max under one of the tables on the terrace and ordered food and drinks.
The early evening sun was still warm and we had uninterrupted views out to sea and the expanse of clean white sand below us. We had completely forgotten about our individual stressful days at work but chatted and laughed, marveling at how lucky we are to live so close to such a special place.
I must sound as if I work for VisitCornwall but what I wanted to say was, that I noticed sitting behind us, a man at a small round table, cutlery laid out for his meal and he was enjoying a glass of red wine, but he too was oblivious of us and others, he was quite content with his own company and his book in which he was immersed; a perfect image.
Of course through the summer I'm sure you must have noticed many people relaxing and reading. I saw lots on sun-loungers around the pool on holiday, on deckchairs on the beach, and even someone floating in one of those blown-up plastic chairs in a pool. The sheer enjoyment I saw on those faces, not a television or computer in sight, made me more than ever want to succeed at writing, to be part of giving people pleasure.
I dream of one day seeing someone reclining happily reading a book of mine, what could be more thrilling? But you've got to write it first girl, stop dreaming and blogging and start real writing!
Thanks for reading this of mine.
PP
I know there's nothing unusual about someone reading a book at a table, but something always stirs in me, an irrational jealousy almost, as if I cannot do that. I think it is because I am witnessing two of the things I like to do, reading and drinking wine; the act of putting them together is heaven.
Watching her reminded me of an evening in the summer when we went on the spur of the moment into St.Ives after work. We took Max and walked along the front, around the headland, across the top of the beaches, and stopped off at another favourite eatery. Sitting directly on Porthgwidden Beach it is a perfect spot. We tucked Max under one of the tables on the terrace and ordered food and drinks.
The early evening sun was still warm and we had uninterrupted views out to sea and the expanse of clean white sand below us. We had completely forgotten about our individual stressful days at work but chatted and laughed, marveling at how lucky we are to live so close to such a special place.
I must sound as if I work for VisitCornwall but what I wanted to say was, that I noticed sitting behind us, a man at a small round table, cutlery laid out for his meal and he was enjoying a glass of red wine, but he too was oblivious of us and others, he was quite content with his own company and his book in which he was immersed; a perfect image.
Of course through the summer I'm sure you must have noticed many people relaxing and reading. I saw lots on sun-loungers around the pool on holiday, on deckchairs on the beach, and even someone floating in one of those blown-up plastic chairs in a pool. The sheer enjoyment I saw on those faces, not a television or computer in sight, made me more than ever want to succeed at writing, to be part of giving people pleasure.
I dream of one day seeing someone reclining happily reading a book of mine, what could be more thrilling? But you've got to write it first girl, stop dreaming and blogging and start real writing!
Thanks for reading this of mine.
PP
Sunday 7 November 2010
My zing is coming back ...
Saturday was a crisp sunny day here in west Cornwall. We decided to walk through the park in Penzance - 'we' being hubby and Max who we had just collected from Angela, (otherwise known as 'Tufty'), she had given him his regular clip and looked adorable; Max that is, he's our dog. He always seems to prance about (max that is) more when he's just had a cut and blow-dry,like a spring lamb, but he's fourteen!
I left them briefly in the park while I popped into the library to look for a reference book which I couldn't find, and came out instead with three books I wasn't looking for: Selected Poems by Carol Ann Duffy, Someday I'll Find Me, Carla Lane's autobiography - great title - and The Manchester Affair by Elizabeth Elgin, written in the 70's. As soon as I got home I ran a bath and started to read it, with glass of dry white close by; the book was the perfect accompaniment.
Why I selected the latter I don't know, possibly because it's set in the North, my birth home, but maybe because when I picked it up, the water-coloured images of two women with expressions of consternation appealed straight away. Also, it was in hardback (a proper book) and, though covered in plastic, it felt good to hold, do you know what I mean? I'll let you know how I get on with it, I should really be reading more contemporary novels that will benefit my studies on my writing course, I won't tell if you don't.
I cannot help but dream that one day someone will select my novel from the thousands on the library shelves, will rush home, run a bath, pour a glass of wine and sink into the bubbles with me for company ... but in reality it will be so many years hence that I'll be downloaded from cyberspace onto a waterproof gadget that will hang on the bathroom wall like a flat TV screen, strategically placed for the bather to read and sip their tipple to their heart's content - but who will turn the pages?
Thanks for stopping by, see you soon,
PP
I left them briefly in the park while I popped into the library to look for a reference book which I couldn't find, and came out instead with three books I wasn't looking for: Selected Poems by Carol Ann Duffy, Someday I'll Find Me, Carla Lane's autobiography - great title - and The Manchester Affair by Elizabeth Elgin, written in the 70's. As soon as I got home I ran a bath and started to read it, with glass of dry white close by; the book was the perfect accompaniment.
Why I selected the latter I don't know, possibly because it's set in the North, my birth home, but maybe because when I picked it up, the water-coloured images of two women with expressions of consternation appealed straight away. Also, it was in hardback (a proper book) and, though covered in plastic, it felt good to hold, do you know what I mean? I'll let you know how I get on with it, I should really be reading more contemporary novels that will benefit my studies on my writing course, I won't tell if you don't.
I cannot help but dream that one day someone will select my novel from the thousands on the library shelves, will rush home, run a bath, pour a glass of wine and sink into the bubbles with me for company ... but in reality it will be so many years hence that I'll be downloaded from cyberspace onto a waterproof gadget that will hang on the bathroom wall like a flat TV screen, strategically placed for the bather to read and sip their tipple to their heart's content - but who will turn the pages?
Thanks for stopping by, see you soon,
PP
Wednesday 3 November 2010
I've lost my zing ...
I cannot believe that three weeks have gone by since I last blogged. I was having such a good time chatting away to you, but then I dried up. Life got in the way. A bug came and went. Real work clogged my brain. Days on end of bad headaches, and suddenly it is now and I'm without fizz. Not the bubbly variety, maybe that's what I do need, but now I'm blaming the dark mornings and nights with only daylight at the weekends.
So now I flip through my diary to remind me of significant happenings, anything worth sharing, but I find that October was quite empty; just one-liners.
And then I notice the entry on Tuesday, October 12th, 'first of the Chilean miners should be freed tonight ...' I can hear the hope in my words and realise that while I was miserable, not firing on all cylinders, feeling sorry for myself, looking for my fizzing zing, those trapped miners were pacing their underground prison, praying for the rescue to be successful so that they could finally go home.
I am now going to give myself a firm, metaphorical kick up the backside - perhaps that's where my zing is!
See you tomorrow, I've just remembered something ...
So now I flip through my diary to remind me of significant happenings, anything worth sharing, but I find that October was quite empty; just one-liners.
And then I notice the entry on Tuesday, October 12th, 'first of the Chilean miners should be freed tonight ...' I can hear the hope in my words and realise that while I was miserable, not firing on all cylinders, feeling sorry for myself, looking for my fizzing zing, those trapped miners were pacing their underground prison, praying for the rescue to be successful so that they could finally go home.
I am now going to give myself a firm, metaphorical kick up the backside - perhaps that's where my zing is!
See you tomorrow, I've just remembered something ...
Sunday 10 October 2010
Watching with a Writer's Ear?
... shouldn’t that be ‘a writer’s eye’? Well yes and no.
Last night I decided it was my turn to do the weekly ironing, especially as honey-bunch had turned his ankle on Friday night as we charged up Chapel Carn Brea, the most westerly point in Britain, chasing a sunset; a story for another day.
Back to the ironing. I set myself up in front of the tele, I have to listen or watch something while ironing or I think I’m wasting time! We decided to catch up on Downton Abbey, we had taped episode two. So with one eye on the period drama, the other on hubby’s work shirts, and both ears tuned to the dialogue, I found myself hanging on every individual voice, choice of word, inflection, pause, cough, breath, it was all cramming my mind as I whizzed over the tea-towels and his T-shirts.
Mind you, (I keep saying that for some reason), ever since I started this intense study of the varied world of writing, my senses have definitely raised their sensitivity. It hasn’t spoilt my enjoyment of reading or writing, on the contrary, it just gets more exciting and challenging with the added hope that one day someone might consider my work worthy of reading – and even publishing.
In between watching the interaction of the characters, so wonderfully portrayed by the choice actors in their authentic and glorious costumes, I cannot help but wonder what Julian Fellowes must be thinking as he watches his creation coming to life on screen. I know of course he is already very successful and acclaimed and must have had that feeling hundreds of times, but surely that first moment must never go away as your words are visualised and you see the fruits of your hard labour. I’m more than happy doing the hard labour but wait my turn and live in hope for the fruits.
In the meantime I shall carry on watching and listening, taking note of how every word contributes to a powerful piece of drama, and I shall continue to dream, remembering Dad’s words, that ‘hard work will always pay off’.
Tonight I will no doubt watch the third episode but I’ve no ironing left to do, maybe I’ll darn his socks instead ... ha ha.
Thanks for calling by,
PP
Last night I decided it was my turn to do the weekly ironing, especially as honey-bunch had turned his ankle on Friday night as we charged up Chapel Carn Brea, the most westerly point in Britain, chasing a sunset; a story for another day.
Back to the ironing. I set myself up in front of the tele, I have to listen or watch something while ironing or I think I’m wasting time! We decided to catch up on Downton Abbey, we had taped episode two. So with one eye on the period drama, the other on hubby’s work shirts, and both ears tuned to the dialogue, I found myself hanging on every individual voice, choice of word, inflection, pause, cough, breath, it was all cramming my mind as I whizzed over the tea-towels and his T-shirts.
Mind you, (I keep saying that for some reason), ever since I started this intense study of the varied world of writing, my senses have definitely raised their sensitivity. It hasn’t spoilt my enjoyment of reading or writing, on the contrary, it just gets more exciting and challenging with the added hope that one day someone might consider my work worthy of reading – and even publishing.
In between watching the interaction of the characters, so wonderfully portrayed by the choice actors in their authentic and glorious costumes, I cannot help but wonder what Julian Fellowes must be thinking as he watches his creation coming to life on screen. I know of course he is already very successful and acclaimed and must have had that feeling hundreds of times, but surely that first moment must never go away as your words are visualised and you see the fruits of your hard labour. I’m more than happy doing the hard labour but wait my turn and live in hope for the fruits.
In the meantime I shall carry on watching and listening, taking note of how every word contributes to a powerful piece of drama, and I shall continue to dream, remembering Dad’s words, that ‘hard work will always pay off’.
Tonight I will no doubt watch the third episode but I’ve no ironing left to do, maybe I’ll darn his socks instead ... ha ha.
Thanks for calling by,
PP
Tuesday 5 October 2010
Still thinking - while driving.
I wish my commute to work was just 10 seconds up the stairs to my writing room, but alas, like so many thousands of writers out there, I have to go by car. It takes an hour and a half to travel the 50 mile round trip because they are Cornish roads; those who’ve visited will understand.
As I said on Sunday, because I have to fit my writing around full-time work (not to mention domestic things - here is my opportunity to praise my hubby; the best in the land, he does the lion’s share), when I cannot physically sit down at my laptop, or even scribble in the notepad joined to my hip, I need to optimise my time in other ways and do something useful.
Speaking for myself, I must spend as much time thinking, planning and pondering as I do actually putting words on paper. So on my journey into work and on my way home, I use the time to consider what I have prepared the night before and how I’m going to take it forward later.
I enjoy nothing more than being lost in my thoughts. Soothing instrumental classics creating a conducive ambience while I work out a scene or plot, and smiling to myself when I have that giddy feeling as a particular word pops into my head. The word becomes a seed, becomes a sentence.
You must think I’m boring or even selfish, and you could be right, but ultimately my goal is to write a piece that will give someone pleasure, evoke an emotion be it sad or funny. Words join our world together, with words we communicate, whether written down or spoken, and they have to begin somewhere before they can go anywhere and everywhere.
I hope some of mine make you smile and feel.
My motto is: Never put off until tomorrow, what you can write today.
Thanks for visiting.
PP
PS: Just for those concerned about me possibly not concentrating on the road ahead – my eyes are on my driving and my hands on the wheel – only my brain is switching gears!
As I said on Sunday, because I have to fit my writing around full-time work (not to mention domestic things - here is my opportunity to praise my hubby; the best in the land, he does the lion’s share), when I cannot physically sit down at my laptop, or even scribble in the notepad joined to my hip, I need to optimise my time in other ways and do something useful.
Speaking for myself, I must spend as much time thinking, planning and pondering as I do actually putting words on paper. So on my journey into work and on my way home, I use the time to consider what I have prepared the night before and how I’m going to take it forward later.
I enjoy nothing more than being lost in my thoughts. Soothing instrumental classics creating a conducive ambience while I work out a scene or plot, and smiling to myself when I have that giddy feeling as a particular word pops into my head. The word becomes a seed, becomes a sentence.
You must think I’m boring or even selfish, and you could be right, but ultimately my goal is to write a piece that will give someone pleasure, evoke an emotion be it sad or funny. Words join our world together, with words we communicate, whether written down or spoken, and they have to begin somewhere before they can go anywhere and everywhere.
I hope some of mine make you smile and feel.
My motto is: Never put off until tomorrow, what you can write today.
Thanks for visiting.
PP
PS: Just for those concerned about me possibly not concentrating on the road ahead – my eyes are on my driving and my hands on the wheel – only my brain is switching gears!
Sunday 3 October 2010
Thinking time - walking.
Hello again,
Like many writers, I have to keep going to the day job, so I have to optimise every bit of down-time to prepare and influence what I really enjoy doing – writing. When I get home from work I need to adjust my thoughts and transfer the workings of my brain from crunching numbers all day to a raft of words which need putting together to form something worth reading.
My strategy for this transformation is two-fold: the first is to exchange the smart office clothes for casual and comfortable, the second, and most important, is to take our Tibetan Terrier for his walk up the lane, if we are not going to the beach.
I say ‘up’ because it is a subtle climb, but once at the top the panoramic views are worth every huff and puff! The tidy fields eventually meet the marshes and dunes, and unless there is a sea mist I can see a strip of the Atlantic Ocean; I need this daily fix of space, fresh air and beauty to remind me of why I shall return to our cottage to start work again; I love it.
Max is getting on now, and I’m not far behind him, so we don’t power-walk but move at a respectable pace, stopping frequently as is Max’s wont, to poke his nose around, smelling and searching for who knows what.
This half hour together rejuvenates both of us. During this time my mind gradually forgets the day that has gone before, and starts to switch into creative mode as I think about the current piece I’m working on; invariably I will come back with an idea or two, or a clearer view on what I am writing.
This is in the main due to the inspiration all around. For instance last night when we walked up the hill, I looked into the various fields on either side of the lane. Baby rabbits scooted across one field when they heard Max coming, and in others gorgeous calves grazed with their mothers, horses munched and sea-gulls flew over.
Then, while Max was concentrating on his bodily functions and I was poised with poo-bag, I looked across to the small field beyond the stream, he was watching me, bold as brass, Mr Fox. We stared at each other in disbelief, he kept staring until Max moved and then he was gone; if only I’d had my camera.
On the way back down the hill I absorbed the beauty in the still-colourful cottage gardens, and the change in the trees and hedgerows as Autumn quickly comes. The light is fading earlier and the wonderful, unmistakeable smell of crisp English air fills my lungs; not available in sunny Cyprus. It’s so good to be home and back to the crazy timetable of life.
Thanks for visiting.
PP
Like many writers, I have to keep going to the day job, so I have to optimise every bit of down-time to prepare and influence what I really enjoy doing – writing. When I get home from work I need to adjust my thoughts and transfer the workings of my brain from crunching numbers all day to a raft of words which need putting together to form something worth reading.
My strategy for this transformation is two-fold: the first is to exchange the smart office clothes for casual and comfortable, the second, and most important, is to take our Tibetan Terrier for his walk up the lane, if we are not going to the beach.
I say ‘up’ because it is a subtle climb, but once at the top the panoramic views are worth every huff and puff! The tidy fields eventually meet the marshes and dunes, and unless there is a sea mist I can see a strip of the Atlantic Ocean; I need this daily fix of space, fresh air and beauty to remind me of why I shall return to our cottage to start work again; I love it.
Max is getting on now, and I’m not far behind him, so we don’t power-walk but move at a respectable pace, stopping frequently as is Max’s wont, to poke his nose around, smelling and searching for who knows what.
This half hour together rejuvenates both of us. During this time my mind gradually forgets the day that has gone before, and starts to switch into creative mode as I think about the current piece I’m working on; invariably I will come back with an idea or two, or a clearer view on what I am writing.
This is in the main due to the inspiration all around. For instance last night when we walked up the hill, I looked into the various fields on either side of the lane. Baby rabbits scooted across one field when they heard Max coming, and in others gorgeous calves grazed with their mothers, horses munched and sea-gulls flew over.
Then, while Max was concentrating on his bodily functions and I was poised with poo-bag, I looked across to the small field beyond the stream, he was watching me, bold as brass, Mr Fox. We stared at each other in disbelief, he kept staring until Max moved and then he was gone; if only I’d had my camera.
On the way back down the hill I absorbed the beauty in the still-colourful cottage gardens, and the change in the trees and hedgerows as Autumn quickly comes. The light is fading earlier and the wonderful, unmistakeable smell of crisp English air fills my lungs; not available in sunny Cyprus. It’s so good to be home and back to the crazy timetable of life.
Thanks for visiting.
PP
Tuesday 21 September 2010
Final postcard from Cyprus - posted in England!
I cannot believe it is four days since I blogged, nor can I believe I am now home and back at the day job. There is a reason, I've been unwell, too much sun fried the creative bits of my brain. It was painful and serves me right for being smug about swimming before breakfast and all that.I didn't want to leave Cyprus in limbo as the end of my previous blog was a little clliffhanger, which is why I hope you have come back to read more about 'Omar' and 'Tom'. I don't know their real names, but it amused me to think of the two brothers who owned the hotel where we were staying, as stand-ins on my holiday for the two actors and their famous characters.
We planned a sail around the bay and on to Famagusta (now a 'ghost town', apparently still as it was when the people fled in 1974). We would stop off for a swim and lunch on board, how romantic I thought, especially as the boat was called, 'Shirley Valentine', it's true! Unfortunately husband was poorly so we could not risk him ruining other people's day out by throwing up.
This is the part you'll love, I was told by a reliable source that the boat is owned by an English girl and her Greek Cypriot husband; you've got it, she had done a SV, stayed, and is now running the leisure cruise with Tom C.., I mean her husband; you couldn't make it up.
The references to Dr Zchivago & Shirley Valentine, made me wonder how the inspiration behind these stories came about for the two authors, Boris Pasternak & Willy Russell, as they brought the two ideas to life. But that's just it, the stories are on observations of real life; simple as that. Now all I have to do is take a leaf out of their books, so to speak, and write my own.
You'll be pleased to know, I hope, that I did not have to pay excess baggage on the way home. Husband 'reorganised' the packin, I had to agree to throw away magazines, oils and potions; it worked. But as we approached the check-in desk, with not a word of a lie, the whole computer/baggage system at Larnaca Airport crashed. I didn't touch a thing; it took the IT guys 45 minutes to find the fault and restore order. What an exit from Cyprus.
I hope you like the image of me that husband captured for you. He was under strict orders for there to be no face, cellulite, profile or cleavage.
'Speak' soon, PP.
Thursday 16 September 2010
Swimming with Swallows & Sparrows; another postcard from Cyprus
Hi again,
just had lunch by the pool but it is so hot I thought I would have chat with you.
Actually I'm feeling a little smug because the last two mornings I've swum ten lengths of the pool before breakfast, which I've never done before; it definitely wakes you up, despite the lengths only being short ones, and it's far enough for me!
I've been fascinated to watch thirsty swallows swoop down over the pool, take a sip and swoop off again, all in one smooth action. The sparrows are more friendly and cheeky, they constantly roam around the tables for crumbs, drink from the side of the pool and take shelter from the sun inside the terracota tiles on the roof.
My novel continues to take shape as I am able to focus on that only, apart from the dilemmas of what to wear, eat and drink.
The sign by the hotel reception says 'Library - downstairs', I've been to investigate. Five short shelves contain exactly 100 books; I counted them. There is something for most tastes from what I can see, a wide range of authors from Bernard Cornwall to Barbara Taylor Bradford, Judith Krantz to George Elliot to James Patterson. Khaled Hosseini's 'A Thousand Splendid Suns', through which I remember crying often and his famous 'Kite Runner', are also there. Alan Titchmarsh stands beside Andy McNab and Elizabeth Mc Gregor. The only biography appears to be of Billy Connolly, 'Billy' by his wife Pamela Stephenson - did I hear right that she's going to compete in 'Strictly Come Dancing'? - no comment.
So which one did I choose? 'The Perfect Lie' by Emily Barr because she was one of the authors I listened to when she came to speak at last months' Literary Festival in Penzance. She lives in Cornwall, as I do, I've read the first few pages and it begins in the area I know so well and love, I am now feeling a little homesick, though I think I shall survive until Sunday.
Well I must dash as need to cool down. Another swim with the swallows and sparrows will be perfect. PP.
PS: Must tell you tomorrow about Omar (as in Sharif/Dr Zchivago) and Tom (as in Conti, think Shirley Valentine); I'm so blessed to be greeted in the morning by one , and wished a good night by the other.
just had lunch by the pool but it is so hot I thought I would have chat with you.
Actually I'm feeling a little smug because the last two mornings I've swum ten lengths of the pool before breakfast, which I've never done before; it definitely wakes you up, despite the lengths only being short ones, and it's far enough for me!
I've been fascinated to watch thirsty swallows swoop down over the pool, take a sip and swoop off again, all in one smooth action. The sparrows are more friendly and cheeky, they constantly roam around the tables for crumbs, drink from the side of the pool and take shelter from the sun inside the terracota tiles on the roof.
My novel continues to take shape as I am able to focus on that only, apart from the dilemmas of what to wear, eat and drink.
The sign by the hotel reception says 'Library - downstairs', I've been to investigate. Five short shelves contain exactly 100 books; I counted them. There is something for most tastes from what I can see, a wide range of authors from Bernard Cornwall to Barbara Taylor Bradford, Judith Krantz to George Elliot to James Patterson. Khaled Hosseini's 'A Thousand Splendid Suns', through which I remember crying often and his famous 'Kite Runner', are also there. Alan Titchmarsh stands beside Andy McNab and Elizabeth Mc Gregor. The only biography appears to be of Billy Connolly, 'Billy' by his wife Pamela Stephenson - did I hear right that she's going to compete in 'Strictly Come Dancing'? - no comment.
So which one did I choose? 'The Perfect Lie' by Emily Barr because she was one of the authors I listened to when she came to speak at last months' Literary Festival in Penzance. She lives in Cornwall, as I do, I've read the first few pages and it begins in the area I know so well and love, I am now feeling a little homesick, though I think I shall survive until Sunday.
Well I must dash as need to cool down. Another swim with the swallows and sparrows will be perfect. PP.
PS: Must tell you tomorrow about Omar (as in Sharif/Dr Zchivago) and Tom (as in Conti, think Shirley Valentine); I'm so blessed to be greeted in the morning by one , and wished a good night by the other.
Tuesday 14 September 2010
Postcard from Cyprus
Hi,
We are here - but I'm missing you already - and my laptop - so had to spend a couple of euros writing to you.
Our first experience and impression of Cyprus is very good and very hot! We landed just before midnight on Sunday, it was 26 degrees, during the days so far it has been blue skies all the way and high thirties; but we'll cope.
Do you remember me saying that I was going to bring a stack of writing magazines to catch up with, well I did and they cost us excess baggage! A large red label was fastened to my case saying, HEAVY; husband was not amused. He's over it now, and I'm massaging sun cream on his back and going to the bar at regular intervals by way of grovelling.
What I wanted to tell you was, that in between the serious stash of mags and books, I also brought a copy of the June 2010 issue of Woman & Home as passed onto me by my sister. I'm not familiar with it but spent all afternoon yesterday,by the pool of course, reading it; would you believe I found 9 articles/features referring to writers: their lives, views and work.
Among them was a piece by Sarah Duncan (I blogged about her last month after she'd been at the Penzance Literary Festival), she was giving her account of the 'empty nest' feeling as her daughter begins university; very funny.
There was an article on an experience of going to a literary festival (not me, if only), another one entitled, 'Books that change my mood' by Alexandra Shulman, Editor of British Vogue and judge for the Orange Prize for Fiction. There's also a regular page dedicated to a selection of the latest book releases.
I hope I don't sound like a promotion for W&H but it has proved to me how much information and inspiration can be gained from many areas and publications not specific to writing. I think it may also have something to do with the fact that my observational skills and senses have been heightened as I continue to study on this great course, and that I have to improve my ideas and imagination if I am to be successful.
Must dash, he wants his back creaming again and another beer!
PP
PS: When it gets too hot tomorrow I shall write again and let you know ...
We are here - but I'm missing you already - and my laptop - so had to spend a couple of euros writing to you.
Our first experience and impression of Cyprus is very good and very hot! We landed just before midnight on Sunday, it was 26 degrees, during the days so far it has been blue skies all the way and high thirties; but we'll cope.
Do you remember me saying that I was going to bring a stack of writing magazines to catch up with, well I did and they cost us excess baggage! A large red label was fastened to my case saying, HEAVY; husband was not amused. He's over it now, and I'm massaging sun cream on his back and going to the bar at regular intervals by way of grovelling.
What I wanted to tell you was, that in between the serious stash of mags and books, I also brought a copy of the June 2010 issue of Woman & Home as passed onto me by my sister. I'm not familiar with it but spent all afternoon yesterday,by the pool of course, reading it; would you believe I found 9 articles/features referring to writers: their lives, views and work.
Among them was a piece by Sarah Duncan (I blogged about her last month after she'd been at the Penzance Literary Festival), she was giving her account of the 'empty nest' feeling as her daughter begins university; very funny.
There was an article on an experience of going to a literary festival (not me, if only), another one entitled, 'Books that change my mood' by Alexandra Shulman, Editor of British Vogue and judge for the Orange Prize for Fiction. There's also a regular page dedicated to a selection of the latest book releases.
I hope I don't sound like a promotion for W&H but it has proved to me how much information and inspiration can be gained from many areas and publications not specific to writing. I think it may also have something to do with the fact that my observational skills and senses have been heightened as I continue to study on this great course, and that I have to improve my ideas and imagination if I am to be successful.
Must dash, he wants his back creaming again and another beer!
PP
PS: When it gets too hot tomorrow I shall write again and let you know ...
Sunday 12 September 2010
Final surprise.
Hi again, I forgot to say last night that I have a surprise of my own for husband; I'm not taking my laptop!
That has been a big decision to make but I think I need a rest from computer screens. This doesn't mean that I shall not be writing, of course not. I am taking several note books and hope to fill them all. They may well come back greasy with sun cream and the pages evern scorched with sunshine (sorry to rub it in, if you pardon the terrible pun), but they will be my creation and ready to bring to life as I rewrite and edit.
By the way if you're interested in the books I'm taking to read, they are:
The Cloths of Heaven by Sue Eckstein, and Troubling Love by Elena Ferrante.
Very different books. I have already dipped into them and they are both addictive. I heard about the the first from Radio 4 as it was being dramatised or read, I can't remember which now.
The latter was recommended to me for the structure and point-of-view. The author, Elena Ferrante is Italian, (as you've probably guessed), and she is an important and acclaimed contemporary author in Italy, however, she has shunned public attention and has chosen to keep her identity a mystery. Intriguing.
Must dash, got a plane to catch.
'Speak' soon,
PP
That has been a big decision to make but I think I need a rest from computer screens. This doesn't mean that I shall not be writing, of course not. I am taking several note books and hope to fill them all. They may well come back greasy with sun cream and the pages evern scorched with sunshine (sorry to rub it in, if you pardon the terrible pun), but they will be my creation and ready to bring to life as I rewrite and edit.
By the way if you're interested in the books I'm taking to read, they are:
The Cloths of Heaven by Sue Eckstein, and Troubling Love by Elena Ferrante.
Very different books. I have already dipped into them and they are both addictive. I heard about the the first from Radio 4 as it was being dramatised or read, I can't remember which now.
The latter was recommended to me for the structure and point-of-view. The author, Elena Ferrante is Italian, (as you've probably guessed), and she is an important and acclaimed contemporary author in Italy, however, she has shunned public attention and has chosen to keep her identity a mystery. Intriguing.
Must dash, got a plane to catch.
'Speak' soon,
PP
Saturday 11 September 2010
12 hours to go ...
Hello again,
(that's the title of a song, by Neil Diamond I think, I digress)
Tomorrow morning we will be heading for the airport to fly to Cyprus. If you've been following my blog you will know that it is a surprise holiday from him in doors, as the famous Arthur Daley nearly said!
I won't be buying glossy mags at Exeter airport as I'm taking my own stash with me. Months of writing trade mags that I have been too busy to read. I've had too many deadlines with my course so now I am going to enjoy every page from cover to cover, and backwards.
I was just tweeting that while I am on a 10 day break from real work that pays the mortgage, I am not on a holiday from writing, it would be impossible. Every hour of every day I'm thinking, making notes, forming sentences, and that's how I like it.
So now my 10 day holiday is a time for me to relish and luxuriate in the job I'd really like to do full time. I will have so much to share when I come back, so watch this space.
Best wishes,
PP
(that's the title of a song, by Neil Diamond I think, I digress)
Tomorrow morning we will be heading for the airport to fly to Cyprus. If you've been following my blog you will know that it is a surprise holiday from him in doors, as the famous Arthur Daley nearly said!
I won't be buying glossy mags at Exeter airport as I'm taking my own stash with me. Months of writing trade mags that I have been too busy to read. I've had too many deadlines with my course so now I am going to enjoy every page from cover to cover, and backwards.
I was just tweeting that while I am on a 10 day break from real work that pays the mortgage, I am not on a holiday from writing, it would be impossible. Every hour of every day I'm thinking, making notes, forming sentences, and that's how I like it.
So now my 10 day holiday is a time for me to relish and luxuriate in the job I'd really like to do full time. I will have so much to share when I come back, so watch this space.
Best wishes,
PP
Wednesday 8 September 2010
Update on surprise holiday - 3 days to go.
Realisation & Preparation:
I'm really going on holiday - abroad - I know that for definite, but not the destination yet!
Better start thinking of what clothes to take, fortunately it's going to be hot, so skimpy and floaty will have to do, I need most of my baggage allowance for books!
Expectation:
Could it be the Caribbean, Crete or the Canaries? Please tell me I pleaded and wailed pathetically.
Frustration:
He could stand it no longer, keeping the secret had been painful for him; we're going to Cyprus!
Never been, can't wait. Obviously I showed my appreciation.
Now looking forward to inspiration. I may become prolific by the pool, Cocktail in one hand, book in the other; one day it could be mine ...
I'll write again before we leave.
PP
I'm really going on holiday - abroad - I know that for definite, but not the destination yet!
Better start thinking of what clothes to take, fortunately it's going to be hot, so skimpy and floaty will have to do, I need most of my baggage allowance for books!
Expectation:
Could it be the Caribbean, Crete or the Canaries? Please tell me I pleaded and wailed pathetically.
Frustration:
He could stand it no longer, keeping the secret had been painful for him; we're going to Cyprus!
Never been, can't wait. Obviously I showed my appreciation.
Now looking forward to inspiration. I may become prolific by the pool, Cocktail in one hand, book in the other; one day it could be mine ...
I'll write again before we leave.
PP
Monday 6 September 2010
Last minute holiday surprise! - reaction ...
Reaction -
When my husband announced he'd booked a holiday as a surprise (it is our anniversary), I was completely flummoxed. He's not a big surprise sort of person; we discuss and decide on everything together. Usually. Anyway, naturally I was pleased but my first thought was - deadlines!
However, he'd had the foresight and thoughtfulness (that's why I married him), because he knows what I'm like, to make sure there is WiFi available. In the hotel? That's just it you see, the even bigger surprise is that he won't tell me where we are going; only that it will be hot and we go on Sunday!
Destination -
I tried all weekend to no avail, and he hasn't cracked yet. I'll let you know when he does. I've tried blackmail ...
Yet to come - preparation - expectation - anticipation - and hopefully the destination before Sunday.
See you soon,
PP
When my husband announced he'd booked a holiday as a surprise (it is our anniversary), I was completely flummoxed. He's not a big surprise sort of person; we discuss and decide on everything together. Usually. Anyway, naturally I was pleased but my first thought was - deadlines!
However, he'd had the foresight and thoughtfulness (that's why I married him), because he knows what I'm like, to make sure there is WiFi available. In the hotel? That's just it you see, the even bigger surprise is that he won't tell me where we are going; only that it will be hot and we go on Sunday!
Destination -
I tried all weekend to no avail, and he hasn't cracked yet. I'll let you know when he does. I've tried blackmail ...
Yet to come - preparation - expectation - anticipation - and hopefully the destination before Sunday.
See you soon,
PP
Monday 30 August 2010
Amazing journey - aaaahhhhhhh!!
I need to rant and scream, I need to get it out of my system, 'amazing' and journey' are two perfectly good words, the former, in my opinion should be reserved to describe an experience truly remarkable and special. But of course as I write these words I realise that to the people who use this word several times in one sentence are of course, in their opinion, describing something very special to them.
For me, and probably only me, the word 'amazing' has to preceed 'grace'. I've sung the hymn since a little girl and it is one of the most popular requested. John Newton, who wrote the hymn 400 years ago, had a tremendous spiritual experience and transformation through, what he considered, was the 'amazing grace' of God. How can that be compared to having the opportunity to sing on tele, bungee jumping or driving a sports car, to name but a few ...
It is now overused because people are unable to think of another word that can describe how they are feeling after experiencing all of the above, so perhaps I should retract my thoughts and say that if that is what they are truly feeling then it is their right to use the word, it's a free country. I just feel sad about it.
So what about 'journey'? We are all on one but it never used to be referred to in this way. It was life. Yet now on all the reality programmes, which incidentally I don't watch, but see enough excerpts of people describing their momentous television experience as an 'amazing journey'! Why copy each other? Why not, 'I've had a fabulous time. A memorable day. A fantastic experience.' ??
I think I shall give up, I'm just filling space and not making any sense; or am I? Does anyone else agree? I journey to work every day. In a couple of weeks I will be going on a journey - to the airport - to Cyprus - and even a return jouney home. Is this not more appropriate usage?
I shouldn't have started this, but I feel better for ranting a little at the laziness and abuse of certain words. When they are overused they lose their specialness; how's that for something different!
PP
For me, and probably only me, the word 'amazing' has to preceed 'grace'. I've sung the hymn since a little girl and it is one of the most popular requested. John Newton, who wrote the hymn 400 years ago, had a tremendous spiritual experience and transformation through, what he considered, was the 'amazing grace' of God. How can that be compared to having the opportunity to sing on tele, bungee jumping or driving a sports car, to name but a few ...
It is now overused because people are unable to think of another word that can describe how they are feeling after experiencing all of the above, so perhaps I should retract my thoughts and say that if that is what they are truly feeling then it is their right to use the word, it's a free country. I just feel sad about it.
So what about 'journey'? We are all on one but it never used to be referred to in this way. It was life. Yet now on all the reality programmes, which incidentally I don't watch, but see enough excerpts of people describing their momentous television experience as an 'amazing journey'! Why copy each other? Why not, 'I've had a fabulous time. A memorable day. A fantastic experience.' ??
I think I shall give up, I'm just filling space and not making any sense; or am I? Does anyone else agree? I journey to work every day. In a couple of weeks I will be going on a journey - to the airport - to Cyprus - and even a return jouney home. Is this not more appropriate usage?
I shouldn't have started this, but I feel better for ranting a little at the laziness and abuse of certain words. When they are overused they lose their specialness; how's that for something different!
PP
Friday 27 August 2010
Last account of the first Penzance Literary Festival: Saturday, Day 4 of 5.
'Authors in conversation - Emily Barr and Sarah Duncan: ‘Writing Women’s Commercial Fiction’ in the Marquee at Trereife Park, just outside Penzance.
My final treat and husband came too, interested and curious about the mad world of writing I was so determined to be a part of.
Emily, http://www.emilybarr.com/biography/ and Sarah, who is a prolific blogger, http://sarahduncansblog.blogspot.com/ , apart from a full writing careers, are both mothers too, and they live in Cornwall. Each explained how they came to be sitting before us, talking about the many books they had written, and how, while writing for a demanding commercial market, they fitted everything in around husbands, partners and children.
They made us laugh loudly at their tales, particularly Sarah, whose former acting career experience (she was an early girlfriend of Rodney in Only Fools and Horses), allowed her to entertain as she spoke with such funny phrases and voices. It was a very enjoyable time.
I was personally encouraged and inspired to get back to my laptop and start creating. So here I am, sharing with you my first Literary Festival experiences instead of getting down to writing my book!
I hope you've enjoyed my snippets this week; what shall we talk about next week? Mmm ...
Have a happy Bank Holiday weekend
PP
My final treat and husband came too, interested and curious about the mad world of writing I was so determined to be a part of.
Emily, http://www.emilybarr.com/biography/ and Sarah, who is a prolific blogger, http://sarahduncansblog.blogspot.com/ , apart from a full writing careers, are both mothers too, and they live in Cornwall. Each explained how they came to be sitting before us, talking about the many books they had written, and how, while writing for a demanding commercial market, they fitted everything in around husbands, partners and children.
They made us laugh loudly at their tales, particularly Sarah, whose former acting career experience (she was an early girlfriend of Rodney in Only Fools and Horses), allowed her to entertain as she spoke with such funny phrases and voices. It was a very enjoyable time.
I was personally encouraged and inspired to get back to my laptop and start creating. So here I am, sharing with you my first Literary Festival experiences instead of getting down to writing my book!
I hope you've enjoyed my snippets this week; what shall we talk about next week? Mmm ...
Have a happy Bank Holiday weekend
PP
Thursday 26 August 2010
Stranger than Fiction: Writing Historical & Exotic Novels
Day 3 concludes for me at the first ever Penzance Literary Festival:
As Patrick Gale sat down, everyone started to leave. I made a frantic dash to hear the next speaker at the Exchange Gallery. When I arrived, just in time, I was told that the talk was fully-booked, but my expression of disbelief melted the doorman and he offered to squeeze me in; he’d seen me earlier that day at the Morrab Library looking emotional as I gazed around the wonderful building of books. He obviously didn’t want to have to contend with a grown woman crying at the door.
Jane Johnson, aka Jude Fisher, aka Gabriel King, is Cornish but now divides her time between living in Mousehole, Cornwall and a village in the Anti-Atlas Mountains, Morocco, since meeting and marrying her own ‘Berber pirate’. In addition to her writing career, Jane still works, remotely, as the Fiction Publishing Director for Harper Collins. http://www.janejohnsonbooks.com/about-2-2/
She gave a captivating account of how her life and priorities had changed after being involved in a near-fatal climbing incident. I shall certainly be buying her books, having heard her speak I am curious now to hear her 'narrative voice’. Her novels are packed with exciting historical details, most of which come from her own research while living in Morocco, and through her husband and his family.
Jane had entitled her talk, ‘Stranger than Fiction: ...’ because she said that in her experiences alone, she was amazed at how the course of her life had indeed been ‘stranger than fiction’. The audience was made up mostly of women who all appeared to quietly swoon, me included, as she passed around photographs of her handsome husband, dressed in both normal clothes and desert dress, complete with camel; what more can I say ...
The book which particularly interests me, is The Tenth Gift because it is based on a true story from 1625 Cornwall, when Barbary pirates sailed into a quiet Cornish bay and stormed a church. They kidnapped sixty men, women and children and took them to northern Morocco where they were sold in the slave markets of the Souq el Ghezel – ‘stranger than fiction’.
Jane finished answering questions just after 5, exhausted but buzzing, me that is, I decided I’d had enough pampering for one day.
My final experience at the Festival was the day after, on Saturday at Trereife House, Newlyn (just outside Penzance), I enjoyed it very much and would love to tell you all about it tomorrow night.
I have to say that the Festival contained so much more than I'm sharing with you. I had to cherry-pick for me as I had limited time, but there were many workshops, poetry and prose, for adults and children. A 'Big Read': One-off reading group on Patricl Gale's Notes from an Exhibition. 'Writing in Cornish'. 'Write On' - short story competition for schools. Many different authors 'in conversation', and the list goes on; make a note in your diary, I'm sure it will be organised again for next year.
See you tomorrow, PP.
As Patrick Gale sat down, everyone started to leave. I made a frantic dash to hear the next speaker at the Exchange Gallery. When I arrived, just in time, I was told that the talk was fully-booked, but my expression of disbelief melted the doorman and he offered to squeeze me in; he’d seen me earlier that day at the Morrab Library looking emotional as I gazed around the wonderful building of books. He obviously didn’t want to have to contend with a grown woman crying at the door.
Jane Johnson, aka Jude Fisher, aka Gabriel King, is Cornish but now divides her time between living in Mousehole, Cornwall and a village in the Anti-Atlas Mountains, Morocco, since meeting and marrying her own ‘Berber pirate’. In addition to her writing career, Jane still works, remotely, as the Fiction Publishing Director for Harper Collins. http://www.janejohnsonbooks.com/about-2-2/
She gave a captivating account of how her life and priorities had changed after being involved in a near-fatal climbing incident. I shall certainly be buying her books, having heard her speak I am curious now to hear her 'narrative voice’. Her novels are packed with exciting historical details, most of which come from her own research while living in Morocco, and through her husband and his family.
Jane had entitled her talk, ‘Stranger than Fiction: ...’ because she said that in her experiences alone, she was amazed at how the course of her life had indeed been ‘stranger than fiction’. The audience was made up mostly of women who all appeared to quietly swoon, me included, as she passed around photographs of her handsome husband, dressed in both normal clothes and desert dress, complete with camel; what more can I say ...
The book which particularly interests me, is The Tenth Gift because it is based on a true story from 1625 Cornwall, when Barbary pirates sailed into a quiet Cornish bay and stormed a church. They kidnapped sixty men, women and children and took them to northern Morocco where they were sold in the slave markets of the Souq el Ghezel – ‘stranger than fiction’.
Jane finished answering questions just after 5, exhausted but buzzing, me that is, I decided I’d had enough pampering for one day.
My final experience at the Festival was the day after, on Saturday at Trereife House, Newlyn (just outside Penzance), I enjoyed it very much and would love to tell you all about it tomorrow night.
I have to say that the Festival contained so much more than I'm sharing with you. I had to cherry-pick for me as I had limited time, but there were many workshops, poetry and prose, for adults and children. A 'Big Read': One-off reading group on Patricl Gale's Notes from an Exhibition. 'Writing in Cornish'. 'Write On' - short story competition for schools. Many different authors 'in conversation', and the list goes on; make a note in your diary, I'm sure it will be organised again for next year.
See you tomorrow, PP.
Wednesday 25 August 2010
... and there's more - Penzance Lit.Fest. continued.
A gong announced lunch was ready. We made our way down to the basement to a room with equally mismatched furniture but still attained a certain chic like some of the outfits. I took a seat at the end of a long table where five friends were having a lively discussion and enjoying the wine. They made me very welcome, we exchanged first names and of course the inevitable questions of, ‘are you on your own?’, ‘why have you come?’ and so on.
The food was delicious despite the chillies in the soup and the bones in the fish. My wine glass was replenished by the generous people around me. We chatted and waited, and waited and chatted, checked our watches and sent pleading looks across the room to Mr Gale. We were all going on to hear the next speaker at the Exchange Gallery at 4pm and it was already 3pm, with speeches and questions, answers and apple crumble still to go.
Eventually we ate our desserts while PG talked about how ‘Notes from an Exhibition’ was born. How the Richard & Judy book machine selected him and how he is sure, and he keeps telling his publisher, that it was just one of those times when someone sprinkled fairy dust and everything turned out right. He told us how Stephen Fry had bought the rights to make a film of the book and how Emma Thompson wanted to play the part of Rachel. He promised that if it did ever make the big screen he would try his best to have filming centred in and around Penzance; he is very passionate about the Penzance area.
If you can stand it, Day 3 concludes tomorrow night.
Best wishes,
PP
PS: Don't worry, I was unable to make days 2 and 5!
The food was delicious despite the chillies in the soup and the bones in the fish. My wine glass was replenished by the generous people around me. We chatted and waited, and waited and chatted, checked our watches and sent pleading looks across the room to Mr Gale. We were all going on to hear the next speaker at the Exchange Gallery at 4pm and it was already 3pm, with speeches and questions, answers and apple crumble still to go.
Eventually we ate our desserts while PG talked about how ‘Notes from an Exhibition’ was born. How the Richard & Judy book machine selected him and how he is sure, and he keeps telling his publisher, that it was just one of those times when someone sprinkled fairy dust and everything turned out right. He told us how Stephen Fry had bought the rights to make a film of the book and how Emma Thompson wanted to play the part of Rachel. He promised that if it did ever make the big screen he would try his best to have filming centred in and around Penzance; he is very passionate about the Penzance area.
If you can stand it, Day 3 concludes tomorrow night.
Best wishes,
PP
PS: Don't worry, I was unable to make days 2 and 5!
Tuesday 24 August 2010
It is still Day 3 of the very first Penzance Literary Festival
Carrying on my take on events at the above festival. If you remember, I was hanging around in the bar of the Penzance Arts Club waiting for the lunch I had just ordered, along with another 50 people and of course, the one and only Patrick Gale.
Looking around the room, which had now been opened up to incorporate the bar area, the noise coming from the fifty or so people was incredible. Everyone appeared very happy and relaxed. I spotted Patrick (apologies for informality but as I have seven of his books I think I’m entitled!) surrounded by several women each trying to entertain him with her wit.
I was relaxing too and amused myself by critiquing the outfits being worn by both the men and women. Many were quite flamboyant, colourful flouncy pieces nudged the elbows of the simple chic, and current fashion stood alongside the resurrected vintage. From blue jeans to blue toe nails to silk jackets, everything went together. Chunky jewellery draped many a neck and wrist, wild hairstyles and scarves wrapped various parts of the body, and a few sets of red braces held up crumpled linen trousers; the latter being men.
I felt quite dowdy in my plain navy top and trousers with navy/white scarf completing the naval effect. I wanted to shout, ‘look at my shoes, they’re cherry pink! How many people are wearing cherry pink leather shoes today??’ I had bought them in a defiant mood on a certain birthday to ward off signs of ‘getting on’. But I didn’t shout and no one noticed.
Follow me tomorrow as lunch is served and Patrick speaks as we eat our crumble.
PP
Looking around the room, which had now been opened up to incorporate the bar area, the noise coming from the fifty or so people was incredible. Everyone appeared very happy and relaxed. I spotted Patrick (apologies for informality but as I have seven of his books I think I’m entitled!) surrounded by several women each trying to entertain him with her wit.
I was relaxing too and amused myself by critiquing the outfits being worn by both the men and women. Many were quite flamboyant, colourful flouncy pieces nudged the elbows of the simple chic, and current fashion stood alongside the resurrected vintage. From blue jeans to blue toe nails to silk jackets, everything went together. Chunky jewellery draped many a neck and wrist, wild hairstyles and scarves wrapped various parts of the body, and a few sets of red braces held up crumpled linen trousers; the latter being men.
I felt quite dowdy in my plain navy top and trousers with navy/white scarf completing the naval effect. I wanted to shout, ‘look at my shoes, they’re cherry pink! How many people are wearing cherry pink leather shoes today??’ I had bought them in a defiant mood on a certain birthday to ward off signs of ‘getting on’. But I didn’t shout and no one noticed.
Follow me tomorrow as lunch is served and Patrick speaks as we eat our crumble.
PP
Monday 23 August 2010
Day 3 of the very first Penzance Literary Festival.
Hello again,
After the nerves and experience of the poetry evening I opted for a less stressful day on Friday with the emphasis on spoiling myself. I was going to be pampered, not with hot towels, mudpacks or soggy seaweed, but with all things bookish. Heaven.
I took the day off work, dressed up and went into Penzance for a 10am tour of Morrab Library. Founded in 1818, it is one of only 19 independent libraries in the UK and is in a large Victorian mansion standing within Morrab Gardens.
Not having lived in the area long, I wasn’t aware of this particular library, I had been using the local council-run one so I took the opportunity to have a guided tour by a member and volunteer who knew the history well. Myself and six others went from room to room where books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. I relaxed in the peace and quiet, sunshine poured into each room through the huge windows and I had to resist the need to sit at one of the antique tables and empty my soul onto paper.
The ambience transported me back to the library at school and to Mr Ewing the Librarian. I thought he had the best job in all the world and wanted to be a Librarian too, but such roles were considered too lofty for a young girl from a small country village where priority was for planting, tending and harvesting the crops; and if you was female, making the snap – copious amounts of tea, sandwiches and cake.
Now, all these years later I desire not to look after the books but strive to write one. Marvelling at the thousands of books in that special place has inspired me to aim to have my book on the Victorian shelves of Morrab; I’m sure they could find space for just one more.
Reluctantly I left Morrab Library and the friendly members, particularly Annabelle Read, the only employed Librarian, all other jobs and duties are performed by member volunteers; I think it’s time I took out a subscription.
I walked quickly across town in the summer rain to the Arts Club where there was to be a talk by author Lilian Harry: ‘Doing your Homework: Research for Writing.’ The talk was being held in the same room as the poetry evening, being in the small space again, packed with an assortment of chairs and sofas, brought back the goose-bumps. Lilian’s books are mostly about the years before and after the second world war so she is certainly experienced in researching.
The amount of research and the lengths she went to was very interesting and demonstrated how one thing can lead to another. How a book plan can change and evolve as more details comes to light. The ladies in the audience and myself hung on her every word and many questions were asked at the end. I liked her ordinariness and down to earth attitude, and while it has taken many years for her to become a successful writer, she encouraged us with wise words and many interesting anecdotes. Her talk was occasionally punctuated by the Arts Club cat who decided to try everyone’s laps for comfort.
By now it was 12.30 and time to switch to lunch mode. Tea and coffee cups were taken away and glasses of chilled white wine replaced them. I had never been to a literary lunch before, it sounded rather grand and the only reason I was braving it on my own was because the guest of honour and speaker was the author Patrick Gale. I have read several of his books, including the most popular of the moment, the best seller, ‘Notes from an Exhibition’, about which he was going to take questions after lunch.
I tried to look nonchalant reading through Lilian’s handout notes while sipping the chilled wine and wishing I’d had lemonade as it had been quite some time since I’d had my porridge and I was feeling slightly squiffy (not a word of mine usually but it seemed appropriate for the company I was currently in.) A stressed waitress came to take my order, to be safe I chose the soup and the lemon sole though later I would regret my choices as the soup was laced with chillis and the sole with bones.
to be continued ... see you tomorrow.
PP
After the nerves and experience of the poetry evening I opted for a less stressful day on Friday with the emphasis on spoiling myself. I was going to be pampered, not with hot towels, mudpacks or soggy seaweed, but with all things bookish. Heaven.
I took the day off work, dressed up and went into Penzance for a 10am tour of Morrab Library. Founded in 1818, it is one of only 19 independent libraries in the UK and is in a large Victorian mansion standing within Morrab Gardens.
Not having lived in the area long, I wasn’t aware of this particular library, I had been using the local council-run one so I took the opportunity to have a guided tour by a member and volunteer who knew the history well. Myself and six others went from room to room where books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. I relaxed in the peace and quiet, sunshine poured into each room through the huge windows and I had to resist the need to sit at one of the antique tables and empty my soul onto paper.
The ambience transported me back to the library at school and to Mr Ewing the Librarian. I thought he had the best job in all the world and wanted to be a Librarian too, but such roles were considered too lofty for a young girl from a small country village where priority was for planting, tending and harvesting the crops; and if you was female, making the snap – copious amounts of tea, sandwiches and cake.
Now, all these years later I desire not to look after the books but strive to write one. Marvelling at the thousands of books in that special place has inspired me to aim to have my book on the Victorian shelves of Morrab; I’m sure they could find space for just one more.
Reluctantly I left Morrab Library and the friendly members, particularly Annabelle Read, the only employed Librarian, all other jobs and duties are performed by member volunteers; I think it’s time I took out a subscription.
I walked quickly across town in the summer rain to the Arts Club where there was to be a talk by author Lilian Harry: ‘Doing your Homework: Research for Writing.’ The talk was being held in the same room as the poetry evening, being in the small space again, packed with an assortment of chairs and sofas, brought back the goose-bumps. Lilian’s books are mostly about the years before and after the second world war so she is certainly experienced in researching.
The amount of research and the lengths she went to was very interesting and demonstrated how one thing can lead to another. How a book plan can change and evolve as more details comes to light. The ladies in the audience and myself hung on her every word and many questions were asked at the end. I liked her ordinariness and down to earth attitude, and while it has taken many years for her to become a successful writer, she encouraged us with wise words and many interesting anecdotes. Her talk was occasionally punctuated by the Arts Club cat who decided to try everyone’s laps for comfort.
By now it was 12.30 and time to switch to lunch mode. Tea and coffee cups were taken away and glasses of chilled white wine replaced them. I had never been to a literary lunch before, it sounded rather grand and the only reason I was braving it on my own was because the guest of honour and speaker was the author Patrick Gale. I have read several of his books, including the most popular of the moment, the best seller, ‘Notes from an Exhibition’, about which he was going to take questions after lunch.
I tried to look nonchalant reading through Lilian’s handout notes while sipping the chilled wine and wishing I’d had lemonade as it had been quite some time since I’d had my porridge and I was feeling slightly squiffy (not a word of mine usually but it seemed appropriate for the company I was currently in.) A stressed waitress came to take my order, to be safe I chose the soup and the lemon sole though later I would regret my choices as the soup was laced with chillis and the sole with bones.
to be continued ... see you tomorrow.
PP
The very first Penzance Literary Festival - Poetry Evening
In a small room at Penzance Arts Club on Wednesday last, the first evening of the five-day festival, about 40 people gathered to listen to the invited local poets - Moira Andrew, Jenny Hamlett, Bob Devereux - their poems were diverse: sad, funny, thought provoking; I drank in every one.
After a short break there followed an open mic. session, organised and compered by Diana Dixon. Eighteen people had booked a 5 minute slot, I was one of them. I have never read my poetry to an audience before so I was curious as to how it would go, and at what point my stomach would land in my throat. I was number 14 on the list which gave me time to see how it should be done, or not as the case may be. I refused a glass of wine for a sensible option in the hope that being a good girl would help my brief performance go more smoothly; I was having enough problems coping with the new prescription in my new swish glasses.
Finally my number was called. A lady sat in the front row with a stopwatch as instructed by Diana, I found this inhibiting but proceeded in the knowledge that my trusty husband had timed me the night before. The room fell silent as I started with an introduction to set the scene. I squinted here and there as I tried to focus through the new specs. at the same time trying to take a confident stance while holding my book at an angle so that I could spread my words and voice across the room, using the book only as a prompt; I secretly thanked my lucky stars that I had had the sense to type the words in 14pt bold; next time I may try braille.
I received an enthusiastic applause and encouraging comments afterwards, along with an invitation 'do come again'. Diana said, looking at my posh black leather-look A5 hard-backed book, that she hadn't realised I'd been published. I turned a shade of red and said, 'oh only a couple', which is true.
If you would like to read my first publicly-read poems then please take a look on my website which I'm constructing as I go along.
Tomorrow I'll let you know what happened on Day 3 of the festival.
Thanks for visiting,
PP
After a short break there followed an open mic. session, organised and compered by Diana Dixon. Eighteen people had booked a 5 minute slot, I was one of them. I have never read my poetry to an audience before so I was curious as to how it would go, and at what point my stomach would land in my throat. I was number 14 on the list which gave me time to see how it should be done, or not as the case may be. I refused a glass of wine for a sensible option in the hope that being a good girl would help my brief performance go more smoothly; I was having enough problems coping with the new prescription in my new swish glasses.
Finally my number was called. A lady sat in the front row with a stopwatch as instructed by Diana, I found this inhibiting but proceeded in the knowledge that my trusty husband had timed me the night before. The room fell silent as I started with an introduction to set the scene. I squinted here and there as I tried to focus through the new specs. at the same time trying to take a confident stance while holding my book at an angle so that I could spread my words and voice across the room, using the book only as a prompt; I secretly thanked my lucky stars that I had had the sense to type the words in 14pt bold; next time I may try braille.
I received an enthusiastic applause and encouraging comments afterwards, along with an invitation 'do come again'. Diana said, looking at my posh black leather-look A5 hard-backed book, that she hadn't realised I'd been published. I turned a shade of red and said, 'oh only a couple', which is true.
If you would like to read my first publicly-read poems then please take a look on my website which I'm constructing as I go along.
Tomorrow I'll let you know what happened on Day 3 of the festival.
Thanks for visiting,
PP
Sunday 15 August 2010
Pendeen Lighthouse
Standing beside the lighthouse at Pendeen Cliffs this morning, watching the sea swells and the various crops of rocks around, reminded me of the importance of the lighthouses around the coast and of course the RNLI.I was also reminded of the Penlee Lifeboat disaster on 19 December, 1981 when eight RNLI volunteer men lost their lives aboard the Solomon Browne while trying to save others. Tonight, as I write, there is the annual service of thanksgiving taking place by the harbour in the beautiful village of Mousehole where all eight men came from. Each one had been carefully selected for their skills, but crucially only one man from each family was chosen.
It was brilliant sunshine this morning, visitors by the score making their way along the coast path and across the fields down to a nearby cove to enjoy themselves, I pondered how the weather must have been on that night 29 years ago, and on all those terrible nights before and since when men have lost their lives; it was difficult to imagine on such a glorious day.
Living in Cornwall makes you have a deep respect for the sea and the dangers. Lighthouses have always fascinated me and now even more as I live so close to so many. Like the brave men of the RNLI they save lives as they shine the lights from their strategic vantage points.
Those brave men of the RNLI don't need this small act of remembering from me because they will never, ever be forgotten as the gathering 29 years later on Mousehole quay tonight testifies. To read more, please go to: http://www.cornwalls.co.uk/Mousehole/penleelifeboat.htm
Tuesday 10 August 2010
Contemplation ...
I called in at the supermarket on my way to work this morning. It was just after 7am, I was still waking up and contemplating the day ahead and all I had to do.
I joined the short queue at the till with my pint of milk, in front of me was a young man, late teens, he put his packages onto the conveyor, a Mars bar and a pregnancy-test kit; he had far more than me to contemplate today.
PP
I joined the short queue at the till with my pint of milk, in front of me was a young man, late teens, he put his packages onto the conveyor, a Mars bar and a pregnancy-test kit; he had far more than me to contemplate today.
PP
Sunday 1 August 2010
It's raining. We are having a new lounge carpet fitted. We are to clear the room completely. Small cottage. Husband's Plan B is put into action. Testing of patience ensues.
Plan A was to move all items either into the small back garden or out of the front door into the lane, as you enter our lounge directly from outside.
Plan B is to dismantle bed to make room for dismantled dining table and anything else we can haul up the stairs. Television and accessories are squeezed into bathroom and dog basket into the bath. CD rack and contents are in the shed and the couch is under a tarpaulin outside the front door. Recently acquired heirloom, great-grandmother's oak dresser, now stands in the galley kitchen, leaving just enough room to put the kettle on for the carpet fitter. All done!
So where am I? Tucked in the corner of our spare room by my desk, surrounded by all manner of small items from the lounge, but I'm happy, I can operate my computer and Max (our Tibetan Terrier) is happy too, sitting under the desk at my feet. We are cosy, Classic FM drowns out the sounds of the fitting downstairs of our new striped green carpet, and I'm inspired to write, what more can a hungry writer ask for. Another new carpet?
PP
Plan A was to move all items either into the small back garden or out of the front door into the lane, as you enter our lounge directly from outside.
Plan B is to dismantle bed to make room for dismantled dining table and anything else we can haul up the stairs. Television and accessories are squeezed into bathroom and dog basket into the bath. CD rack and contents are in the shed and the couch is under a tarpaulin outside the front door. Recently acquired heirloom, great-grandmother's oak dresser, now stands in the galley kitchen, leaving just enough room to put the kettle on for the carpet fitter. All done!
So where am I? Tucked in the corner of our spare room by my desk, surrounded by all manner of small items from the lounge, but I'm happy, I can operate my computer and Max (our Tibetan Terrier) is happy too, sitting under the desk at my feet. We are cosy, Classic FM drowns out the sounds of the fitting downstairs of our new striped green carpet, and I'm inspired to write, what more can a hungry writer ask for. Another new carpet?
PP
Writing on the go.
Unbeknown to me until last week, my husband took this photo one day last winter. I was staggered to see I look eight months pregnant, which would be a miracle I assure you, and I immediately threatened him if he showed it to anyone!
But then I remembered what I was studying. As you can see, forever my notebook to hand, I had stumbled across something on the beach. The beach is Porthcurno in Cornwall, it is one of the loveliest beaches you can imagine, white sand nudging up to a turquoise sea. Above it, on top of the cliffs stands the famous Minack Theatre, built into the side of the cliffs. Stunning.
Back to our walk across the beach. Before we continued on the coastal path, I spotted a single fresh yellow rose lying in the sand (just to the right of my stick on the photo), immediately the curious writer in me started asking questions, eventually they formed a few lines of poetry.
Who laid you there on soft white sand,
Your fragile petals falling without the sender's hand.
Are you for a friendship remembered?
Joy experienced - or in memorial?
For whatever reason, I shall record your presence here,
For whoever, when laying you down, shed a tear.
PP
If you are interested in the meaning of roses by colour go to:
Tuesday 20 July 2010
Tomorrows
Many years ago, a regular customer who I would pass the time of day with, brought me an embroidered mat for my office desk. He was a wise old guy, and though lost along the way, I have never forgotten what the mat said:
'The Flowers of all the Tomorrows are in the Seeds of Today'.
How true, and how still relevant today - I've asked myself, 'am I sowing enough seeds for tomorrow?' I'm really not sure, but I hope that in my writings I will be able to say something worth reading. Our world is full of words; the right ones are surely seeds as those above.
PP
'The Flowers of all the Tomorrows are in the Seeds of Today'.
How true, and how still relevant today - I've asked myself, 'am I sowing enough seeds for tomorrow?' I'm really not sure, but I hope that in my writings I will be able to say something worth reading. Our world is full of words; the right ones are surely seeds as those above.
PP
Sunday 18 July 2010
Helping Hand
When we came home from work earlier in the week, the holidaymakers, who are currently renting the cottage next door were saying to a neighbour how they had found the locals they had come into contact that day particularly off-hand and miserable. The visitors were a mature couple and they had obviously been upset by the treatment they had received at two popular attractions. We tried to suggest that it was not the norm and hoped they would not let it spoil their holiday.
Two days later, after we arrived home, there was a bad storm which resulted in a power cut. We assumed it wouldn't last long but we were finally advised that reconnection could be as late as midnight. Resorting to camping stoves we cooked an improvised meal and dug out the candles from the back of the cupboard. While sitting in the fading light with no television, radio or computer to occupy us we suddenly thought about the people next door.
My husband found them in the dark, staring at an unopened tin of soup. We went into action, took round the camping stoves, one for soup, one for a cup of tea, and enough candles to 'see' them through the night. They seemed surprised but were grateful; we hoped our help would redress the balance of their disappointment earlier in the week; we felt better too.
Two days later, after we arrived home, there was a bad storm which resulted in a power cut. We assumed it wouldn't last long but we were finally advised that reconnection could be as late as midnight. Resorting to camping stoves we cooked an improvised meal and dug out the candles from the back of the cupboard. While sitting in the fading light with no television, radio or computer to occupy us we suddenly thought about the people next door.
My husband found them in the dark, staring at an unopened tin of soup. We went into action, took round the camping stoves, one for soup, one for a cup of tea, and enough candles to 'see' them through the night. They seemed surprised but were grateful; we hoped our help would redress the balance of their disappointment earlier in the week; we felt better too.
Sunday 11 July 2010
My first post.
Today is historic for me, I'm officially a blogger!
Today has been good for me, a walk along the cliff-tops, stunning views to inspire.
Today is sad for me, the World Cup finally ends.
Hubby will begin to notice I'm always in my writing cell.
May the new footie season start soon.
PP
Today has been good for me, a walk along the cliff-tops, stunning views to inspire.
Today is sad for me, the World Cup finally ends.
Hubby will begin to notice I'm always in my writing cell.
May the new footie season start soon.
PP
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