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

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'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 ...

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

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!

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

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.