tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17903239047839992572024-02-18T17:46:43.503-08:00gee williamsgeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-9233719979782718952009-05-30T02:19:00.000-07:002009-05-30T03:21:07.046-07:00Stephan Fry loses..<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURur2QlThumQX5kM0DgkyZchg_WwJ6yF6vDzlwN0hbbTdmnykuiYZ_Gsm5KpmMa9UCk5zL4lSY2eph3PsStrHX1uHvYHUAFb-l6xErRZebMVF6Ia9pzkAkJGj6wzEZHdCMTtm4qKlf_6z/s1600-h/Hay+Festival+25May2009+005.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341559783832664722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURur2QlThumQX5kM0DgkyZchg_WwJ6yF6vDzlwN0hbbTdmnykuiYZ_Gsm5KpmMa9UCk5zL4lSY2eph3PsStrHX1uHvYHUAFb-l6xErRZebMVF6Ia9pzkAkJGj6wzEZHdCMTtm4qKlf_6z/s320/Hay+Festival+25May2009+005.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Weight actually. He looked very svelt, fit and tanned in the Green Room at Hay last Monday. And unlike me didn't have to worry about winning anything. We were there for the Wales Book of the Year Shortlist announcement from judges Mike Parker, Tiffany Atkinson and John Barnie. For those who don't know about this prize it's a kinda Heptathlon for the current year's books. If you've got a book of short stories out (as I have) it competes with all the other wonderful literary output of Wales from this last year. Perfectly formed poetry collections, forensic literary criticism and biographies, travel writing and of course the fictional hammer throwers, the novelists.<br /><br />So to find myself on stage in the final three had a lucid-dream quality to it. Was it real? Deborah Kay Davies and Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch were with me- I knew though if I caught sight of the Queen, say, and Lady Gaga sharing a joke in the front row this wouldn't be a good sign. But no- it seemed to be kosher- we seemed to be the shortlist. I have some memory of talking about my book (sadly not too lucidly) and actually heard myself saying 'of course I left Flintshire when I was eighteen.' I think someone hissed. Sad when Blood, etc is pretty much a celebration of the people I grew up with. And why didn't I add what I always do at this point? That my house is a single field's length over the border and though I may sleep in Cheshire I'll always live in a Wales of the Mind? That's the trouble with dreams though. Weird stuff happens. Should have asked either the Queen or Stephen Fry to pinch me.</div>geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-75341361229053922892009-03-09T03:15:00.000-07:002009-03-09T04:59:14.935-07:00Glenda by the sea<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUZyHCJ-L-Glx65qDPLmkkOkTBWKvePN4dcGnroVrU0xzuGRl2gaxi4G9ejKFJkWXReQloXk8To9cGiZfl0PqB9jvL4uRSXV4IlCKzPZBrTLvYql3UCu8b84T_F1SzRtIKObgtAj9A3ISf/s1600-h/PIC_0055.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311131347660059250" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUZyHCJ-L-Glx65qDPLmkkOkTBWKvePN4dcGnroVrU0xzuGRl2gaxi4G9ejKFJkWXReQloXk8To9cGiZfl0PqB9jvL4uRSXV4IlCKzPZBrTLvYql3UCu8b84T_F1SzRtIKObgtAj9A3ISf/s320/PIC_0055.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p>To one of my favourite towns on Friday: Rhyl on the Welsh coast (actually the favourite because I'm writing about it and it's just- well, brilliant) to hear one of my favourite writers, Glenda Beagan, launch her new collection The Great Master Of Ecstasy (from Seren). There's been a long wait for this book- worth it, we are hoping. </p><p>Glenda is one of those meticulous craftsmen whose poetry and prose never gets out the door before it's thoroughly burnished- and then brought back roughened around the edges and repolished. (In her introductory speech her editor Penny Thomas will make the point that this is her first collection for ten years - and she still needed two extensions to her deadline. WTG Glenda. No apologies necessary.)</p><p>Outside, as an audience gathers, Rhyl turns on its coloured lights and their glitter is kind to all the town's daytime faults and flatters the Promenade into that magical place from everyone's childhood. We're early- I'm impatient to hear my friend read, after all, so David and I walk the perimeter of the deserted Marine Lake. The quiet is a positive thing, anticipatory. Even the boats tethered along the Foryd Harbour are making less fuss about wind and water.</p><p>As Glenda's a self-effacing almost reluctant performer, I worry for her - but once she stops the hard part of explaining why and how and reads, the atmosphere in the room becomes charged. Here is someone that many people outside Wales will never have heard of who has had a long break in her writing career dealing I know with challenging stuff thrown at her by life. But no one there on Friday evening in Rhyl's small gallery could be left in any doubt by the time she sits down. She always was and still is The Real Thing. </p>geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-81874434791184194772009-01-31T10:41:00.000-08:002009-01-31T11:23:00.777-08:00Worth watchingPeter Blair and Ashley Chantler from the English Faculty of the University of Chester emailed me recently to tell me about their new venture Flash- The International Short Story Magazine and asking for a piece for it- 360 words (including title). I love commissions but don't always want commissions- specially now when the current novel has been dragged to a plateau of 60,000 words and there's at least another 20,000 waiting to be added- then another maybe 30,ooo to take out and a new 24,872 at a rough guess to go in its place - and all before October.<br />But I knew straightaway I was going to do this.<br /> For a start Chester Uni is a Good Thing. I like it. It has above averagely attractive students who are usually cavorting in the Cheyney Road, Fountains Roundabout area of town and remind me how much I enjoyed my student days and how lucky I am not to have a proper job. And when you go there to do a reading those same students stare with beautiful uncynical eyes and write a few things down. Really comforting, that, on a bad day. But mainly it's this whole small literary magazine thing that does the damage. They really are Good Things. Years ago I heard a short story 'We All Begin in Little Magazines' on Radio 4. Can't remember by whom- can't be bothered to Google it- but the title says it all. Getting published never gets any easier- nor should it. But you've got to at least give people a point of entry- if they're rubbish then editors like Peter and Ashley will give them a strong hint. If they've any hope, they'll get a bit of yeah, well not too shabby from someone who isn't a blood relative. That's what you need.<br /> I thought I could be a poet only after the late, great Alan Ross - who NEVER published a single piece of mine- wrote: 'You might be worth watching.' Same sort of thing happened with the short stories just a different editor.<br /> You can check out Flash at <a href="http://www.chester.ac.uk/flash.magazine/">www.chester.ac.uk/flash.magazine/</a>. You can find out if you might be not too shabby by submitting. In April you can even read my 'An Alternative History of Rhyl' there - unless you really ARE from Rhyl in which case don't look. It'll only upset you.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-63738419655235875732008-12-02T03:48:00.000-08:002008-12-02T04:10:05.971-08:00So what?A fellow guest on Radio Wales 'Something Else' programme yesterday told me that 'Shakespeare was tosh'. All of it. Oh and old-fashioned and crude and...more stuff like that my brain couldn't be bothered to remember.. (It's permanently full of the new book, there's a lot of competition for space). I guess that's a point of view- no what am I saying? It's the opposite, it's a bluntness of view...no it's a bluntness of partial-sight. All these terms - opposites in this case- we could do with words for. One of the great things about Shakespeare was that when he couldn't find a word he made one up. A pity he couldn't have left me with the two I needed yesterday.<br /> Considering the English language has more words than it knows what to do with, I'm still surprised to find gaps. Children spot them early on. They regularly get asked questions along the lines of 'What's your favourite...?' Fair enough. But of course what they want to tell you is the opposite- and what's available? Not much. My least favourite...the thing I don't like most of all...my bete noir (ok not really). So they do the Shakespearean thing. They use unfavouritest.<br /> It still leaves me wanting a pithy, ouch sort of word to use when someone (sorry can't remember your name) thinks it's big and clever to say Shakepeare's tosh.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-60720280710951247022008-08-31T13:52:00.000-07:002008-09-05T02:17:44.393-07:00Horse sense<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeW2V1-PGTN0aedsoGDzDw_8MSe7k5y-IsR1BI8HqDKLgriHkzW1VINyHJAnBfhnKgOjklGCZKBqIUkIGQNwCvdnbgyY0z9zv5N7jjGVOHYwqK1JTqn8_VescVMcCQVNMreFE8CvPPvRN9/s1600-h/PIC_0008.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240789664850737346" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeW2V1-PGTN0aedsoGDzDw_8MSe7k5y-IsR1BI8HqDKLgriHkzW1VINyHJAnBfhnKgOjklGCZKBqIUkIGQNwCvdnbgyY0z9zv5N7jjGVOHYwqK1JTqn8_VescVMcCQVNMreFE8CvPPvRN9/s320/PIC_0008.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p>This time last week I didn't win the James Tait Black Fiction Prize- but what a buzz losing was. Rosalind Belben's 'Our Horses in Egypt' did win and she read beautifully from the first part of the story following Philomena, the horse requisitioned and shipped off to be used in the First World War. (That's Rosalind herself, on the left in the pink hat, at the post-prize book signing. I'm coping with what seems like a forceful fan of fiction on the right- really though she was a delight). I have no complaints. Both Ms Belben's writing and subject matter were especially pleasing to someone whose twin manias are horses and fiction. But give her a try even if they're not yours. Philomena's is a story you probably won't know and it's strange and needed telling. (AND visit <a href="http://www.ilph.org/makeanoise/">http://www.ilph.org/makeanoise/</a> if you have the inclination- nothing changes, huh?) </p><p>And the Edinburgh Book Festival was bliss if your business is books: readers and writers filling Charlotte Square from morning till night plus the academic squad from the University: the professors, librarians, graduate students et al. They gave such a great party - especially welcome to an undeserving fictioneer who finds research a real trial. So much easier to invent and inhabit your own universe where standards of accuracy are up for continual renegotiation. </p><p>The champagne and head-patting aside, a visit to Edinburgh certainly tops up the reserve of something always threatening to run dry in my case: the belief that what I do on writing days is a decent way of spending my life. </p><p>So I discover another Stevenson fan and his wife- nice to meet you and Erin!- get my reading done despite the hangover and wander up and down Princes Street in the sun with husband and friends to take in the the acapella singers, bands and magicians (sic). Not QUITE perfect. Because not only didn't I win, the BBC4 crew fail to arrive in time to film my being brave and performing with enthusiasm despite the disappointment. So the country will never get to see just what a good loser I was. So I'm telling you. </p>geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-56083947104857401322008-06-30T13:54:00.000-07:002008-06-30T14:15:58.203-07:00Don't Get Bitten, Don't Get KickedOnly true gentleness can master horses.<br />Pull and their strength will enter your flesh like<br />a butcher's hook and force the joint awry.<br />Never tense. Your fear will balloon and mewl,<br />come flashing over the fields, a simple brain's<br />switch of horror that may destroy you both.<br />Keep your voice low - you are fodder for the threshing.<br />Think with your senses: one can be spry death<br />in half a second from smelling the new spring.<br />Balance is your handrail. Gravity the strap.<br />Hold that light boneless seat men find so sexy.<br /><br />Always remember: on the grass you are dead meat.<br /><br /> Seam Poetry (Issue 5)<br /><br />My horse Ianto died this week. I was away and my friend Vivienne (and Bryan and Verity, but especially Vivienne) cared for him heroically. Probably best- horses know nothing about ownership. To Ianto I was a sort of officious health visitor: enquiring into the state of his feet, dosing him, insisting he take exercise. Vivienne on the other hand was meals-on-wheels: beyond kind, calm, a giver of sweets. I know who I'd rather have.<br /><br />Thanks Ianto - we had some wild times. I've never met another creature on four-legs that was a stand-up comedian.<br /><br />Thanks Vivienne.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-839354873804354662008-05-31T08:19:00.000-07:002008-05-31T09:00:03.117-07:00BackstoryWhile I'm writing fiction I try not to read it. Terrible insecurities surface if I do- not to mention the fear of unconscious theft. (This isn't really a problem because your own ideas, phraseology, scenes and of course characters have such a strong essence of yourself that - just like the penguin chick in the thousand-strong rookery - they call to you above the racket. Still...)<br /><br />I suspect this abstinance has more to do with sympathetic magic than anything real. Like fasting before taking communion - or no sex before The Big Game.<br /><br />I can't pretend it's easy- it's positively hard because, in common with most people who write fiction, I can't get enough of the stuff. I could eat three courses of fiction for every meal. (Starter: Michael Frayn, main course Joseph Conrad, pudding Martin Amis...and yes, I could manage another slice). An addict, I need some every day. I need some NOW. So I go through this ridiculous bargaining process with Mephistopheles. Obviously, I wheedle, a new William Boyd, say, if there is one- I'm not saying I've checked- but if there were one it'd be out of the question. I'm not even mentioning a title because I understand how not acceptable a William Boyd would be. But- but (it's early morning, my husband isn't awake to torment, even the dogs are still dreaming of very slow hares gambling innocently through Dog Heaven) but (here I come up with my lowest offer, ever) what about an old Colin Dexter- hang on, hang on, before you say No, what about an Inspector Morse that is so-o old I can mime the dialogue when it comes around on ITV3, so old that John Thaw playing Inspector Morse doesn't have a limp, so old and so familiar I can remember who did it? So old the traffic in the Oxford background is actually MOVING. Can I read that?<br /><br />No, he says.<br /><br />I turn on the laptop.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-89680456751670445922008-04-28T12:48:00.000-07:002008-04-28T13:13:45.509-07:00Writing daysIt's been...interesting lately. Especially for someone who spends a lot of time obsessing about village stuff (the latest is our neighbour's mare Pip, having been a dead ringer for a chestnut Zeppelin for an age now, has produced her foal). All Sunday afternoon as we gardened a succession of locals came along saying either 'The foal's out- it's gorgeous!' or - if going the other way-'Somebody said the foal's out! Just how gorgeous is it?' Answers: Yes, I know and Extremely gorgeous. Of such simple pleasures is country life. Then there's the wandering (ie trespassing) in the surrounding fields with just the occasional trip to town to get into fights with local retailers. Also the odd writing day is interspersed with all this and a bit of book-stuff gets done.<br /> But this last week book stuff has ganged up on the rest. First: over the border back to Wales to pick up the Pure Gold Fiction Award for Salvage (thank-you everyone in Wales who voted for it- the award was good, too with a bit of Welsh gold sandwiched inside). Then on the Wednesday there was the Lingham's party to launch Blood,etc (FINALLY- thank-you loverly Dominic from Parthian for being the acceptable face of publishing. Wirral ladies will long remember your visit). Today comes the news that Salvage has been shortlisted for the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for fiction. And people are ringing me up and emailing me to tell me I was shortlisted and to ask me if I knew yet and how did I feel.<br /> Answers: Yes I know and Extremely gorgeous- or extremely something anyway. Words fail me. It's not a writing day.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-4459095763171184852008-03-13T11:15:00.000-07:002008-03-13T11:56:28.787-07:00Can I rephrase that?Oh dear. To celebrate World Book Day I get three invitations to give readings. Wonderful. Never say no to this sort of thing. First off to Heswall. All's well. Nice people. Good questions. Two days later, flushed with success, Prestatyn on a beautiful seasidey afternoon. An impressively well-read and analytical group: they knew the novel better than I did. One of them had read it three times! AND my old friend Glen- hadn't seen her in years - turns up in the audience. So what with all this and the buffet (a big deal, I get my husband fed at no inconvenience to myself) the spirit of World Book Day goes to my head. I send a jokey thank-you email to John, the librarian, et al saying basically 'hey, how good was that? - and look at the picture, they're so into my book a fight's breaking out over that surprising twist on Page 186!' <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBED0wNX1CJVSxvoHsVA5_ohw2InGrXDQwZrV_int9wBIitnzqX25d3AnSBt8q2Yboaj8cUYcfLGNFAI3Be_L0SMKowiNUEoq-5zSRy9slAJceE6EuCr5vsBRr_KKKWlitXGJxs98tZ-UD/s1600-h/prestatynmar2008+004+(2).jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177293027487505858" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBED0wNX1CJVSxvoHsVA5_ohw2InGrXDQwZrV_int9wBIitnzqX25d3AnSBt8q2Yboaj8cUYcfLGNFAI3Be_L0SMKowiNUEoq-5zSRy9slAJceE6EuCr5vsBRr_KKKWlitXGJxs98tZ-UD/s320/prestatynmar2008+004+(2).jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div> </div><div>This was SO wrong. I have a bad feeling that a violent incident has been recorded, enquires will be made and all further fiction-based events could be suspended until a risk-assessment is completed. </div><div> </div><div>In my defence Llangollen library survived my visit last Friday night- and most of the town has reopened for business as of this morning. (Some traffic diversions may still be in operation.)</div><div> </div><div>Yesterday the Western Mail rang to ask how I felt about book-crossing. Well it's got be be good, hasn't it? People leave books around for other people to read...that's good, isn't it? And yes, you the author don't get a bean...but of course you don't mind. Because how can you stand to come across all miserablist and scrooge-like in the Western Mail? You just don't do it. Like making up jokes about perfectly decent Prestatyn readers getting into fist-fights. You just don't do it. </div>geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-11080022170575974362008-02-28T10:48:00.000-08:002008-02-28T11:34:18.456-08:00So it's just me and the QueenHaving announced yesterday that I intended to have an official birthday - today - guess what? there's a card, a very acceptable stylish pair of black gloves (is there any other sort?) - and a birthday lunch. Lush-sh meal at The Marsh Cat in Parkgate. Sadly no one in Parkgate has been prepared to speak to me since one of my characters called the place 'a swampside resort'. A character, folks, not the author. (It is though). So wear dark glasses. (It is actually sunny over their swamp). Have nice time. Husband says "Well I didn't think you'd want to waste your official birthday trooping the guard or changing the colour or whatever."<br />Correct, bach. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten you've lost your wedding ring. <br />"So this official birthday...?" he says.<br />"Main reason is February," I say, "as a month it needs something. It's short but grim. All it's got is St Pancakes Day - a carbfest followed by a Wednesday, Thursday and Friday eating twenty-two portions of fruit and veg to make up. And you never know when Pancake Day's going to be because they move Lent around to try to keep it a decent distance from Easter and you have to be Stephen Hawking to work out when that is. And then there's the worry about whether Angela's hens will bother to lay that week. Not to mention the lemon rage - and that's when I'm not boycotting whoever has lemons. And I have to make the pancakes because you<br />won't learn. Enough?"<br /><br />The sun goes in over the swamp. A big black splodge is hatched in Wales and rushes across the Dee towards us, halving the light in the conservatory where they have The Marsh Cat's nicest tables. Where we are. The vast expanse of reed and soggy bits and river that is downtown Parkgate turns- I'll like to say whatever adjective you can make from Conrad: Conradish, Conrady, Conradesque? There isn't one.<br /><br />"So what would you like to do on the rest of your official birthday?" he says. "My treat."<br />So February 28th it is from now on. Another date for him to forget.<br />"I might go home and write something. Just for a change."geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-50333754740550442342008-01-27T09:27:00.000-08:002008-01-27T10:25:06.324-08:00And this means?Can you depend on nothing these days?<br /><br />First, my husband of- so many years we've stopped counting, goes and loses his wedding ring. We go through the 'when did you last see it?', 'why would you take it off?' bit. Not that I'm sure I want an answer to either of these questions though I can conjure up several, straight off. His variations on 'search me' come as a relief. (Yes, I know it was me wrote the book about a lost ring, but that was made up, dear). Then (and this is a man who can forget his own birthday, never mind mine) he presents me with a card for St Ddwynwen's Day. Yesterday. Never happened before. Why would it?I suppose it is her day. Too miserable to check: she is a saint famous for a. being particularly difficult to pronounce by anyone non-Welsh and b. going into the longest sulk in history. What is he trying to tell me?<br /><br />So now it's the day after St D's day and there are signs and portents everywhere. That huge beech tree has been felled by a not particularly strong wind and is blocking my favourite walk. And just in case I don't get it, a headless dove (still warm, its crop filled with, I guess, ivy berries) has been dropped beside the lane on my return. A puff of soft grey feathers show the exact spot the buzzard struck. Probably I've interrupted the feast so am responsible for another victim soon to be decapitated beyond the woods. I carry the weightless corpse into the field for the buzzard, but more likely the fox or badger to find. <br /><br />Don't get too comfortable, all this is saying. Watch the skies.<br /><br />The ripples of malice have infected the new book. It seems to have reinvented itself, no longer calls itself the JA but 'something to do with darkness'. That's it. Just as with new babies, I - its parent - find a title I like in the Penguin Dictionary of First Names. Then it grows to the stage where you can't imagine it being called anything else. If it had aunties they'd be saying 'oo-o he looks so-o like a little JA doesn't he?' But now, suddenly, a forty-thousand word teenager, it's decided to hole up in its sour bedroom while considering the options. 'Something to do with darkness' - that's what I get when I try to feed it. 'Maybe Dark-Something'. It'll let me know.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-41070797052634740782007-12-31T02:26:00.000-08:002007-12-31T11:28:34.914-08:00last post<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdn2C8OuklAUxguDJ8G7z_GSoI55N7dEZ4ifPXxjPAMXhKpi7hXx5oL4yo5MNM734e7fp89QpHs1F2A86wm_uuJAm8-6poLEioEqUKHS4mpZBgDHQiM_CmSp2n_TnWcQPxCbMrh9uh8kKL/s1600-h/Christmas+tree+2007+003.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150220751478124466" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdn2C8OuklAUxguDJ8G7z_GSoI55N7dEZ4ifPXxjPAMXhKpi7hXx5oL4yo5MNM734e7fp89QpHs1F2A86wm_uuJAm8-6poLEioEqUKHS4mpZBgDHQiM_CmSp2n_TnWcQPxCbMrh9uh8kKL/s320/Christmas+tree+2007+003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Whatever Twelfth Night means to you - and it means something special to me - I think Christmas really ends on Dec 31st. So that's it, then. Over for another year. And this one hasn't been all that bad- mainly because the village is an ideal setting for an ancient festival - and gets more so by the day. Only recently the local bus company contributed to our lurch into the 18th century by cancelling their service. So it's official. I now live in village with no way in and NO WAY OUT.</div><br /><br /><div>In past years our mince-pie, mulled wine and singing on the green around a tastefully decorated Christmas tree was ogled by top-deck passengers - who probably believed they'd strayed back in time - or had had too many extra-strong eggnogs. No more. Now the only mechanical sound is the approach of Father Christmas on his decorated lawn-mower. And while we're on the subject of singing, what is the problem SOME people seem to have with carols? Every year a few of us (never more than a dozen, nothing like a mob) go around the houses and sing- for charity. We practise and we're not bad enough to set the dogs off. AND ITS FOR CHARITY. We're not talking anything controversial, either: just nursing care for cancer patients and a children's hospice. Most of our neighbours (even the music-lovers) welcome us to their doors and often inside to thaw around their also-tastefully-decorated fireplaces. They feed us and give us drink - and money. They wish us Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. It's straight out of Thomas Hardy, for God's sake. But at just a couple of houses, there's bad stuff happening- curtains are quickly closed and tv's turned up. In this way they manage to save a pound and only get one verse of Silent Night (OK, so it's not our best piece).</div><br /><br /><div>Here's something for them anyway.</div><br /><br /><div>A friend in our nearest town got a knock on the door, Dec 1st. A pair of bulging fifteen year old girls stood there and sang 'Away in a manger' three times. Not the whole thing, just 'away in a manger' three times over. It was all they knew. When my friend suggested they should learn a carol before they set out carol-singing, they suggested she give them money or they'd trash her car. Festive, huh? So for Christmas next year I wondered about arranging an alternative and exclusive to those people who can't be doing with 'The Holly and the Ivy' in return for a handful of change. What about a visit from the Cellulite Sisters? </div><br /><br /><div></div>geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-8011240019444097602007-11-30T09:22:00.000-08:002007-11-30T09:46:39.861-08:00You couldn't make it up<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwoDyM2if1mC3T3YbYjjxSduD5XX147Fbco9ZM8UQvmAhl7W-l1UGYZl6LA6tMGHYuERy8UcbanZsQz0S_YO-zSKnt_eMOljGEyTl6JKq4BmaDE7IjNPvZU8XZyAb4AtHjsFPimr9YaI7K/s1600-r/idbooks+work+WGRAmug+017.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5138690963506043970" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1KZ_jbKZo5w1KP74N0s3S9nmlZJFGz1V8tOx6mX3Gu-YPiSnd0LlMC3uRMXot6zpNDvPXHjucxWavx81q_Z4JXre0HjA0U4L5wORYL3X9NvMYiuJXmMf91uIred3iojaOuFKeZ-D2dxe/s320/idbooks+work+WGRAmug+017.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>To Waverton this week to talk to the Waverton Good Read Award crew because Salvage is on their list. This is brilliant. Waverton is a small Cheshire village where reading is really big, mainly thanks to bibliophiles Wendy and Gwen. And they know how to treat writers. Firstly they feed you a proper three course meal (with wine). Then they make an awful lot of the village come out on a vile, wet dark night and PAY to hear you speak about your favourite subject (you and your novel). Then they ask intelligent, well-read sort of questions which give you an excuse to speak about your favourite subject for even longer. Rather than rioting at this point and burning down the hall, they thank you politely and give you more drink - and then they promise that they'll all read your book. And away you go.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Now I'm home again, I'm wondering if Waverton really exists. After all there's a nasty virus going around that gives you a high temperature- maybe a touch of delerium? If it wasn't for finding the mug next morning you might think Waverton was the sort of place invented by an over-optimistic fictioneer. </div><br /><div></div>geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-29372191505090993202007-11-08T07:54:00.000-08:002007-11-08T08:34:43.349-08:00Gene-genieOctober was a wicked month, dry of writing and then just dry.<br /><br />I once had four uncles. As October breezed in, the last and dearest of them - Uncle George - found he was going to die. All of a sudden. No prologue and not much time for a finale. We don't mess around, we North Wales Prices. He accomplished the task stoically, in good order and with all preparations made, before the month's end. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipTlqqZ_OcST4aVR_P3zt-3kj1e2YFvEyXijDL-YLTQghm7ThAxRQUqMT9VpyeVQRQQdeQJR_hBy2OseKoNYfqX-rGSXP0HYenQrQgPsQmum2f9GqZUL9R6ftHWjTNrCPTPUQEPlDNqvDV/s1600-h/dandelions+004+(2).jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130499888987185730" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipTlqqZ_OcST4aVR_P3zt-3kj1e2YFvEyXijDL-YLTQghm7ThAxRQUqMT9VpyeVQRQQdeQJR_hBy2OseKoNYfqX-rGSXP0HYenQrQgPsQmum2f9GqZUL9R6ftHWjTNrCPTPUQEPlDNqvDV/s320/dandelions+004+(2).jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Fittingly he had been born on April 25 - Shakespeare's birthday.(Some boring pedants hold out for the 23 but that's rubbish- it was 25th, trust me). Of all the word jugglers, language baiters and story-budders in the extensive Price family my Uncle George was most practised and best. His narratives, his contrary emotional postures and some of his<br />single lines I've hoarded all my life and ransacked often. Of course we never ever discussed my writing - though he was a great reader, Nicholas Monserrat was the man for him. And anyway I was family. That's a relationship that grows in the mulch of talk.<br /><br />Uncle George would have been especially pleased to see a November now so mild there are still dandelions in bloom on the marsh fields down to the river- and on untended vegetable plots.<br /><br /> "How's the garden?" I remember asking him.<br /><br />"Show quality, the dandelions are. A wonderful display. This year they're in every shade from palest lemon to a deep sunburst gold." Pause for effect. "But mine are the size of dahlias."geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-36755456148363718022007-09-14T02:52:00.000-07:002007-09-14T12:33:32.760-07:00Predator<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikv7nperC1_o3EzIxB2WAgMPTyqqV23lUO0Fe8fKIQ_0xOVgQAXhxNqP7c_OiDelwOKjlcJp0lV0KQUYcnkzP4K4CksTeYsKToPl8QtJPjmOunKINXLdrawlvxSkD3rzUzju7VRno-y3Si/s1600-h/cornfields+and+a+little+pembroke2+003.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110116113704016386" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikv7nperC1_o3EzIxB2WAgMPTyqqV23lUO0Fe8fKIQ_0xOVgQAXhxNqP7c_OiDelwOKjlcJp0lV0KQUYcnkzP4K4CksTeYsKToPl8QtJPjmOunKINXLdrawlvxSkD3rzUzju7VRno-y3Si/s320/cornfields+and+a+little+pembroke2+003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Back home - one of those days which makes you think you're going to pay for this in the next life it's so good.<br />What I don't want to come back as is a rabbit. They harvested all the fields that run down to the Dee marshes- everything golden and rolling towards the river, the colour of honey under a low sun. A few hundred geese are gleaning the fields, mainly Canadas but with few natives. To avoid putting them up I have to constantly change course with two dogs. The spaniel knows his limitations- these are out of his league but the LabradorX not so much. Perhaps both sides, dog and goose, carry a gene from across the ocean that responds to each. What to do? Try to leave them to feed in peace, or give them a real good fright by running at them with two yapping dogs so they get the message: I don't have a gun but somethings that look like me do. Don't get friendly. Don't forget to post look-outs.<br />Six buzzards over the unworkable bits of marsh. Too many even for the rooks to put up resistance- they go back to the tops of the oaks from where they can shout abuse safely.<br />Not a single rabbit out here today. The buzzards take a pass over the spaniel- small, well-fed, brown- it's a mistake anyone could make.<br />Rabbits might be in short supply soon and Jem will definitely have to watch himself. Up Pipers Lane there were rabbits sitting out in the sun, not caring if they became a meal for dog or buzzard- probably would have welcomed it. There's myxomatosis about- a nasty slow death. Everything out there needs to keep in mind even a woman without a gun can kill.<br />So here's to that good lady who invented this neat little killer disease! May you come back as a rabbit.</div>geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-27804153948196242542007-08-23T06:16:00.000-07:002007-09-14T12:34:09.598-07:00Get your Wales delivered<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQXfWRfWt_gLHYCnfnAXIsHKYbof7mmzBeiaxMHzT5csi8s7nTXMEXFmEya063OiwA8Q81J0ujiIgmgI0lrhoQdrwAhqKfIZERbkf7cGKJxtNfK_0zG7k_urmhzxsKoUlfDoFenhiGlKD/s1600-h/cornfields+and+a+little+pembroke+003.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110127594151598610" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQXfWRfWt_gLHYCnfnAXIsHKYbof7mmzBeiaxMHzT5csi8s7nTXMEXFmEya063OiwA8Q81J0ujiIgmgI0lrhoQdrwAhqKfIZERbkf7cGKJxtNfK_0zG7k_urmhzxsKoUlfDoFenhiGlKD/s320/cornfields+and+a+little+pembroke+003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>It's just not Welsh enough round here. So off to Pembroke/Ceredigion border for a week of the<br />REAL THING. Packed the JA (even though I knew I'd be unpacking it in a week's time with not a word added). Packed warm clothing and waterproofs. Packed green wellies and best black wellies for Sundays. Packed 'Great Vegetarian Restaurants of South Ceredigion' (I wish).<br /><br />Very nice hotel: The Cliff. The cliff in question dropped a couple of hundred feet below our window so no one can say it didn't do what it said on the tin. This is the USP about Wales - it delivers. On our first walk out we're met with a notice. We were to make sure we didn't tread on the adders in the long grass. There is only long grass, all the sheep, presumably having been bought up by the Big T and turned into cutlets...then we're approached by a very bemused-looking South African man who says, "About so-big with marks along their backs?" "Those would be the adders," my husband confirms. We watch him stepping carefully back to the safety of the hotel like a man doing his first fire-walk. (But he's South African! Don't they wrestle poisonous mambas while still in their cradles?)<br /><br />But South West Wales is wonderful and so are its adders. It's the place where you can plummet 200 feet off a cliff if you want to - and not be bothered by a sign telling you how a ten-second bracing plunge followed by a brief splat on the rocks may damage your health. It's the place where you can put your hand on the casket containing St David's bones (AND St Justinian's bones AND another second-division saint whose name I've forgotten) and have a quiet word with him. Like I said Wales delivers. I feel like running out of the cathedral and finding somebody English and going, "yeah, go on then, bet you can't do that with St George, can you? Can you? Bet you haven't managed to hang on to so much as his little finger, have you? Bet you haven't even got his fingerNAIL in a matchbox. Have you?<br /><br />It's the place where you go to the man selling fish and laver-bread off a stall and ask for laver-bread and he says "The woman did the laverbread died yesterday - but her husband has promised to bring it in himself tomorrow."</div>geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-7638475980901410452007-08-03T03:10:00.000-07:002007-08-03T03:31:51.913-07:00Plenty more to worry about: blood and readingThe big-T's maltreatment of turtles still in top ten. Have now found more places to buy food AND whilst nipping into their outlet in Mold for the one item I couldn't find anywhere else- I'm not saying what it was, they'll be smug- I also made time to harrass them about a big-T trolley in the River Alyn. How did I know it was there's? Blue...big-T written on (rusting) handle -I can read it - bit of a clue.Will be checking on how that's going, soonest b-T. Oh and why have I started calling them big-T? Because using their name too often got blog frozen as Spam (tinned, surely?). Just one more thing, big-T and don't think I'm not keeping count.<br /><br />Anyway now there's food in the house again got down to business on the JA- autopsy very satisfying- some lovely sites to browse...then find that someone called Grumpy Old Bookman has posted some writing advice for me. While he likes my name - oh good - he thinks I shouldn't try to be too clever and should up the blood and thunder quotient in my work. Acutally there's a fair bit of blood in Salvage and a huge Tescoing (it's my new expletive) storm. What's the matter with this man? If he's really a 'bookman' - I thought that was a typeface - why not make the ultimate effort and try reading the things? There are many more effective products on the market for lighting fires, say, keeping out drafts and eating off. All of them on sale at the bog-T. But don't go there.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-69933221820427971812007-07-18T09:10:00.000-07:002007-07-18T09:43:01.423-07:00Tesco boycotHaving managed to add an extra 2 hours to every day by avoiding neighbours I've now had them taken off me again by my Tesco boycot - it's to do with turtles and China - so this week have had to make good on my threat to Sir Terry somebody that we'll be shopping elsewhere - in fact, we'd rather starve than give him any more of our money. This is already an exaggeration. Only I'd rather starve. The husband and dogs would rather go on supporting an organization who refuses to take seriously the rights of turtles everywhere so long as they can carry on eating. It's bad timing because this would normally be a great season to boycot Tesco in. The allotment I run with Vivienne could certainly feed vegetarian me (though prob. not husband and dogs). Sadly rain has caused exposion of slug population so it's nurturing giant slugs and their families instead. Today down there we have a sort of rainbow coilition of slug-kind in every shade. All boycotting Tesco quite happily thank-you very much. They have left just a couple of spring onions and one of those dark-red lettuces Vivienne insists on growing for people to leave on the side of their plates.<br /><br />I press on to find shops that sell food. Wander round looking in windows at cameras, novelty figurines and pictures of houses that look nicer than mine. I now find that apart from Tesco all the local shops sell non-edible stuff, if you don't count shoes. Good news for dogs who do count shoes. Bad news for husband.<br /><br />Finally back home again, a neighbour offers some runner beans. After re-telling me all her favourite slug-stories. Takes ages. The one about her Uncle Sidney and the Eccles cake makes me feel sick.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-63418932795610246202007-07-02T12:56:00.000-07:002007-07-02T13:23:49.118-07:00with waterside accessSince coming back to the village I've noticed a few changes. We seem to have several new water features. Walking the dogs this morning and agonising about what to say at looming book launch (of Salvage) - for example why out of all the words in the English language did I go and call it the one that sort of defies launching? - I find the grass I'm walking on has gone. It's turned into something that slops over my wellies. Obviously the whole wetness-theme has leached out of the text and is overtaking so-called reality (you never know with this village) in that Philip K.Dick style that you can use to get any plot out of a dead-end.<br /><br />It's not as if the village didn't have everything in the way of natural hazards already: barbed-wire that someone does macrame with and then drapes over farm gates - as though that was going to stop me - then there's the filthy stuff they spray on all those fields of 'finest' vegetables, smells like Domestos and strips the polish off your boots. I am SICK of decontaminating two dogs morning and afternoon as though they both worked in the nuclear industry. If I didn't have that to contend with I'd write an extra 500words a day.<br /><br />And now the place is semi-flooded. Not flooded note so you can stop normal life altogther and go to the shops in a dinghy - just very very soggy.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-69038432933294256822007-06-15T14:35:00.000-07:002007-09-14T11:32:09.848-07:00Wonderfully sinister<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwhr2uf81Z1jNXw7ovsOWZVhZhfMDB_8-9hLKp1ImdGnenbhp4NkBlPtCwK-L_nKkQoXYIM7EmhDgCoIZYxOGlomXMxUuuKESSTYaxJqgnxMAVHT7Ye_e1FkaRrsaBsLyGVhXilJxutvV/s1600-h/PIC_0014.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110129299253615138" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwhr2uf81Z1jNXw7ovsOWZVhZhfMDB_8-9hLKp1ImdGnenbhp4NkBlPtCwK-L_nKkQoXYIM7EmhDgCoIZYxOGlomXMxUuuKESSTYaxJqgnxMAVHT7Ye_e1FkaRrsaBsLyGVhXilJxutvV/s320/PIC_0014.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Back to the village after Oxford jaunt to research for the JA. How do other people do research? I wandered about a bit though I needed- really needed - to look at Logic Lane off The High but got so involved in that oo-oh that wasn't here six months ago where's that really strange shop that used to sell...? that I forgot to measure how wide Logic Lane was- immensely important point this - then had to go back later. Then there was the Turl Bar. Easy that one - just wait till<br />11am when it opened go in have drink(s) jot down current colour of walls, etc- except it didn't. Into the Mitre Hotel at the front- who owns it - to ask why? Nobody knows. My character HAS to go into the Turl Bar at lunchtime. Is it often closed now I keep asking every member of staff in the whole place. It isn't closed they all say. Yes it is! It's locked but with a sign saying it's open. But it's really closed! Is it the man who brings the coffee says, why's that then?<br /><br />Go back to rented place to rethink chapter.<br /><br />Walk along Southmoor Road, where I spent my seven week honeymoon in a bedsit on the first floor of No 80. From the pavement I note that the bay window which once was at least eight feet wide is now down to five and a half, maybe. In a local magazine I find Southmoor Road being described as 'wonderfully sinister' by a more successful writer than me.<br /><br />There's nothing sinister about Southmoor Road, mate. Not like a bar where you're trying to set a scene but locks itself up everytime you try to go in it. Compared to that Southmoor Road's got a touch of Disneyland.</div>geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-11405547612832877652007-04-27T12:10:00.000-07:002007-09-14T11:35:16.078-07:00A date with your ex<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMBD7UgGAWnBn-N3rFwOrsTRjxXGPYZ4XqflVxYAR007Jrio__C0emMqCicu01g-6gFBjXgAHuA70bDQeZES_hL7PakaXLpYS5n7nndc4WcOi2SL8YnEWrv6DZq9-gDT0dU1ghngdP_9r/s1600-h/PIC_0015+(2).JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110130141067205170" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMBD7UgGAWnBn-N3rFwOrsTRjxXGPYZ4XqflVxYAR007Jrio__C0emMqCicu01g-6gFBjXgAHuA70bDQeZES_hL7PakaXLpYS5n7nndc4WcOi2SL8YnEWrv6DZq9-gDT0dU1ghngdP_9r/s320/PIC_0015+(2).JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>That's what it's like when you really want to be getting on with the JA - new book - but the proofs of the last one arrive. It's now nearly three years since you did the first draft of what's just dropped through the letter box. Some bits - some very few bits in my case - your editor didn't object to so they're now completely unfamiliar. Did I write this? Those are the best bits though. Most of the proofs are so like that person you once thought interesting but now...well, you've heard the stories, you know how they end. You know what they want to drink.<br /><br />Finished the proofs yesterday. Can't just go back to the JA today. That's tacky. Decide to have another day off. Get out of this village. There's an added reason to do this. At home this terrible howling noise is making it hard to write a note to the milkman never mind anything new. The noise is coming from my dog Jem who has just had his second birthday. He's not celebrating -he doesn't know, after all, there wasn't a cake - but what he does know is that in dog terms he's now a man. And there are two female dogs in the village who are definitely up for it. Wild-eyed dogs that are complete strangers are appearing on the green and risking death by tractor just to find these bitches. Bitches is exactly what they are- they're making Jem's life and therefore my life a misery. Not exactly feminist this thought: why must people have female dogs at all? Without them, all the village companion animals could live in this sort canine Cistercian retreat, pleasures of the flesh not on the agenda. Well not that pleasure. There's still long country walks. And bones.</div>geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-70003513591643926772007-04-14T02:46:00.000-07:002007-04-14T02:58:05.358-07:00As it does every year, the eggspiracy interest has finally folded - we live at the end of a lane so it can take weeks for something else to come along. Last recorded mention of eggs from neighbour was that this time the eggs seemed smaller than previously. They weren't. But who do you complain to about a falling off in quality of anonymous gifts?<br /> What I promised myself I'd do today is not spend any more time wandering round out there soliciting hot news of somebody's trip to the gym (You're going AGAIN today? - long pause - Yes, it seems just the once won't do it) and more time working on The J.A.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790323904783999257.post-13471956273831710982007-04-12T12:41:00.000-07:002007-04-12T12:51:49.016-07:00I've been thinking I need somewhere else to say things rather than to friends and family. Out loud. Over Easter what happened for the last three Easters happened again. Someone in our village left a chocolate egg on the doorstep early Easter Sunday. Not quite everyone in the village gets on but most do. This gives the inhabitants two things they can do. 1. eat the egg and 2. develop their conspiacy theories about who does and who doesn't get an egg. Me and my husband have eaten our egg by mid-afternoon. I don't need a theory. I know why some people don't get eggs. So I was telling someone who doesn't live here about the egg-gift (o-oh, nice they say) but I can't stop there. I have to say if I was writing this on the fifth year...I tell them what would happen. There's silence. Not even nervous laughter. Got to stop saying things out loud.geehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13266432414342015202noreply@blogger.com0