Choice ~ Alethea Kehas #writephoto

Her spirit lingered above the water to watch it carry the remains of her body back to the Great Mother. Along the banks her people drummed to the rhythm of Earth and she could feel their love soar into the currents of the wind. She waited with them, in silent reverence to feel the pulse of the flow one more time between the lands of the living and the lands of the dead.

High above, nine ravens circled her beloved stones. She felt their presence and a pull of longing to sit once again in the place of the Seer. One by one they had left their gifts in the small hollow of her stone. Three black feathers and a turquoise stone. Now they soared in watch. Sealing the magic she had left behind. Below, a ring of white flowers lay like stars upon the trodden ground.

Continue reading at The Light Behind the Story

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Cusp of the Moon: cobblers…

HM15 073

*

…“You must make a name for yourself,” said Branwen, and she looked from one to the other of them.

“Now, how are we to do that?” said Greidyawl-the-Wise, and he scratched his chin as he chewed, looked to the far distance and set to, thinking.

Gwythyr-the-Bright thought too but he did not think for long, “Cobblers!” he said after a short space.

“Say what?” said Greidyawl.

“We shall become master cobblers,” said Gwythyr.

“But I can’t cobble,” said the old hermit.

“No, but I can, and I shall show you how,” said Gwythyr…

Continue reading at France & Vincent

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Choice ~ Willow Willers #writephoto

The woman stood and looked upstream. It was cold but it was February. It was cold but not the cold of the war. That gnawing cold that the Vampires had spread across the world. That winter that had lasted a decade and been the destruction of so many and so much.

Lisa pulled her cloak around her tighter against the cold and the memory of that long cold and bloody time. She felt so alone so many close to her gone, Mathew ripped to pieces by his own kind, Rachel valiantly fell holding back the hordes of Vampires with so many of her kind. There were so few of the werewolves left now. Faye had been the hardest to take,she had betrayed them but had repented as she died… Something no other Vampire had ever done.

Continue reading at willowdot21

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The writer’s rollercoaster

Following on from yesterday’s post, that seemed to get people talking, a post from the archives…

self-publishing-author-rejection

I recently came into contact with a writer. Nothing unusual about that around here, but this wasn’t through blogging or any of the usual channels. We talked for a while, establishing that there were a whole load of coincidences leading up to our encounter, which seemed to break the social ice… and then we got down to talking about writing.

For a number of reasons, this writer had lost confidence in the book they had published… a first novel with what sounded like a great plot. Having read a fair bit of it, I could see the effort that had gone in to producing a gripping story and a well-presented book. The writer, though, had noticed the minor flaws and, as such things do, they had taken over, dulling what should have been justifiable pride.

I remember both those feelings vividly… that moment when you finally hold your first book in your hands is amazing! But the pendulum swings both ways and, when you find the first typo in that glorious product of your imagination, the first really clunky phrase that makes you cringe and the obvious error (that is usually on either the front page or the cover) then you plumb the depths of literary despair.

It doesn’t seem to matter how long, how hard or how carefully you go over that damned manuscript, something slips through the net. This is especially true of our first attempts at Indie publishing. Some of my early covers, for example, are in desperate need of updating. So is some of the editing… and the proofing! But then, I know I am not on my own.

I read a lot. I always have…and I frequently revisit much-loved tomes, finding in their stories a perfect way to read myself to sleep. It doesn’t matter that I know many of these books almost word for word, I can still lose myself in the familiar unfamiliarity of their worlds. Many of these books are classics in their genre, published by some of the most famous writers via the biggest traditional publishers with all their expertise and experience and a team of dedicated, specialised staff.

cartoon-about-writers

Since becoming familiar with the sharp end of editing, proofing and presentation, I notice things that I never noticed before. Like chunks of transposed text, obvious spelling mistakes, typos and grammatical errors that even a five-year-old should not make. Sentences clunkier than a rusty bike and holes in the plot you could ride the bike through.

Does it matter?

If it were my book… hell, yes, it would bug me no end. As a writer and editorial dogsbody, I can’t help but notice. But as a reader? Not a bit. If the story is good, then the story is good… and when you are reading fiction, it is the story that counts. That ‘willing suspension of disbelief’ kicks in, the critical eye takes a holiday and the imagination carries you to a world where the occasional typo is of far less importance than the dragon you are riding or the marauding orcs on your tail.

It goes without saying that, when you are getting a book out there, you must do all that you can to make it the best that it can be. But you cannot do more than that. If you know that you have done your best, what else can you ask of yourself…except to learn to do better.

cartoon-publishing

Indie publishing, like writing itself, is a steep learning curve for all who roll up their virtual sleeves and start working. For those who do not have the financial means to employ professional editors, and designers, there is a point beyond which you simply have to accept that you have done your best…for now. Most of us who have followed that route will eventually look back on our first efforts and see the flaws. Some we may simply let stand, as a testament to the learning curve and an acceptance of having learned. Others we can and will put right by going back and doing a better job.

You cannot put right what has yet to be written. Nor can you distance yourself sufficiently from your first book in order to see it with clear eyes instead of rose-coloured lenses until you have progressed on your journey. The main thing is to remember that you had a story to tell and you have told it… you have written that book that so many will talk about writing ‘one day’.

It is easy to lose confidence in your work. A bad review, a good look at your own errors with more experienced and objective eyes, even reading a similar tale by someone who, you may decide, has ‘done it better’… A writer can be their book’s biggest fan and their own worst enemy, all rolled into one, but the bottom line is that a book is written to be read. It was written because you had something to share. And it was written in the hopes that it would amuse, entertain, inform or inspire. The odd typo won’t ruin a good story.

My writer friend said, having thought the problem through, “I need to stop being fearful and just get on with it! It’s not about me and what I feel – it’s how I can make others feel!”

pencil-editor

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The River’s Gift ~ The Urban Spaceman #writephoto

Sanjay grumbled to himself as he followed the path of the stream. The water echoed him in solidarity, a soft grumble of water churning stones against bedrock. Each river spoke with its own voice, and this little stream’s voice was as annoyed as Sanjay.

Every day it was the same. Sanjay, go here. Sanjay, go there. Fix this sewer outlet. Mend that drain pipe. Shore up that bank. Run the same water quality test five hundred times because the folks in the lab accidentially contaminated one of the vials.

Sometimes he felt like quitting, but what else could he do? As Tom had so often reminded him, he had no artistic flair, which meant working in Climate was out. He wasn’t qualified enough to be a Teacher, and jobs in Family Planning came up once or twice in a lifetime. Literally.

Continue reading at Observations of The Urban Spaceman

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Spring #midnighthaiku

Defiant beauty

Waking to a frosty world

Spring is winter’s child

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An old story of Craignish ~ Jo Woolf

Reblogged from The Hazel Tree:

I’m always being reminded that pretty much every rocky outcrop, every patch of woodland and every bay in this part of Scotland has a story attached to it.   This wet and windy weather isn’t great for exploring, so I’ve been dipping into a collection of old folk tales that were transcribed by Lord Archibald Campbell in the late 19th century and published in five volumes under the charming title of ‘Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition’.  Being out of copyright, they have been digitised by the National Library of Scotland and are available online.

Continue reading at The Hazel Tree

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Choice ~ Sadje #writephoto

One of the hardest things we do in life

Are the choices we make

Which path to take, which road to travel

If we had the foresight, like hindsight

The perfect clarity, with which we see

Continue reading at Keep it Alive

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Voices in the Mist (2) ~ Steve Tanham

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(Above: The Canadian WW1 monument at Vimy Ridge as it first appears from the car park)
Continued from Part One. From a distance it looks too stark to be a monument. The eye is, initially, disappointed as the form makes its modernistic impact. Both the height of the pylons and the width of the base ( a massive 6,000 tonnes of steel-reinforced concrete) look devoid of detail… but this is an illusion, for the Canadian National Monument on Vimy Ridge is designed to have many faces; some of them literal, others spoken of in bare symmetry. The icy mist had continued to haunt us. Our last-minute dash to see Vimy before heading for Calais was a gamble. The damp and misty air made it almost impossible to hold the camera, making the fingers numb after only a few seconds of exposure.

Continue reading at The Silent Eye

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CHOICE

First in this week…

Iain Kelly's avatarIain Kelly

At first glance the choice was simple. Stay on this bank of the river and be safe, but alone. Or cross the river and be with his family, but face the danger of being infected by the virus.

The official order was no one was allowed to enter the quarantined island. The traffickers had quickly set up an illegal network to profit from those who wanted to return home.

He tried to weigh up the reasons for staying away. He was no use to his children if he, like them, was exposed to the virus and became ill. The mortality rate was 50-50. He was no use to his wife if he became another invalid needing cared for. So far she was clear of any infection.

But could he bear to carry on living if one of his children succumbed to the illness and he was no there to say…

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