‘Earthly Messenger’…Stuart France

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‘Pushing through the market square, so many mothers sighing…’

(Five Years)

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Following the death of David Bowie on the 10th of January 2016,

a groundswell of opinion surfaced in Aylesbury

to celebrate his art in a permanent way,

in recognition of his connection with the music club, Friars.

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Bowie debuted both ‘Hunky Dory’

and ‘Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars’

at the club in the early seventies

Continue reading at France & Vincent

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The freedom to get it wrong

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Watching the fish in the pond the other day, I noticed that although they all swim, as you would expect from fish, they all swim differently. The huge sturgeon glide through the water with no appearance of effort at all. The one poorly fish with suspected dropsy expends huge amounts of effort to get around…yet the fat fish, who is the same size and shape, but just greedy rather than ill, swims as well as the rest of them. The ghost koi use their tails visibly to propel them at a sedate pace through the water…except Happy Fish, who zips around at top speed, jumping and playing for a few minutes then has to rest on a planting shelf for a while.  The orfe, however, use their whole bodies to slice through the water… or power through it when they want to clear the area. They all take a different approach to doing essentially the same thing.

Seals swim too, so do penguins and whales…and frogs and turtles. Their manner of swimming depends upon how they are made. They all propel themselves perfectly through the water, with regard to and within the limitations of their own form and their own needs.

I remember being castigated by our games teacher for my swimming style. While my backstroke was good enough to represent the school, my breast-stroke was never up to her standards … and the less said about my crawl the better.

I often wondered who made the rules on style and why. Is it a legitimate case of energy efficiency or an aesthetic decision? All I knew was that if I fell in the water, I’d be more likely to worry about staying alive than winning prizes for style.

As I watched the fish in the pond, I asked myself… of all the creatures who move through the waters of the earth, who swims right?

It is not a question about whose method is the most energy-efficient, the most hydrodynamic, the most effective at escaping predators or catching prey. It isn’t even about the beauty of their movements or their agility in the water.

Who gets it right?

Who could possibly have the arrogance to judge between, say, otters and salmon? How would you define the rules of style and method when both are so very different in their form and need? Could you even judge between Happy Fish and his pondmates? All of them are ghost koi, but all are different in personality, desire and their means of self-expression.

Yet, we expect ourselves to conform to accepted styles all the time. We judge one ‘better’ than another by accepted standards that we seldom even question. Who made them? Who decides whether Van Gogh is a better painter than Bruegel or an Aboriginal artist?

Who is so perfect at what they do that they dare to write a style manual or impose defining criteria of ‘rightness’ on any endeavour, large or small?

For writers, there are so many ways to be judged wrong. Some of them make a certain amount of sense. Spelling and punctuation, for example, are largely universal within any language… they are designed to be symbols of communication, showing what should be read and how it should be read. But other criteria? Style manuals? I am not so sure.

Fashions change in writing, just as in any other art form and what was true for Dickens or Shakespeare and their contemporaries would be unacceptable to the literary fashionistas of today. It is their content, not their style, that really stands the test of time. Most of the other ‘rules’ of how to write serve only the bank accounts of the publishers, who want a safe bet for their money.

Granted, if you want to hit the bestseller list, you are more likely to succeed in getting that book deal, advance and promotion if you adhere to the rules as laid out in the style manuals. It is also true that writing mainstream fiction that sits neatly in one, perhaps two, of the accepted categories is far more likely to appeal to a broad readership in search of an entertaining read, than if you write something odd or challenging. But does that mean no-one should step outside of fashion and create a style of their own?

I do not think so. In fact, I feel that by forcing oneself to conform to a prescribed style…unless it is a style that feels ‘right’… we risk stifling the natural flow of a writer’s voice and inspiration… and may lose something unique in the attempt to conform.

One of the real joys of the Indie publishing movement is that there are so many writers out there now who are doing their own thing. To me, that is cause for celebration. Regardless of whether a story seems well or poorly penned to some, it will appeal to someone… and even if it did not, it was penned in an act of creation, and  creativity is one of the greatest gifts of humanity.

There are millions of blogs out there… and the blogosphere is a veritable hotbed of creativity with many people writing every day, in every possible style, on every subject under the sun…. and people are reading those blogs. Even this little blog has had over half a million views*. We are sharing knowledge, opinions, stories and thoughts. We are actively seeking out the weird, the wonderful, the practical or the inspirational… we are learning, laughing and benefiting from sharing in a global community of creativity.

I find that incredibly beautiful and hopeful… a true expression of the human spirit in all its complexities, from the totally ridiculous to the sublime.

So, next time you pick up a pen or are poised over the keyboard… don’t let anything tell you that you should swim like a tadpole if you feel yourself to be a frog.

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Mist #midnighthaiku

Misty memories

Forgotten, overwritten

Still mark the landscape

Not time nor forgetfulness

Unmakes any moment lived

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Willow Willers interviews Author, Jane Dougherty.

Reblogged from willowdot21:

Today I am very excited to have the very talented Jane Dougherty to visit and discuss her latest book. This is a new adventure for Jane as this is a poetry book.

Hello, Willow. Thank you for inviting me to talk about my very first book of poems. 

Hi Jane it’s great to have you here do sit down and have a cup of tea, tell me what made you decide to write a book of poems about the elements.

It wasn’t a conscious decision. I write a lot of poems, every day, and although I post many of them, there are still lots left. Some of them I have been keeping because I think they deserve a bit more than to be just one blog post among thousands. A themed chapbook seemed like a good idea. Every time I do some physical sorting, weeding or clearing out, I hurt my back, but sorting poems is a relatively safe activity. When I looked through the scores of poems in the homeless folder, they all seemed to fall into a few main themes, and the first theme I tackled was water.

Continue reading at willowdot21

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Solstice of the Moon: Tales of the Unexpected

Sadly, it was to be our last night in Scotland. We had found a place to stay just outside Pitlochry. The next morning we would begin the long drive to our next rendezvous… a meeting with a friend in Yorkshire. After the dousing we had enjoyed with the rain over the weekend, there was, it has to be said, a certain irony in the name of our hotel…

We booked in, then wandered into Pitlochry in search of supplies. Our needs were simple, which was just as well as, by that time, most of the town was already closed and evening was drawing in. I’ve always had a fondness for Pitlochry for some reason. Although the town dates back a thousand years or so, what now remains is largely Victorian, a reminder of Queen Victoria’s visit in 1842. The arrival of the railway in 1863 helped make Pitlochry a popular place to visit and, nestled between the mountains and the river, it remains a tourist centre to this day. Even so, it has a homely feel to it.

Duly resupplied, we retired to the hotel to get an early night. It had everything we would need… and definitely something extra too.
“I’m sure I closed that door.” My companion rattled the handle and shrugged; it was an old building, after all, perhaps it hadn’t quite closed.
We ate our supper and wandered down to the street, standing at the bottom of the stairs that led to the only two rooms in that part of the building. The evening was pleasant but a chill was settling in so we did not linger above a few minutes.
“I know I locked that door,” said my companion in consternation. The door was unlocked and standing wide open… I knew he had locked it too… and as no-one could have passed us to climb the few stairs to the rooms, perhaps we were not the only ‘guests’ to be lodged in that part of the old inn…

Continue reading at France & Vincent

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The City and the Stars (2) : The Houses of Skara Brae ~ Steve Tanham

Skara Brae’s modern story began in 1850 when a violent sea-storm tore off the layers of grass, sand and soil that had covered what appeared to be two ancient and completely intact Neolithic houses. For 4,000 years, they had been lost to history, having been mysteriously abandoned.

(1000 words, a ten-minute read)

The local landowner at the time was William Watt, who lived at Skaill Hall, which is located next to Skara Brae and can be visited in its own right. Watt explored the two exposed houses and collected many objects. Like several other local explorers, Watt left few records of his work. In the 1860s, George Petrie, an able Orcadian historian and antiquarian, made frequent visits to the site and discovered there were other buried houses. He made copious notes and left them to public posterity. By the end of 1867, this dedicated man had cleared and documented the contents of Houses 1,3,4 and 6. – See key below.

Continue reading at Sun in Gemini

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Brown, Black, Grey and Red…

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Fin Mac Coll was hunting with his Fenians south of Ballyshannon.

Three strange men approached the company.

“Let no one speak before they get to me,” said Fin.

The three interlopers said nothing until they stood before Fin.

“Our names are Brown, Black and Grey,” said they, “we have come to take service with you.”

Fin so liked the look of the three men that he brought them back to Tara with him and called them his ‘sons’.

As night approached he took them to one side.

Continue reading at France and Vincent

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Fan dancers

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I used to collect antique fans… I have a thing about them. Ever since I saw my great-grandmother’s little fan in the china cabinet as a girl, I have wondered about their stories. Grandma’s fan was a simple affair; pierced ivory brisé, threaded with a faded yellow ribbon to hold the sticks together and still wearing the ribbon hanging-loop she used to carry it over her wrist. She was a handsome woman when I knew her, already in her sixties when I was born, but there were some old, faded photographs of a young woman who had been more than handsome. Born when Queen Victoria was on the throne, she grew to womanhood through the Edwardian era, she was married when George V became king. To a small child, this was ancient history! And Granny had been there!

It was with real excitement that I used to wait for the monthly Dusting of the China Cabinet, when Grandma would let me carefully take out the small antiques and curios, the memories in porcelain, ivory and silk and clean them with a soft cloth before rearranging them. I loved the paper-thin bone china of the tiny coffee-cups, the opaque glass Easter egg and, of course, the fan.

I could see the swirl of gaily coloured gowns, shy eyes meeting bold ones over the top of the fan, coy glances and maidenly blushes. Fans have a language all of their own and somehow I felt that I knew it. The little brisé fan, soiled now with the years, had been Grandma’s first and it was the first one to capture my heart. I learned to love them, from the social history of advertising fans, to the glorious feathers, mother of pearl sticks and ornately carved guards that protected their secrets. Many are exquisite works of art in miniature, incorporating many arts and crafts into a single, practical thing of beauty. Some of them were painted by people whose names have gone down in the annals of art history, others painted by the young girls themselves. They tell stories both in their design and in the hidden history of the hands that once held them. I always promised myself that I would collect fans one day if I could, and for a while I was privileged to be the custodian of such beautiful things.

Continue reading at The Silent Eye

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Shaped #midnighthaiku

To sail without sails

Across a boundless ocean

Of gold and honey

Perception and memory

Shape what was to what should be…

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Chris Graham at TRSA Meets Guest Author, Pete Springer…

Reblogged from Chris, The Story Reading Ape:

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee

I’m old-fashioned in a lot of ways. I could list twenty different qualities that put me into the senior box instead of the middle-age category.  One of the ways people show their age is through their use of language.  If you’re like me, then perhaps you speak with idioms.  I don’t purposely plan on saying them, but that’s what comes out of my mouth.  As I’m going over my first novel with my critique group, these critters sometimes slip into my writing.  It’s not an issue if grandma or grandpa occasionally tosses one in but not if your protagonist is twelve.

Idioms are not a problem as long as your characters don’t use too many clichés.  You can get more bang for your buck that way.  Oh, stop it!  I was just pulling your leg, or was it your chain? If you fall in love with those phrases, you’ll end up with egg on your face.  Come on, Springer.  It would help if you thought outside the box.  (As opposed to thinking in a box?)  Please don’t get me sidetracked!  I was starting to get the ball rolling.  Bear with me because I’m about to turn over a new leaf.  While you’re at it, don’t have a cow!  That’s just the way the cookie crumbles.

Continue reading at The Story Reading Ape

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