tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90417542929655542262023-06-20T05:11:24.713-07:00misha's blogmishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-58544397185156932742015-04-29T05:51:00.001-07:002015-04-29T05:51:56.071-07:00Blood-Red Pencil: Misha Herwin and a New YA Book<a href="http://bloodredpencil.blogspot.com/2015/04/misha-herwin-and-new-ya-book.html?spref=bl">Blood-Red Pencil: Misha Herwin and a New YA Book</a>: What would happen if the world ran out of water? Would our societies survive? Would our technology? The more I thought about this, the mor...mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-24123703924686536792014-07-23T05:43:00.000-07:002014-07-23T05:43:42.580-07:00Dragon: a poem.<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">DRAGON</span></u></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Razor sharp venomous teeth<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Rocky crackly roar<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Mean-hearted golden
eyes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Scaly emerald spikes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Red sharp claws<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Smooth scalding claws<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Malleable shape changes
thumb<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Petrifying hot roaring
meteor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Gold scaly skin<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Sparkling sapphire eyes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Big scary eyes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Needle sharp Arrow
pointed <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Tall silver tail<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Purple bumpy tongue<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Cherry blood drinker<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Gives deadly death<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Unpredictable deafening
scream<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Terrifying scream
roaring<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Ears long black<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Green fearsome nostrils<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Malicious black heart<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Horrifying breath<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Horrible vile breath<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Fearsome lava red <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Scorching flaming
breath<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Smooth sapphire scales<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Spines iron hot metallic
triangles<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Sensational courageous magnificent<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Awakes in the dark,
dark cave</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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On Monday I did a dragon workshop with some Year 6 kids at St. Thomas More Academy in Stoke. <br />
After reading from "Dragonfire" we came up with our own ideas of what a dragon might look like and the above poem is the result.<br />
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It was a great session. I enjoyed myself and I hope the group did too, so thanks to Riley, Maia, Tom, Cameron, Spencer, Brandan, Ashley, Leah, Devan, Gerry, Josh, Kian Alarna, Kyle, Leo, Natasha, Isobel, Maryann, Molly-Ann, Shona, Ami, Amy, Sophie, Cameron, Kai, Ltrelle, Chloe and Hannan and all the best for the start of your new term at St. Thomas More in September. mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-71258179060079699152014-07-02T03:43:00.001-07:002014-07-02T03:43:24.221-07:00Summer time and the living is easy...Or it should be. The sun is shining, the temperature is perfect and I have just come in from having a cup of coffee in the garden. Sounds idyllic, but...<br />
<br />I am a creature of routine and my morning routine involves writing for a couple of hours before doing anything else. On the days when I do this, I feel I can relax and get on with the rest of my life. On the days when it doesn't happen there is this niggle at the back of my mind telling me I'm not treating my work professionally etc. etc. all the usual beat yourself up stuff that writers go in for.<br /><br />And today the next book in the "Clear Gold" series remains untouched. <br /><br />What then should I do? Go with the flow, or stick to the timetable?<br /><br />The answer, of course, is to compromise. For me, a routine is both comforting and an efficient way of getting things done. On the other hand, days like today are rare and must be enjoyed. <br /><br />So, I will finish my blog, for Wednesday is blogging day, then I will edit some more of the book after which I'm going outside with my Notebook to work on a short story I need to revise.<br /><br />And to finish the day? A walk to the Red Lion for an evening of Renegade Writers.<br />mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-54400878267670014852014-06-05T02:56:00.000-07:002014-06-05T02:56:01.609-07:00Remarkable RenegadesLast night was writing group with the wonderful Renegade Writers. Having spent three days wrestling with a seemingly intractable problem with my e mail I thought I would mention it at the start of the session. Various theories were advanced then Jem Shaw offered to come round after the meeting and fix it. At the same time he was giving Josh Allerton a lift home, so there they were at ten o'clock at night sorting out my e mail difficulty.<br /><br />Now it all works perfectly and I can go to sleep without worrying about invasion of virus, or hacking by evil minded aliens and all the other crazy thoughts that go through my mind at three am. <br /><br />Oh and the group gave me very constructive comments about book 2 in the Clear Gold series as well.<br /><br />What more can one woman ask for? mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-37176855602347486542014-05-27T22:00:00.001-07:002014-05-27T22:00:19.457-07:00Tea on the RadioYesterday I was a guest on Paul Oldfield's Nite Klub on Cre8 radio. I had come expecting to talk about my new book, "Clear Gold" but the conversation turned to tea. Now without tea I couldn't function. First thing in the morning, whatever time I get up, it's down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Sometimes it's three o'clock in the morning, sometimes nine. Then with mug in hand I can sit down at the computer and get down to work.<br /><br />And how do I make this tea. To my shame I have to confess that I'm a tea bag masher with a spoon sort. Not for me a china teapot, the leaf tea, the strainer and jug of hot water. What I need is m tannin fix. Once I've got that then my day can begin.<br /><br />Oh and yes we did talk about the book and I read an extract but to hear both you'll have to tune in to www. Cre8radio/listen.<br /><br />Enjoy. mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-86682037112213518932014-05-15T12:06:00.001-07:002014-05-15T12:06:16.986-07:00Dreams, Dreams, DreamsWriting isn't all about sitting at the computer/laptop/tablet, or even old fashioned notebook. It's also about dreaming. Not the sort where you conjure up your latest best seller; imagine what it would feel like to be interviewed on Breakfast TV, or to glide along the red carpet at the premiere of the film of your book: the one that is about to gross millions and put you right up there with J.K. Rowling in the millionaire stakes.<br /><br />The dreaming I'm talking about is another form of work. It's what happens when you don't know where a story is going, or you're stuck on a scene, or a character. That's when I get up, switch off and go and do something completely different, something that will let my mind float free. <br /><br />Sometimes it's walking into town through the trees of Station Walks, or the Brampton Park. At other times I pull up a few weeds in the garden or do some mundane household chores.<br /><br />Taking a shower is good too.<br /><br />Yesterday, on my way to Birmingham, it was sitting in the train watching the countryside go by. I'm working on the second book about Mouse and Lanyon, the next in the series after "Clear Gold" and I was having trouble with a character who was threatening to take over the first part of the story. <br />
As I sat and stared at the sun filled fields and crumbling industrial buildings, the answer came to me. Notebook and pen out, I began jotting down ideas.<br /><br />I had thought I was taking a day off. In fact the journey proved very productive and as well as having a great time with an old friend, the following morning the chapters simply fell into place. At which point, I sat down at the computer and began...mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-25943980047617218632014-05-08T07:26:00.001-07:002014-05-08T07:26:29.441-07:00Stone Pub run by ZombiesLunch with a friend should be a pleasant occasion. A trip to the usual pub by the canal at Stone, good pub food, drink and long, long chats. This is my usual experience of The Star. Today however it was not to be as the usual staff appeared to have been replaced by Zombies. <br /><br />First the wait to be served. We sit, and sit. The waiter, if that is who he is, walks past our table, once, twice, three times. His face is blank. Finally we are asked what we would like to drink. We order and we also give our order for food. We wait. Time passes. We chat. The room is virtually empty, no one comes, no one leaves. No meal arrives.<br /><br />Forty minutes later I go to the bar. Is there a problem? Apparently not, such a wait is common. I point out it's never happened before and that we are regulars. My comment is met by a blank stare. <br /><br />Some time later, food arrives. No apology, no explanation. It's good, we enjoy it. No one comes to ask if it is OK. No one offers dessert, or coffee, or clears away our dishes. <br /><br />The room empties. We are alone. <br /><br />If this were SF at this point the poison in our systems would kick in, we would keel over and be dispatched either for alien experimentation, or to have our vital organs harvested, etc. <br /><br />Nothing happens. The place rattles with emptiness. Our conversation flags. <br /><br />Since no one is around it would be tempting at this point to leave without paying. It could have been done; instead we go to the bar. We smile politely, we pay.<br /><br />The Zombies stand expressionless. One sips coffee. Or is it? The cup he raises to his lips would suggest it is, but by now all we want to do is get out of there asap. <br /><br />Driving home, I begin to wonder. Is all this a way of shutting down the lunch time trade, or is something more sinister going on? <br /><br />Whatever the explanation, we won't be going there again.mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-32546956551392889352014-05-01T10:44:00.002-07:002014-05-01T10:44:34.686-07:00Thinking in picturesApparently #Dyslexic people think in pictures. Talking to friend and fellow writer Mick Walters who suffers from dyslexia he sees his stories as an ongoing film which he then has to translate into words. This made me look at how my imagination functions. If I hear the word "dog" I don't immediately see a dog, as Mick would. In fact the more I think about it, the more I realize that I am a very word orientated person. Except for when I "see" a character, which is often the starting point of a book for me, I usual verbalize my thoughts. Which of course makes it easier to write them down. <br /><br />The downside of this sort of brain is, that I have very poor spatial awareness. I never really know if I can, or can't fit into a parking space. Also I'm not very good at directions, unless they are written down. I can follow a map, if I hold it the right way up for me and trace our journey with my finger, but far, far easier for me if someone has given me verbal instructions. <br /><br />I deal in words, Mick deals in pictures, but he too needs to tell a story. I've often wondered why so many people with dyslexia write, even though it's harder for them, than for the rest of us. Now I'm beginning to get an insight into the answer. mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-14498066004106099082014-04-23T05:08:00.001-07:002014-04-23T05:08:25.659-07:00Finding my wayTwo weeks ago, the new computer arrived. It's sitting on my desk, purring happily away, looking very, very smart and new. <br /><br />It's quick; it does a lot of stuff and I'm still finding my way around it. What used to be automatic now needs a great deal of thinking about. I know that in a few weeks time I'll wonder what the problems were, but just at the moment I'm feeling a like a clumsy fingered dinosaur who's been catapulted into the 21st century.<br /><br />And like any true dinosaur I wish that my lovely smart new machine had come equipped with that old fashioned thing, a handbook!<br /><br /><br />mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-34044535651605327652014-04-04T06:47:00.000-07:002014-04-04T06:47:33.761-07:00With a little help from my friendsFacebook is wonderful! Writers get a lot of advice about not wasting time on social media but as far as I'm concerned Facebook really has been brilliant these past couple of weeks.<br />
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A few days ago, my screen turned pink. Pleasant enough and quite workable. Then things began to deteriorate. Jaundice set in. What had been white, then rose coloured, became bilious yellow. Hardly daring to even say it out loud, for we all know how our electronic devices can intuit every thought and fear, I posted my problem on Facebook.<br />
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Immediately help was at hand. Jem Shaw suggested I made sure the cable was plugged in tightly. I did and everything went back to normal, putting to rest my terrors about having to buy a new screen. OK I still have to wriggle the cable occasionally so the screen stays white rather than blush, but now I know what to do it's no longer a problem.<br />
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Jem wasn't the only person to come up with this solution, so thanks to everyone else who posted their advice.<br />
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Special thanks too to my cousin in Canada, Jan Wolanczyk. Whenever I don't know how to post a link to some forum I belong to, he's there for me and once again problem within minutes.<br />
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On a more serious note, when Mike was in hospital having his gall bladder removed the good wishes and support from my Facebook friends really made a difference. Coming home to an empty house and finding so many people had posted their love and concern, lifted those dark hours.<br />
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<br />mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-17519098105733353332014-03-30T02:17:00.001-07:002014-03-30T02:17:42.581-07:00To Tell or not to TellThe story is great, fast paced, page turning. The main characters are vividly drawn, their dilemmas absorbing. I can't put the book down and race to get to the end. Why don't I want to give it a five star review?<div>
Because Indie published as it is, it is full of grammatical errors (the writer knows about as much about the use of the apostrophe as the nine year olds I used to teach) misuse of words, ie. affect where it should be effect, spelling errors and the use of prepositions is creative to say the least.</div>
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For me, however, riveting the plot, this spoils my enjoyment of the book. Once I notice one error, then my teacher's need to pick up the red pencil comes into play. </div>
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This won't be true of every reader, but there is another more serious point to my criticism. If we are publishing our own work then we need to have the same standards as traditional publishers. As a writer I know that I constantly miss my own errors, but that is why I have beta-readers, who will pick them out for me. Then I print out a hard copy and go over it with a ruler and pencil word by word. </div>
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Even then it's not infallible, but at least the errors should now be at the level that can be found in traditionally published books. </div>
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If we don't do this then our books will always be seen as second rate and we will never achieve the same respect as those who go down the traditional path. </div>
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Should I say all this in my review? Should I point out what has spoiled the story for me? If I were prepared for sloppy editing then I might decide to ignore it and concentrate on the plot, but on the other hand it might be enough to put someone off even trying the book and so missing out on a rattling good yarn. </div>
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mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-2214736015651301282014-03-09T08:29:00.002-07:002014-03-09T08:29:27.913-07:00Gremlins and Daemons.Sunday afternoon. The sun is shining, it feels like Spring and I've just come in from the garden to finish off a few tasks on my computer.<br />
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But I seem to have brought the Gremlins and Daemons with me. First of all I can't access my blog. OK they relented and let me on second time round, but this doesn't usually happen.<br />
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Next I need to ring a friend on his mobile. The number appears to be disconnected. It it? Or is there more machinations going on?<br />
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Personally I think the warm weather has brought out the imps of infuriation. Knowing that we humans are never happier than when the sun shines and the skies are blue, they have decided to annoy us in ways only they know how.<br />
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Or is it simply Sunday? A day when everyone wants to access their social media, their real life friends and family and the web and all the phone networks are overburdened and unable to cope.<br />
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Whatever the reason, I think I might just go and read a book. One of those real ones made of paper.<br />
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<br />mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-27067850780748622792014-02-16T04:26:00.000-08:002014-02-16T04:26:10.084-08:00#MyWritingProcess<br />
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Thanks to the multi-talented Jan Edwards, who nominated me, today it's my turn to post as part of the #MyWritingProcess international blog tour, where writers follow a thread across the blogs of lots of different fellow wordsmiths. </div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Jan is a truly inspirational member of Renegade Writers, editor for Alchemy Press and writer of great short stories, and fantasy novels and is also the author of the dark novel Sex, Lies and Family Ties under the name of Sarah J Graham.</div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
The task is quite simple, once nominated you answer the same four questions as those that have gone before you.</div>
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So, here goes:</div>
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<strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">1) What am I working on?</strong></div>
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My current work in progress is the next book in my series for Young Adults. The first book titled "Clear Gold" tells of an alternative but not dissimilar world to ours, where water is more precious than gold. In a society where technology has fallen out of use, because of the lack of oil, and the options for girls are limited to being either a mother or a fighter, my heroine Mouse has to find a way to get out there and explore her world and her place in it. </div>
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<b>2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?</b></div>
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Hopefully because of the character of Mouse herself. Unlike more conventional heroines, Mouse has problems relating to other people. She is a survivor who has learned, through bitter experience, to put herself first, but as the story progresses she begins, somewhat tentatively to realise that it may be possible to trust. </div>
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The other thing that I feel makes "Clear Gold" different is that although targeted at Young Adults the book is a romance and although Mouse's relationship with Lanyon is central, it unfolds very, very gradually and there is no explicit sexual content. This is not because I disapprove, as those of you that have read some of my other work will know, but because I believe very strongly that there are teenagers who would prefer this approach and that there are no books that cater for them on the market at the moment. </div>
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<b>3) Why do I write what I write?</b></div>
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I'm not sure I know the answer to that one. Sometimes, my ideas come from things I've read, seen, or experienced but more often than not a character simply presents itself. With Mouse I saw her lying on her stomach high up on the Roches watching the wagon train make its slow way through the valley and that was that; her story unfolded from there. </div>
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As for writing in different genres, as well as my "Dragonfire" trilogy for 8-12 year olds and above and beyond, I also write short stories and novels for adults. I suppose that the thread that runs throughout all my work is the paranormal/fantasy, but having said that I've also written straight forward women's fiction. I suppose it all goes back to the characters and their situations. </div>
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<b>4) How does my writing process work?</b></div>
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After the initial idea, I carefully map out each chapter, sometimes just noting down plot lines but more often than not scraps of dialogue. Then I write a very quick first draft and after that it's a question of taking the work in progress to Renegade Writers for their feedback and editing, editing, and editing some more until the book is ready for a beta read. At that point it's ready to go out into the big wide world, at which point a hold my breath and press send. </div>
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Now I'd like to nominate the fabulously, talented Jem Shaw, the author of "The Larks," one of the best books I've ever read about WW1 and needless to say a fellow Renegade. Hopefully he'll answer the same four questions before March 15 and pass them on to another writer. </div>
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mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-23610762080948282602014-01-11T01:09:00.001-08:002014-01-11T01:09:31.004-08:00Writer as domestic goddess#Nigella has nothing on me. 7. 30 this morning I was in the kitchen whipping up a meringue. Admittedly I wasn't fully made up and wearing a black silk dressing gown. Pink fleece, thick tights and furry boots aren't in the same league, but my kitchen is the real thing. The heating hadn't kicked in and our tiny kitchen soon gets warm when the oven is coming up to temperature.<br />
<br />
It was very satisfying standing there as the sky turned pink, the cat scoffed her breakfast and husband slept. There are now egg yolks to add to the scrambled eggs for breakfast and the pudding for tonight is almost complete.<br />
<br />
All of which led me to wonder why so many writers I know love to cook. Is it because that is one job that you have to start and follow through to completion? A book or a short story can marinade for weeks or even months. Then it takes even longer before you have a first draft and that is only the beginning of the whole process.<br />
<br />
Whatever the reason it is almost time to go back to the kitchen and check on the pavlova bases, then I will turn my mind to a title for my latest short story. mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-28536756553260573982014-01-09T12:19:00.001-08:002014-01-09T12:19:37.542-08:00Job or Aspiration?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Is your writing a job or an aspiration? Reading an excellent blog on this topic </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">http://authorallsorts.wordpress.com/2014/01/08/how-do-you-fit-your-writing-in-with-the-rest-of-your-life/ got me thinking about how I view my writing.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;">At times I try to view it as my job and when I do I put in more hours and get more done. Then life takes over, there are family and friends to see, garden to tend, the house to clean and the writing gets pushed to the bottom of the list. At first this feels fine. Then very quickly frustration sets in. If I'm not writing I get tetchy and irritable, my life feels very small and closed in. I need the escape into my imagination and the challenge of wrestling with words to create stories. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;">Why then am I not more rigid about setting aside the time to write? Is it because to do so is to admit how important it is? Or is it because in some perverse way I put off doing what I know is good for me? Because ultimately that is what writing is. For me it is vital, it keeps me in balance with myself and with the world. When I'm writing I am energised, I feel better about myself and about life in general. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;">Perhaps the answer is to see writing as neither a job, nor an aspiration but a way of life. In purely practical terms to write all morning have the rest of the day to do everything else. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;">Now that could work ... </span></span><br />
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mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-24073551541611761722013-12-31T07:09:00.002-08:002013-12-31T07:09:24.564-08:00Whatever path you take. .Whatever path you take it is better to make the move than to stay dithering on the edge of the cliff. If indeed there is a cliff. For me making a decision is the hardest thing to do. What if I get it wrong? What if I make the wrong choice and something terrible happens? Or indeed something wonderful? How can I tell which it will be? Surely it's easier to stay put, to do nothing and hope it will all somehow resolve itself without any conscious input.<br />
<br />
My in tray is a physical manifestation of this mind set. It stands a little to my right threatening to topple over under the weight of matters that must be addressed. I ignore it, or so I think, but the stress of pretending it doesn't exist begins to grow. I feel tense, I suffer from a vague anxiety that I really ought to be doing something about all that paperwork. The pile grows, I feel worse.<br />
<br />
Then comes the day, when I tip it all out onto the bed, the only space big enough to accommodate all that stuff, and begin to sort through it. Immediately I feel better, lighter.<br />
<br />
As I make space in my office, there is more space to work and I set too with more enthusiasm. The tension disappears, I become more creative, ideas flow.<br />
<br />
I don't believe in making New Year's resolutions. They only make me tense and worried that I won't be able to keep them. There is one thing however that I am determined to achieve in 2014. I will make decisions. I will not pile stuff into a basket and wait for it to go away.<br />
<br />
Better take the path into the forest and deal with what you meet there, than hover on the fringe and expect something to happen.<br />
<br />
There are no fairy godmothers, there is only me.mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-25950934863815388552013-12-15T07:34:00.000-08:002013-12-15T07:34:21.789-08:00Christmas Crackers.This year for the first time in over ten years I won't be hosting Christmas. Instead the family will all be going down to Bristol to spend Christmas Eve with my daughter, her husband and their two year old. This should mean that December is much less stressful than usual. I don't have to cook, or to remember to buy all the fresh produce, or seek out the hard to find stuff like roll mop herrings. There's no second guessing either about how much people will eat and what will prove popular this year as opposed to last year.<br />
<br />
All in all, I can relax and get on with writing and editing. Except I can't. Somehow it these dark turn of the year days I have an almost unstoppable urge to bake and cook and decorate the house and go round the shops and visit friends, anything rather than sit in front of the screen and do some work.<br />
<br />
Is it because the greyness makes you want to cosset yourself? If you can't pull the duvet over your head and sleep it out, is the next best thing to eat, drink and be merry, until the days lengthen and the sun shines again?mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-87181536994041539602013-11-02T04:41:00.000-07:002013-11-02T04:41:06.060-07:00Move Over Stephen KingIn October I did a workshop at Clough Hall Technology College in Kidsgrove. I worked with Years 8, 9, 10 and we concentrated on the Gothic genre.<br />
<br />
After reading them an excerpt from "Dragonfire" we discussed how to build up tension, fear and suspense.<br />
<br />
As always working with talented creative groups the hour we had simply wasn't long enough. A morning, maybe even a day would have given us more time to discuss, draft, re-draft and produce a polished piece of work. The tyranny of the bell however meant that there was time only for first drafts, but even those were spine chilling.<br />
<br />
Halloween is past but if you need a taste of horror, look no further.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US">Year 9:<br />
Savannah <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
The shiver slowly rose up my leg. Soon my whole body was shaking. <br />
“It was only a puddle,” I thought to myself. But then things began to spin
round and round in my head.” That wasn’t a puddle Elizabeth. You know what it
was.” They kept spinning. I couldn’t get rid of them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Chloe<br />
I looked all around me and that’s when I saw my way out. An alley, a dark and
abandoned one at that. I sprinted down the narrow passage. I could hear
footsteps getting faster Something clamped on my arm. As I struggled to get
free all my belongings smashed to the ground. My phone shattered into a
thousand pieces. <br />
<br />
The next thing I knew a sharp pain hit my head. My eyes became heavy and I just
wanted to sleep. I let the fatigue take over my body. The last thing I could
hear was someone screaming my name.<br />
<br />
Jack<br />
Hearing an unearthly noise, groaning, moaning, it was starting to make me anxious.
I decided the smart thing to do was run. I ran with incredible speed, almost
inhuman, then I fell. Lying in an open grave feeling the breeze hit me. <br />
<br />
Morgan<br />
I remember the days when I used to be content; the time when all my family were
well. That one day changed everything… <br />
<br />
Visiting my mother’s grave was always a challenge for me. For one thing, I
never had any free time. For seconds, the graveyard always sent a shiver down
my spine. On this particularly chilling February evening, as soon as I passed
through the rusting iron gates, I felt tense. <br />
<br />
Laura<br />
Slowly I ran my hand across the white cracked paint of the door. With not much
force it creaked open. The dust that had fallen from the frame indicated that
no one had been here for a while and that it probably wasn’t safe to enter. <br />
<br />
It was dark and dingy. The grotesque smell of dampness hit me almost
immediately. I turned my torch on to see what was inside. I stepped in. <br />
<br />
To my right was an old white staircase covered in spider webs. To my left was
what appeared to be the living area. There was no television, no light, just an
upside down lounge chair. I decided not to go into this room, until I saw what
looked like a lit candle. I stopped frozen, chills racing down my spine. I was
trembling. Someone had to be here. <br />
<br />
Nathan<br />
As he leapt into the vast network of tunnels below, the thick taste of evil
enswirled his nose and throat, burning him. The hunt had begun. Slowly he began
to follow the tap of what he thought was water. <br />
<br />
A thunderous bang made him swing round and fall back on his rifle, which
slid<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>from his hand as the darkness
enclosed and began to consume him. A second passed before the sensation came
back to his hand. He looked down and saw the gleaming crimson pool below him. <br />
“Still warm,” he muttered. His gaze drifted to the left as something passed his
line of sight he dived for the rifle. A metallic thud ricoched across the
passage as his beam on the rifle gave a loud buzz whirring into life. His heart
skipped a beat as he stared into the abyss beyond…<br />
<br />
Amy<br />
A hand brushing against mine. If felt cold and it terrified me. Who is this?
What are they doing here in my dad’s house….It’s been a year since my granddad
died and I thought he needed comforting. <br />
<br />
I was in my bedroom minding my own business when I saw the door open. At first
I thought it was my dad coming to check up on me but when I looked the door was
open and no one was there. <br />
“He’s playing tricks on me,” I thought. He was always doing things like that.
But that’s when I realized that there was something trickling down the inside
of the window. It was a dark, cold night and it was raining heavily, but how
did the rain get inside?<br />
<br />
<br />
Laura C <br />
As I stepped inside I felt a heavy gaze focused on me. I glanced around the
Victorian room but saw nothing other than sheer darkness. I felt like my eyes
had betrayed me as I was left stumbling around the vast space using my arms to
feel around. It was no use. I seemed to be doing nothing but clutching air. <br />
<br />
What was that? I stopped. Trembling I turned to my left and with a swift
movement a cold hand brushed past mine. <br />
<br />
Connie<br />
He is walking past the window like a shadow and my hand tightens on my stake.
My other hand instinctively goes to the cross on the end of my chain. <br />
“This is it,” I think. “I’ll get you and when I do you’ll wish you’d never
touched her.” My fear chokes me. <br />
<br />
Caitlin<br />
The dampness of the grass came through my shoes as I trudged down to my
father’s grave. It was a freezing night in the middle of March and I could
hardly feel my toes. As I approached the grave I felt a cold breeze behind my
back that made me shiver, but considering it was a cold night I thought nothing
of it. That was until I felt something brush past me. I quickly turned around
to find nothing there. <br />
<br />
Kyle<br />
Opening up my back past I got my mobile phone out. I unlocked it , but had no
signal. Then I tried to use my back up signal but it would not work either. <br />
<br />
Terrified I ran around the house with my phone in the air like a mad man until
finally I got a bar of signal. I thought I would ring my dad but as soon as I
pressed ring the phone went dead. <br />
<br />
I could hear footsteps behind me, so I slowly turned round to see what it was…<br />
<br />
James<br />
The house looked deserted, old smashed windows and a fragile door. Marco was
suspicious about this house so he walked near the back door and a grey ice cold
hand swept over his shoulder. <br />
<br />
<br />
Owen<br />
Legend says that vampires patrolled these woods on stormy nights like this, but
Ryan didn’t care. He’s grown up now. Vampires don’t exist, do they?<br />
<br />
The trees moaned in the wind. The moon glimmered on the brim of each leaf. Ryan
was felling confident, he wasn’t to be confronted. Swiftly, he strode through
the wood. His boots splattered each puddle stained to the brim. Ryan picked up
his pace then, at an instant, he stopped….<br />
<br />
Harriet<br />
White roses All around there are white roses. Not your usual flower that sits
in the window of shop dying. This flower was different. It wasn’t dying it was
already dead. <br />
<br />
Someone with a heart of stone, the passion of a murderer has watched these
flowers grow into their beautiful bodies with strong thick petals that could
survive the natural element, but would never be able to run away from the
unnatural beasts that destroy.<br />
<br />
Becky<br />
A cold hand came out of the dark shadow grabbing my wrist tightly. I could feel
his stone cold breath on my cheek as he pulled me towards him. <br />
<br />
Connor<br />
A cold blooded hand reached out and brushed up against my wrist and pulled me
into the gloomy opening in the hallway. I could feel its cold breath on my neck
and cheek…<br />
<br />
<br />
Skye<br />
We stopped a few miles down the lane, so that we could eat our packed lunch.
That was when we saw it. A dark old, abandoned mansion loomed out of the
shadows. <br />
<br />
Ryan<br />
Owen pulled up at the end of the long, bumpy drive. Climbing out of the
carriage the smell of iron blew with the wind. Slowly and calmly he started to
walk towards the house. <br />
<br />
Greg<br />
The wind whistled like a dying soul as I walked through the big double doors of
the museum. I heard the guard tell my brother<br />
“Enter the vampires’ lair, if you dare!”<br />
<br />
<br />
Maddy<br />
We stood watching. Ready to pounce. The midnight sky beckoned us as we walked
down the cracked steps into the subway. The subway’s dimmed light and stench of
wee made it the perfect place for blood, fresh blood…<br />
I stood in the corner and so did my mum. I examined each human as they walked
past. Some looked down at me and some looked scared of my black cape and
bloodthirsty eyes. I was capable of anything. They just didn’t expect if from a
teenage girl. <br />
Then the perfect candidate approached the subway, long hair, green eyes, about
twenty, she had the most delicious metallic blood, which made me hungry. <br />
<br />
As the lights flickered, I pounced and bit slowly into her smooth skin. She
tried to scream but quietened. Then it was my favourite part. Watching the rose
I her cheeks turn into pale white daisies. <br />
<br />
Macey <br />
Tentatively I opened the door. It groaned and creaked as the rusty hinges
struggled to release. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the mysterious,
desolated house. <br />
<br />
Ed<br />
As I urged myself to step along the vast old damp wooden deck, I was welcomed
by the stench of dampness. I could taste it in my mouth. I stepped into the
captain’s cabin my eyes caught sight of an old rotten skeleton. <br />
<br />
Daniel<br />
It was a cold night that night. The night I lost it. It was a terrible idea We
shouldn’t have gone there. We should have listened. Only a few go in and
survive. It is the wood of mysteries. That is where they live. The ones that
kill. The werewolves!<br />
<br />
Mitchell<br />
Running for my life, I’m no way near my house. I see white roses. Where am I?
Smashed wndows. I walk to these double doors that open by themselves<br />
<br />
Gemma <br />
Where am I? Black gates, creaking doors, smashed window. I’m alone in a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>place like a prison. The darkness keeps
creeping into the room. The wind gently blowing open the loose window. Step by
step the cold polished floorboards creak. I can sense movement in the room and
it’s not me! I slowly walk over to the bed. Is it safe to even think about
lying down? Wait. What was that? A noise downstairs. Should I go and see what
it is? <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s midnight and the clock
is ticking. Silence. The night sky blinds the trees, while they sway in the
breeze. Sometimes I see the branches in the ripped curtain. The suddenly a
shadowed figure approaches the painted gates …and that’s when I fall in love!
Brown hair swooshing in the whistling wind. Blue<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>eyes shining in the moonlight. <br />
<br />
Bev<br />
The demons are screaming again. Laughing as they…never mind. I arrived at the
home as a dare. A dare from my friend; the friend I had before this all
started. My name is Sarah. I’m fifteen and I’m alone trapped in this house,
forever. I’m dead and in a way it’s a comfort…<br />
<br />
Year 10 concentrated on language and the Gothic genre<br />
<br />
Anna <br />
had phrases I could steal.<br />
“I could smell how ancient the walls were.” She used repetition effectively<br />
“There was nothing but darkness. Empty darkness.” <br />
<br />
Then<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“As the dancing leaves of one tree
swayed to the side something behind them became very clear. My eyes widened, my
mouth grew dry. A graveyard. We lived<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>behind a graveyard.” <br />
<br />
<br />
Ethan wrote, <br />
“As my clock chimed ten the door slammed with a vicious force almost like
someone in a bad mood had shut it.”<br />
<br />
Rowan<br />
chose a bus journey late at night, increasing the tension to the last paragraph
using a classic technique. <br />
“I was half way down the street. I looked behind me and the old man was
standing on the corner. At this point I knew I was safe. I turned around again
one last time and he had gone. I turned back around and he was on my drive.” <br />
<br />
Danielle<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>drafted and re-drafted as all
writers must. She began in the third person.<br />
“It was getting later and later. About four young girls …were walking round the
graveyard.”<br />
But in the end moved to a much more effective use of first person.<br />
“As the night drew in, it grew darker and darker I was walking through the deserted
graveyard.”<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sophie<br />
writes about a new house fraught with menace. <br />
“The house stood isolated and lifeless.” And used questions to increase the
tension.<br />
“I wondered who lived here and why did they leave.” <br />
<br />
Amelya <br />
Chose a railway station in London to create a very Gothic situation. <br />
“I remember getting onto the rain with<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>my school group, but now I’m here on my own! <br />
<br />
The atmosphere suddenly became damp The signs to say “No Entry” started
swinging, the hinges screeching in the breeze. I automatically felt my body
stiffen. Where is everyone? Why did this happen to me? Why can’t I remember
anything?<br />
<br />
My eyes glance up and down the isolated platform. I spot the sign saying
“Platform closed” Am I in the wrong place?”<br />
<br />
Conor<br />
Chose an abandoned warehouse.<br />
“As always I’d go and check it out but this was different. The place began to
feel more and more sinister.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
Keely<br />
wrote of the horror of being abandoned.<br />
“I gradually lifted my hand towards the door handle. I slowly turned it, trying
to be as quiet as I could. I glanced around me. My family was nowhere to be
seen. I was all alone.” <br />
<br />
<br />
Rhys<br />
However sometimes<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it’s better to
be alone.<br />
“I could hear the rustling of branches being stepped on. I was not alone. My
heart began racing, faster and faster. Who was there? Why were they there? Were
they following me? I picked up my pace and began speed walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sound of footsteps grew louder.
They were following me.” <br />
<br />
Olivia<br />
meanwhile gives an illusion of safety.<br />
“My pace was increasing again and so was theirs. I breathed heavily, only to
inhale the smell of rotting meat. Whoever was behind me was not leaving anytime
soon. I could see a bright street lamp in front of me. I felt safe. But the
smell had not gone.” <br />
<br />
Becky<br />
went straight into the horror.<br />
“It was cold and extremely dark. Why me? Why did I have to be the one they’d
chosen?<br />
As I sat up I could only see my fingers if I held them close to my face. Not
being able to see my arm scared me even more. All I heard was the owls outside
and the noise of floorboards creaking.”<br />
<br />
There was more horror from this writer who unfortunately did not put their name
on their work.<br />
“I stood at the bottom of the bed. White disembodied feet were poking through
the bed sheet. The feet were still and lifeless. Sounds of footsteps shook the
old wooden floorboards behind me. I turned to see if there was anyone there.
There wasn’t. I turned to look at the spine breaking feet. They were gone and
the stench they left behind was horrific. I could almost taste it.”<br />
<br />
Liam<br />
Personification of the graveyard was very effective. <br />
“The room was dark, barren, isolated. There was nothing around apart from the
graveyard, staring, watching, waiting for someone to cease. It stared past the
curtains through to him There was a chill in the room. It came from outside. It
was creeping in. When Kevin left he room there was a surge of euphoria. It was
as if the graveyard had released its grip on him. It had let go.”<br />
<br />
Kavanagh<br />
Had a great sense of the dramatic.<br />
“I sank into the corner of the dark engulfed room. The boor burst open A
strange shape emerged from the shadows. It crossed to the bed. I thought, this
is my chance, I have to go. My heart was pounding. I dashed out of the corner
and out of the door. The mysterious shadow followed. Its footsteps were following
me and catching up. My heart was thrashing against my rib cage . I didn’t stop.
The corridor was along and lifeless. The cobwebs caught in my hair as I ran.<br />
<br />
Callum<br />
achieved a sense of menace.<br />
“Lurking in the shadows like a prisoner in a cage. As she walks through the
tunnel she hears something tapping. “Tap, tap.” It was footsteps but where was
it coming from? There is nobody around.” <br />
<br />
Jasmyn <br />
conveyed an eerie sense of place.<br />
“I walked light foot down the silent street. My footsteps echoed as I trudged
on. It was pitch black and I was alone. The only light came fro the pale moon
that lit up the slippery road that went on ahead of me.”<br />
<br />
Year 8 worked on shape changers. I read a passage from Dragonfire and these are
some of their responses<br />
<br />
Sean<br />
As I woke up there was a sudden bang. I went downstairs and saw a shadow change
from one thing to another. <br />
<br />
Natalie<br />
I hear a rock being thrown. I turn around. Nothing is there. I start to shake
and sweat………….I close my eyes as I think it is all a dream, but when I open my
eyes slowly his colourful creepy face was right behind mine and his cold pale
hands were touching my warm scared face. All I saw was a clown. <br />
<br />
Owen <br />
As I opened the old rusty door in the decaying warehouse it was one minute past
midnight. The light flickered. My heart was racing. In the distance there was a
shadow. What was it? I called by there was no answer.<br />
<br />
Jade<br />
I got out of bed to see what the yapping was about. As I was walking down the
stairs with half open eyes I heard the dogs yelping again, but now they were
rustling around in their basket like rabbits. I slowly opened the kitchen door
and turned the light on, but it strangely started to flicker and I could have
sworn that I saw a figure as if someone was standing there. I got so scared
because I saw a snake tail with human legs, with tiger face, but what looked
like a stare was half way across its face. By the time the light had stopped
flickering the figure had gone. <br />
<br />
Tia<br />
I push open the door. I look in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
say “Hi”. Someone answered but I can’t see anyone. I shout louder, ”Where are
you. They say, “I am down here.” I look. It is a snake. It has the body of a
snake and the head of a human. <br />
<br />
Bradley<br />
I entered the woodland and heard branches snapping. I was really cold and it
was damp. It smelt like a dead body, mouldy rotting and old. It was horrible.
It felt like someone was watching me, so I stared to run. I tripped over a
branch and started to cry. I heard something come whipping past me<br />
<br />
Adam <br />
There was something behind me. I looked. There was nothing there. I heard
footsteps. I saw a white face. I panicked. I went to see. There was nothing
there. I turned around. There it was on the corner looking at me. Then it went.
I stopped and thought and I heard it shouting me. It came towards me and then
……<br />
<br />
Royanne<br />
We saw this abandoned house, that someone used to live in along time ago – then
I heard a sound and I saw a shadow and I grabbed Molly’s hand. <br />
<br />
<br />
Lewis<br />
Phil walked into a man. He was tall with an ageless face. <br />
“What are you doing here?” said the man. His voice was like a whisper but it
was like he was shouting at them at the same time. -----------The man’s arm
fell off and turned into beetles, but then the man’s head grew bigger like it
was about to explode. The head started floating and the man’s body fell to the
floor. Wings came out his head. <br />
<br />
<br />
Jade<br />
A shadow appeared standing behind the door. I turned and nothing was there. I
lay back down and closed my eyes, then opened them again. A face appeared. I
suddenly jumped out of my huge bed and all I could hear was “I am going to kill
you.” <br />
<br />
Denzil <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Out of the darkness came a knife pressing across my throat. I could feel the
blade piercing my skin with blood dripping down me. <br />
<br />
Nyah <br />
I saw I had my phone so I texted my mum. She was not answering. She was asleep.
If I rang her, he would see, so I put my phone back in my pocket and opened the
window and stared calling for help. Then he stopped the car and got tape and
put it around my mouth, feet and hands. A tear dropped from my face and I started
to cry. <br />
<br />
Ellie <br />
There was a house. Something black was there. I started to run There was a
shadow gaining on me. Something cried out and stopped me from running. <br />
<br />
Sam<br />
In the old abandoned firestation the rusty old door opened. The windows cracked
and….<br />
<br />
Bradley<br />
A hand jumped out of the van and grabbed my wrist. There was a bang as the van
doors shut. Before I knew it, I was in the back with lots of people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-------what were the going to do with
me? <br />
<br />
Brad <br />
A hand crept out from the darkness. I carried on walking.-------- Then someone
said my name. <br />
<br />
Jacob<br />
I turned on the light and found that it was just my coat so I turned it of
again and got back in bed. I was badly wrong. I could hear footsteps coming and
there was a nasty rotting smell. I could feel it getting closer and closer. <br />
<br />
Kyle <br />
A hand reached out and grabbed me. ---------I could see right through him and
he could touch me but I couldn’t touch him. He had a knife and put it to my
throat and I could do nothing because I could not touch him. I couldn’t get
away.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-84445958872685682852013-10-31T08:16:00.000-07:002013-10-31T08:16:18.296-07:00Grey TimeGrey time, eats into your life. It saps your energy and gives you the illusion that your days are full. Instead of focusing on what I want/need to do, I give in to social media, a bit of half hearted tidying. I watch a not very interesting programme or film, all the way through instead of switching it off at the point at which I realise I am bored.<br />
<br />
Why do I allow this grey, half heartedness to permeate so much of my day?<br />
<br />
One reason is that it stops me having to tackle the things that scare me. By supper time there's no point in working out how to put Dragonfire on Create Space. I can put off learning how to photoshop, or even how to download pictures onto my blog.<br />
<br />
On the days I give into greyness. I end up feeling vaguely dissatisfied, a little frustrated and somewhat , bored, but also tired. Too tired to give myself a shake, sit down at the computer and write.<br />
<br />
When I don't give in, however, I can go on for as long as it takes and when I outface the demons and successfully use the technology, or complete the story, I feel really good about myself.<br />
<br />
It's taken me a while to understand how much of a day can be grey. How little time I can spend living in the now. From now on, I'm determined to make every minute count. Not by rushing around and constantly doing things, however. Being still is good, as is talking with friends or just watching the light change from my window. What is important is not doing something for no good reason, or doing it in a half there sort of way. Life is just too short for that.mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-88364909539185410702013-10-29T10:03:00.000-07:002013-10-29T10:03:03.905-07:00Dragonfire Review<br />
From the sun filled fields of Italy a great review of Dragonfire.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><tbody>
<tr><td valign="top"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/l/NAQEMNKcDAQGH2v0y55YSq46SLLsNZpcBJ9qqqjqtX2OorQ/intheflatfieldidogetbored.wordpress.com/2013/10/28/october-sunshine-and-a-kindle/" style="color: #3b5998; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">October Sunshine and a Kindle</a><a href="http://www.facebook.com/l/NAQEMNKcDAQGH2v0y55YSq46SLLsNZpcBJ9qqqjqtX2OorQ/intheflatfieldidogetbored.wordpress.com/2013/10/28/october-sunshine-and-a-kindle/" style="color: #3b5998; text-decoration: none;"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 10px; width: 100%px;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: initial; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-weight: bold; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">intheflatfieldidogetbored.wordpress.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</td></tr>
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Word of mouth recommendations are vital for self-published writers, and those from traditional publishers too. I'm always grateful when friends take the time and trouble to review one of my books and what beats everything is when I know that someone, whose judgement I respect and whose writing I value, has enjoyed my story and is spreading the word. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Thanks Barry. You've made my day.</span>mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-92075979603330555632013-09-17T08:45:00.002-07:002013-09-17T08:45:26.015-07:00The not writing part of writing.Today I've been really busy. I've done some more work on proofreading "Master of Trades" the final part of the"Dragonfire Trilogy" my books for 8-12 year olds and anyone else who is missing a certain boy wizard. In a week or so it should be out there on Amazon Kindle, hopefully without a single clumsy phrase, misplaced comma, or typo.<br />
<br />
I've also been reading "Woman's Weekly Fiction Special". Last week I went to a number of workshops run by Della Galton, Jane Wehnham-Jones and Gaynor Davies on what sort of stories they are looking for and immersing myself in the magazine is part of my research.<br />
<br />
When I'd finished that, I turned my attention to the book I'm reviewing. An hour or so on that and I think I'll call it a day.<br />
<br />
All these activities are part of a writer's life and I know they must be done, even though they stop me from doing what I really love.<br />
<br />
There won't be any time for the actual writing and a writer should write something every day. So perhaps this is where blogging comes in.<br />
<br />
Short sharp, self-contained pieces that help keep my writer's muscles flexed and ready.mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-16078013857003699772013-08-11T09:24:00.000-07:002013-08-11T09:24:31.404-07:00Time ManagementGerman housewives do on average four hours housework a day. Shocked and somewhat intimidated by this statistic I was about to dismiss it, when I had a sudden thought. Exactly how much time do I spend a day on house related tasks?<br />
<br />
To my amazement, on a day when I didn't think I'd done any real cleaning, I totted up two whole hours. This took in laundry, filling and emptying the dishwasher, making the bed, cleaning the loos, wiping over worksurfaces. The sort of thing I never even considered proper, hard core housework.<br />
<br />
The two hours were balanced by the three when I did nothing but write.<br />
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Then of course there was the time spent dealing with e mails and FB. I did try to limit this to once a day, but found that I missed important messages, so now I allow myself a few minutes, first thing in the morning, mid-day and last thing at night. On only one of those sessions will I do more than scan through and answer urgent messages.<br />
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Was this a good day? I got a lot of editing done, the house was ticking over and I didn't miss anything on my social media.<br />
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On the other hand could I have done more? Could I have spent more time writing, or is this all part of being female and conditioned to look after the house in a way that men are not?<br />
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<br />mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-9486657879651182702013-08-11T09:17:00.000-07:002013-08-11T09:17:25.034-07:00mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-50941765403435291822013-07-27T06:54:00.002-07:002013-07-27T06:54:38.874-07:00The Witching Hour3 am and I can't sleep. I've tried the relaxation exercises. I've counted backwards from 500, got lost and started again, and again. Nothing helps. It's going to be one of those nights when I simply won't be going back to sleep. <div>
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Once this situation would have thrown me into a blind panic. Fear of being tired at work the next day, of being too woozy to drive, or to concentrate would have sent my heart racing and the chances of any sleep whatsoever flying. </div>
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Now I look at it all differently. </div>
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Lying in bed and letting my mind drift is a very productive way of spending those witching hours. I've written whole stories which the next morning have been transferred onto the computer. I've had ideas for characters round whom there is a novel waiting to be written. I've realised just what is wrong with a particular piece of writing and how I can put it right. </div>
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Not sleeping is now something to be welcomed and embraced. It truly can be a magic time. </div>
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Anyone else feel this way? </div>
mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9041754292965554226.post-74040098061718400862013-07-17T07:24:00.000-07:002013-07-17T07:24:16.647-07:00What do Agents and Publishers Need? What is the one thing literary agents and publishers can't do without? Surely the answer to that is writers. Without us they would lose their business, their sources of income and their lifestyles. We are their raw material, on which everything else depends, so why do they treat us the way they do?<br />
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First of all there is the general assumption that we, the creative ones, must package our work the way they want us to. The query letter must entice, the synopsis must be the right length, the right tone, the right voice. Never mind that both those forms of writing are amazingly hard to get right, and do not necessarily indicate that you are a good writer of fiction, this is the first hurdle that must be negotiated. Why is it not possible simply to say "Here is my novel, do you like it?" After all it is the novel that will be sold to the readers, not the synopsis or the covering letter, or the CV.<br />
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Speaking of which this too seems to be crucial. Surely all that anyone needs to know is whether I can write a good book and follow it up with another. A list of previous publications, if any could suffice and if I'm brand new to this game then you either like my work enough to take the risk, or you don't. Whether I am married, bake muffins or kill sharks in my spare time is surely irrelevant.<br />
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Assuming that you have done all this and fingers crossed, heart thumping, stomach churning you have sent off your work what happens next?<br />
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Mostly nothing. A few agents and publishers will acknowledge your e mail. Many won't.<br />
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Then you wait. And wait. And wait.<br />
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And wait some more.<br />
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If they like your work, they ask to see more and great celebrations and rejoicings take place.<br />
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If however they do not, then..............<br />
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Nothing.<br />
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And more nothing.<br />
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OK. They don't like it. But surely they can at least e-mail a "Thanks, but no thanks".<br />
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It takes seconds. It's only polite. It's treating you like a fellow member of the human race with hopes and feelings.<br />
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It also might be one way of not alienating a possible source of income.<br />
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After all in this day and age, sick of being treated as if they don't matter how many successful writers have gone on to sell huge numbers of e-books and all without recourse to a single agent or publisher?<br />
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<br />mishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817380292408084414noreply@blogger.com1