Blood-Red Pencil: Misha Herwin and a New YA Book

Blood-Red Pencil: Misha Herwin and a New YA Book: 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...

Dragon: a poem.

DRAGON
     Razor sharp venomous teeth

Rocky crackly roar

Mean-hearted golden eyes

Scaly emerald spikes

Red sharp claws

Smooth scalding claws

Malleable shape changes thumb

Petrifying hot roaring meteor

Gold scaly skin

Sparkling sapphire eyes

Big scary eyes

Needle sharp Arrow pointed

Tall silver tail

Purple bumpy tongue

Cherry blood drinker

Gives deadly death

Unpredictable deafening scream

Terrifying scream roaring

Ears long black

Green fearsome nostrils

Malicious black heart

Horrifying breath

Horrible vile breath

Fearsome lava red

Scorching flaming breath

Smooth sapphire scales

Spines iron hot metallic triangles

Sensational courageous magnificent

Awakes in the dark, dark cave.

On Monday I did a dragon workshop with some Year 6 kids at St. Thomas More Academy in Stoke.
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.

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.

Summer 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...

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.

And today the next book in the "Clear Gold" series remains untouched.

What then should I do? Go with the flow, or stick to the timetable?

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.

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.

And to finish the day? A walk to the Red Lion for an evening of Renegade Writers.

Remarkable Renegades

Last 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.

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.

Oh and the group gave me very constructive comments about book 2 in the Clear Gold series as well.

What more can one woman ask for?

Tea on the Radio

Yesterday 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.

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.

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.

Enjoy. 

Dreams, Dreams, Dreams

Writing 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.

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.

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.

Taking a shower is good too.

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.
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.

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...

Stone Pub run by Zombies

Lunch 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.

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.

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.

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.

The room empties. We are alone.

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.

Nothing happens. The place rattles with emptiness. Our conversation flags.

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.

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.

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?

Whatever the explanation, we won't be going there again.

Thinking in pictures

Apparently #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.

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.

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.

Finding my way

Two weeks ago, the new computer arrived. It's sitting on my desk, purring happily away, looking very, very smart and new.

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.

And like  any true dinosaur I wish that my lovely smart new machine had come equipped with that old fashioned thing, a handbook!

With a little help from my friends

Facebook 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.

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.

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.

Jem wasn't the only person to come up with this solution, so thanks to everyone else who posted their advice.

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.

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.

To Tell or not to Tell

The 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?

  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.

  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. 

  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. 

  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. 

  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. 

  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. 

Gremlins 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Whatever the reason, I think I might just go and read a book. One of those real ones made of paper.

#MyWritingProcess

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. 

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.

The task is quite simple, once nominated you answer the same four questions as those that have gone before you.

So, here goes:

1) What am I working on?

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. 

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

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. 

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. 

3) Why do I write what I write?

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. 

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. 

4) How does my writing process work?

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. 

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. 

Writer 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.

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.

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.

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.  

Job or Aspiration?

Is your writing a job or an aspiration? Reading an excellent blog on this topic 
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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

Now that could work ... 

Whatever 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Better take the path into the forest and deal with what you meet there, than hover on the fringe and expect something to happen.

There are no fairy godmothers, there is only me.

Christmas 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.

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.

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?

Move Over Stephen King

In 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.

After reading them an excerpt from "Dragonfire" we discussed how to build up tension, fear and suspense.

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.

Halloween is past but if you need a taste of horror, look no further.

Year 9:
Savannah  
The shiver slowly rose up my leg. Soon my whole body was shaking.
“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.  

Chloe
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.

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.

Jack
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.

Morgan
I remember the days when I used to be content; the time when all my family were well. That one day changed everything…

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.

Laura
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.

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.

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.

Nathan
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.

A thunderous bang made him swing round and fall back on his rifle, which slid  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.
“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…

Amy
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.

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.
“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?


Laura C
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.

What was that? I stopped. Trembling I turned to my left and with a swift movement a cold hand brushed past mine.

Connie
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.
“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.

Caitlin
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.

Kyle
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.

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.

I could hear footsteps behind me, so I slowly turned round to see what it was…

James
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.


Owen
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?

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….

Harriet
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.

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.

Becky
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.

Connor
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…


Skye
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.

Ryan
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.

Greg
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
“Enter the vampires’ lair, if you dare!”


Maddy
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…
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.
Then the perfect candidate approached the subway, long hair, green eyes, about twenty, she had the most delicious metallic blood, which made me hungry.

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.

Macey
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.

Ed
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.

Daniel
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!

Mitchell
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

Gemma
Where am I? Black gates, creaking doors, smashed window. I’m alone in a  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?
   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  eyes shining in the moonlight.

Bev
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…

Year 10 concentrated on language and the Gothic genre

Anna
had phrases I could steal.
“I could smell how ancient the walls were.” She used repetition effectively
“There was nothing but darkness. Empty darkness.”

Then
 “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  behind a graveyard.”


Ethan wrote,
“As my clock chimed ten the door slammed with a vicious force almost like someone in a bad mood had shut it.”

Rowan
chose a bus journey late at night, increasing the tension to the last paragraph using a classic technique.
“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.”

Danielle
 drafted and re-drafted as all writers must. She began in the third person.
“It was getting later and later. About four young girls …were walking round the graveyard.”
But in the end moved to a much more effective use of first person.
“As the night drew in, it grew darker and darker I was walking through the deserted graveyard.”

 Sophie
writes about a new house fraught with menace.
“The house stood isolated and lifeless.” And used questions to increase the tension.
“I wondered who lived here and why did they leave.”

Amelya
Chose a railway station in London to create a very Gothic situation.
“I remember getting onto the rain with  my school group, but now I’m here on my own!

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?

My eyes glance up and down the isolated platform. I spot the sign saying “Platform closed” Am I in the wrong place?”

Conor
Chose an abandoned warehouse.
“As always I’d go and check it out but this was different. The place began to feel more and more sinister.” 


Keely
wrote of the horror of being abandoned.
“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.”


Rhys
However sometimes  it’s better to be alone.
“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.  The sound of footsteps grew louder. They were following me.”

Olivia
meanwhile gives an illusion of safety.
“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.”

Becky
went straight into the horror.
“It was cold and extremely dark. Why me? Why did I have to be the one they’d chosen?
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.”

There was more horror from this writer who unfortunately did not put their name on their work.
“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.”

Liam
Personification of the graveyard was very effective.
“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.”

Kavanagh
Had a great sense of the dramatic.
“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.

Callum
achieved a sense of menace.
“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.”

Jasmyn
conveyed an eerie sense of place.
“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.”

Year 8 worked on shape changers. I read a passage from Dragonfire and these are some of their responses

Sean
As I woke up there was a sudden bang. I went downstairs and saw a shadow change from one thing to another.

Natalie
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.

Owen
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.

Jade
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.

Tia
I push open the door. I look in.  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.

Bradley
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

Adam
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 ……

Royanne
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.


Lewis
Phil walked into a man. He was tall with an ageless face.
“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.


Jade
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.”

Denzil  
Out of the darkness came a knife pressing across my throat. I could feel the blade piercing my skin with blood dripping down me.

Nyah
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.

Ellie
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.

Sam
In the old abandoned firestation the rusty old door opened. The windows cracked and….

Bradley
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.  -------what were the going to do with me?

Brad
A hand crept out from the darkness. I carried on walking.-------- Then someone said my name.

Jacob
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.

Kyle
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.

Grey Time

Grey 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.

Why do I allow this grey, half heartedness to permeate so much of my day?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dragonfire Review

From the sun filled fields of Italy a great review of Dragonfire.

October Sunshine and a Kindle intheflatfieldidogetbored.wordpress.com

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. 

Thanks Barry. You've made my day.