Occasionally it's difficult to keep motivated when it comes to writing. I can't always think creatively when work is piling up, the dog's sick or the accountant is chasing me for a meeting. I've regularly been entering competitions for my writing group (which I'm delighted to say I've come 1st, 2nd and 3rd in recent months) but procrastination has been order of the day when it comes to my second novel, Sugar and Spite.
I know I must pin myself to the chair and write, irrespective of the day to day irritations which halt my creative flow! The thing is, if I do tell myself to ignore the dishwasher and washing machine and sit down to drag a few hard-thought words out, then before I know it, I've written 500 - 1,000 words. The very action of forcing myself to sit down in a wordless mist, enables the fog to clear and the words to flow.
So, it is with this in mind that I'm decorating the room my eldest son has recently vacated. My first chick has flown the nest. (Two more to go!!) If I have my own writing room, surrounded by my reference books, pens, pads etc, I won't be looking guiltily at the washing machine or dish-washer. Nor can I see the pathetic pleading eyes of my two spaniels, trying to guilt me into taking them on a walk!
Just writing about it, makes me want to get on with Sugar and Spite! : )
Saturday, 2 October 2010
White Canvass
White Canvass
The bare blue sky stretches and beams
Upon an upturned face.
A child's tongue, tasting the tingle
Of snowflakes.
Diamante blanket cocoons in winter white.
A stunning silence
Hiding beneath its chilly softness.
The child squeals with glee
Folowing a constellation of tiny footprints.
Robin or sparrow?
Now flown,
Darting and flapping to the ice-frilled branches,
Viewing silent drifts and snow-laced fences.
Winter's clarity hides all flaws.
Broken gates, peeling paint, a rusty hinge
Vanished beneath a weight of white.
A clear canvass for footsteps to paint,
Or to crack mirrored puddles
Beneath their tread.
Angela Barton
The bare blue sky stretches and beams
Upon an upturned face.
A child's tongue, tasting the tingle
Of snowflakes.
Diamante blanket cocoons in winter white.
A stunning silence
Hiding beneath its chilly softness.
The child squeals with glee
Folowing a constellation of tiny footprints.
Robin or sparrow?
Now flown,
Darting and flapping to the ice-frilled branches,
Viewing silent drifts and snow-laced fences.
Winter's clarity hides all flaws.
Broken gates, peeling paint, a rusty hinge
Vanished beneath a weight of white.
A clear canvass for footsteps to paint,
Or to crack mirrored puddles
Beneath their tread.
Angela Barton
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Inspiration for the Soul
I was invited to a fund-raising evening in the tiny village of Orston last Saturday. It's only two miles from where I live, but I clambered into the mini bus along with a handful of lovely neighbours. The evening was to raise money for research into the treatment and prevention of ALD. (http://www.oliversarmy.org/)
Martha and the Vandellas flew over from Detroit especially to perform on a temporary stage in the back garden of the parents who've lost a son to ALD. The couple picked up the trio from the airport. Can you imagine?
"See you later. Just popping out to pick up Martha and the Vandellas!"
They even stayed overnight at the house where the event was taking place.
What an amazing night. We ate pie and peas whilst sitting 8ft away from Martha and her sisters singing the original Jimmy Mack, Dancing in the Street and Heatwave. She was witty, modestly self-deprecating, as fit as a fiddle and still has an amazing voice at 70! She had us dancing on the lawn and singing along. She sang a tribute song of Michael Jackson's and I only wish I had as much energy!
As well as being an incredible night full of soulful melodies, as a writer, I had my eyes peeled for new characters, overheard conversations and even the latest bit of juicy gossip. I found it in spades!! I had to draw the line at taking my ever present notebook out of my handbag, but I gathered information which I scribbled in my notebook the next day.
I saw an eminent doctor having a crafty cigarette, a famous singer from the 60's squeezed into some eye-wateringly tight jeans to accompany his tinted hair, a tipsy judge and some blatant flirting whilst spouses back's were turned. All in all, some fabulous characters to work into a chapter of my next novel, Sugar and Spite.
The evening itself had a mauve haze to it as dusk fell. The heady fragrance from the flowers and ladies' perfumes added a spice to the colourful characters and laughter-filled huddles. I made new friends as well as caught up with old ones. The weather was as mild as a Mediterranean memory as we topped up our glasses and sang along to Mowtown and Soul legends.
A writer's dream!
Martha and the Vandellas flew over from Detroit especially to perform on a temporary stage in the back garden of the parents who've lost a son to ALD. The couple picked up the trio from the airport. Can you imagine?
"See you later. Just popping out to pick up Martha and the Vandellas!"
They even stayed overnight at the house where the event was taking place.
What an amazing night. We ate pie and peas whilst sitting 8ft away from Martha and her sisters singing the original Jimmy Mack, Dancing in the Street and Heatwave. She was witty, modestly self-deprecating, as fit as a fiddle and still has an amazing voice at 70! She had us dancing on the lawn and singing along. She sang a tribute song of Michael Jackson's and I only wish I had as much energy!
As well as being an incredible night full of soulful melodies, as a writer, I had my eyes peeled for new characters, overheard conversations and even the latest bit of juicy gossip. I found it in spades!! I had to draw the line at taking my ever present notebook out of my handbag, but I gathered information which I scribbled in my notebook the next day.
I saw an eminent doctor having a crafty cigarette, a famous singer from the 60's squeezed into some eye-wateringly tight jeans to accompany his tinted hair, a tipsy judge and some blatant flirting whilst spouses back's were turned. All in all, some fabulous characters to work into a chapter of my next novel, Sugar and Spite.
The evening itself had a mauve haze to it as dusk fell. The heady fragrance from the flowers and ladies' perfumes added a spice to the colourful characters and laughter-filled huddles. I made new friends as well as caught up with old ones. The weather was as mild as a Mediterranean memory as we topped up our glasses and sang along to Mowtown and Soul legends.
A writer's dream!
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Trapped Butterfly
I was delighted to win first and second places in a recent poetry competition. The theme for the poems was, turn back the clock. Here is one of my poems.
Trapped Butterfly
Trembling behind gauze, like a trapped butterfly
Listening to the scrunch of rubber on gravel.
He's home.
A door slams as headlights fade.
How can a lover become a stranger,
As swiftly as a once polished plum
Becomes covered in a delicate froth of fungi?
Turn back the clock to those heady fruitful days
When love blossomed.
Shared dreams divided by time
And split like parched wood.
Unnourished.
His footfall, once a welcoming tread,
Now splinter my calm with regret
As he strides on the polished parquet.
Turn back the clock to a time when our words tumbled
Like a rushing brook in a spring thaw.
Before the wordless air ambushed me,
Squeezing my breath at his glance.
A look which once glowed with love,
Now glowers.
Loving praise decayed into mute criticism.
A curl of his lip.
Turn back the clock to a time when the sun shone
On entwined fingers, and a passionate embrace.
His kiss, once lingering and heartfelt is but a memory,
Bleached pale by time's incessant race.
"Goodnights" unspoken.
An extinguished bulb
Signals the end of his day.
Trapped Butterfly
Trembling behind gauze, like a trapped butterfly
Listening to the scrunch of rubber on gravel.
He's home.
A door slams as headlights fade.
How can a lover become a stranger,
As swiftly as a once polished plum
Becomes covered in a delicate froth of fungi?
Turn back the clock to those heady fruitful days
When love blossomed.
Shared dreams divided by time
And split like parched wood.
Unnourished.
His footfall, once a welcoming tread,
Now splinter my calm with regret
As he strides on the polished parquet.
Turn back the clock to a time when our words tumbled
Like a rushing brook in a spring thaw.
Before the wordless air ambushed me,
Squeezing my breath at his glance.
A look which once glowed with love,
Now glowers.
Loving praise decayed into mute criticism.
A curl of his lip.
Turn back the clock to a time when the sun shone
On entwined fingers, and a passionate embrace.
His kiss, once lingering and heartfelt is but a memory,
Bleached pale by time's incessant race.
"Goodnights" unspoken.
An extinguished bulb
Signals the end of his day.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
An Accident Waiting To Happen.
Last Saturday, a party of us went to a lovely restaurant to celebrate my sister-in-law's birthday. As it was a lovely evening, we decided to order drinks outside in the late sunshine. The men settled on garden chairs and loungers, whilst three of the girls, including me, sat on a padded circular lounge area.
We ordered our drinks and caught up on family news, when suddenly the three on us on the padded seat, dropped a few inches. Seconds later, before we had time to grasp what was happening, all three of us fell backwards into a deep hole. We fell about six foot, landing on our backs on pipework. As I looked up at the sky through the opening of the hole, several faces peered down at us. I thought at first we'd fallen into a well!
We were all hauled out, luckily with only cuts, bruises and pulled muscles. I shudder to think what might have happened. Falling six foot onto your back isn't something the health and safety inspectors would condone!
It appears that the hole was a drained jacuzzi with a shelf removed, making it deeper than it would have been if water had been in it. My sister-in-law and friend were soaked as they'd been holding drinks at the time. Not a very promising start to a birthday celebration. One member of staff muttered that they would get a notice made to stop others from sitting on it!! A bit like shutting the gate after the horse has bolted I think! And why was there padding on the top, inviting diners to sit down? Why was our drinks order taken whilst we were sitting on it, without a word of warning as to what we were sitting on?
A visit to the doctor on the Monday morning, thankfully only revealed a twisted knee, pulled muscle in my back and a beautiful display of purple and black bruising up my calf and thigh. I suppose looking on the bright side, it's some new material for future chapters of my new novel! Inspiration can be found from the bottom of a smelly jacuzzi!
We ordered our drinks and caught up on family news, when suddenly the three on us on the padded seat, dropped a few inches. Seconds later, before we had time to grasp what was happening, all three of us fell backwards into a deep hole. We fell about six foot, landing on our backs on pipework. As I looked up at the sky through the opening of the hole, several faces peered down at us. I thought at first we'd fallen into a well!
We were all hauled out, luckily with only cuts, bruises and pulled muscles. I shudder to think what might have happened. Falling six foot onto your back isn't something the health and safety inspectors would condone!
It appears that the hole was a drained jacuzzi with a shelf removed, making it deeper than it would have been if water had been in it. My sister-in-law and friend were soaked as they'd been holding drinks at the time. Not a very promising start to a birthday celebration. One member of staff muttered that they would get a notice made to stop others from sitting on it!! A bit like shutting the gate after the horse has bolted I think! And why was there padding on the top, inviting diners to sit down? Why was our drinks order taken whilst we were sitting on it, without a word of warning as to what we were sitting on?
A visit to the doctor on the Monday morning, thankfully only revealed a twisted knee, pulled muscle in my back and a beautiful display of purple and black bruising up my calf and thigh. I suppose looking on the bright side, it's some new material for future chapters of my new novel! Inspiration can be found from the bottom of a smelly jacuzzi!
Monday, 24 May 2010
Sparrows and Parrots!
Everyone has a story to tell. Each one as unique and individual as the person telling it. Some of the most fascinating stories are of events which have happened between childhood and old age. Real stories. Memories, experiences, life-lessons and circumstances which leave lasting impressions, all add to the personal compendium of individual lifetimes.
My first memory was of sitting on my father's shoulders, hanging on to the railing of Buckingham Palace. I remember peering throught the metal bars at soldiers in bright red uniforms. I also remember that he used to cut my toast in to the shape of a house, therefore making it more appealing for a fussy toddler to eat!
In later life, after I'd met and married my husband Paul, a darker experience shaped our lives. It left such an impression on me, that I wrote a sub-plot for Lies and Linguine around the theme. Paul hadn't been feeling well for weeks and so decided to make an appointment with his doctor. Without any specific symptoms to speak of, the doctor told Paul that there were more sparrows in the sky than parrots. This flippant remark obviously meant that Paul probably wasn't suffering with anything exotic, and to get on with his life. Which he did!
About a fortnight after hearing his doctor make this remark, Paul shouted for me to hurry into the kitchen. He was pointing at something sitting on our garden fence.
An exotic parrot!
Now we live in Nottingham, not exactly a tropical rain forest! It'd obviously escaped from its cage, but nonetheless, it made the goose bumps tingle. For the next few weeks, Paul hadn't felt any better. It came to a head one cold, dark November morning, before anyone was awake. A strange, terrifying noise woke me from a deep sleep. It sounded like an animal in pain. NEXT TO ME!
I switched on the bed-side lamp to see my husband, unconscious on the bed. His face was grey, his lips were blue and a trickle of blood dribbled from his mouth, from where he'd bitten his tongue. The children came running in to the bedroom because of the loud noise their daddy was making. After calming the children and calling for an ambulance, things happened quickly. Paul was assessed and allowed home, with an appointment to go to radiology for a brain scan.
Arriving in radiology, at the QMC, we were once again shocked into silence, on seeing a poster behind the receptionist's desk. A heading proudly boasted, 'Parrots of the World.' Suddenly there seemed to be a lot more parrots than sparrows in our lives.
Paul was diagnosed with a brain tumour, which was miraculously operated on successfully. Paul's recovery and absence from his company, led to the folding of his own advertising agency. It also instigated a house move, as Paul wasn't allowed to drive. But, ten years on, Paul is well and we look back on that episode in our lives, as a lesson learnt.
Life is short. Make the most of it. Don't get hung up on trivial arguments or irritations.
You don't know what's round the corner.
My first memory was of sitting on my father's shoulders, hanging on to the railing of Buckingham Palace. I remember peering throught the metal bars at soldiers in bright red uniforms. I also remember that he used to cut my toast in to the shape of a house, therefore making it more appealing for a fussy toddler to eat!
In later life, after I'd met and married my husband Paul, a darker experience shaped our lives. It left such an impression on me, that I wrote a sub-plot for Lies and Linguine around the theme. Paul hadn't been feeling well for weeks and so decided to make an appointment with his doctor. Without any specific symptoms to speak of, the doctor told Paul that there were more sparrows in the sky than parrots. This flippant remark obviously meant that Paul probably wasn't suffering with anything exotic, and to get on with his life. Which he did!
About a fortnight after hearing his doctor make this remark, Paul shouted for me to hurry into the kitchen. He was pointing at something sitting on our garden fence.
An exotic parrot!
Now we live in Nottingham, not exactly a tropical rain forest! It'd obviously escaped from its cage, but nonetheless, it made the goose bumps tingle. For the next few weeks, Paul hadn't felt any better. It came to a head one cold, dark November morning, before anyone was awake. A strange, terrifying noise woke me from a deep sleep. It sounded like an animal in pain. NEXT TO ME!
I switched on the bed-side lamp to see my husband, unconscious on the bed. His face was grey, his lips were blue and a trickle of blood dribbled from his mouth, from where he'd bitten his tongue. The children came running in to the bedroom because of the loud noise their daddy was making. After calming the children and calling for an ambulance, things happened quickly. Paul was assessed and allowed home, with an appointment to go to radiology for a brain scan.
Arriving in radiology, at the QMC, we were once again shocked into silence, on seeing a poster behind the receptionist's desk. A heading proudly boasted, 'Parrots of the World.' Suddenly there seemed to be a lot more parrots than sparrows in our lives.
Paul was diagnosed with a brain tumour, which was miraculously operated on successfully. Paul's recovery and absence from his company, led to the folding of his own advertising agency. It also instigated a house move, as Paul wasn't allowed to drive. But, ten years on, Paul is well and we look back on that episode in our lives, as a lesson learnt.
Life is short. Make the most of it. Don't get hung up on trivial arguments or irritations.
You don't know what's round the corner.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
The Joys of Blackberry Picking.
I think Peter Pan had the right idea. It's no fun growing up!
Why do we have to leave the heady excitement of childhood behind, just because we grow out of our childhood bodies? I miss the carefree spontaneity of yelling goodbye, slamming the front door and disappearing off to explore parks, play two-ball against brick walls and jump over elastic stretched between two play-mates knees. I don't think my knees are up to it now, but it's the giddying euphoria I miss. The simple pleasures which buoyed the soul.
As Wordsworth wrote of childhood, "The heavens laugh with you, in your jubilee: I feel - I feel it all." Why then as we grow older does he write, "Shades of the prison-house begin to close/Upon the growing boy."
I've tried to capture that love of simple pleasures in Lies and Linguine. My heroine, Tess, finds pleasure in picking blackberries, not using her Blackberry. She loves nature, visiting the fair, daydreaming, eating 99's and noticing the changing seasons.
I come to a letter I received from an agent returning three chapters of Lies and Linguine. She'd scribbled in a corner of my returned submission letter, that my writing was "really rather good," but that the plot seemed a little implausible. Life does seem implausible sometimes! Just read the papers and a past blog of mine about life being stranger than fiction.
My plot includes a deceitful boyfriend lying for his own gains, a hero with mild OCD brought on by past tragedies, his sister who is battling breast cancer and a heroine who - although she loves another - stays with her boyfriend for longer than she should, through misplaced loyalty. Jealousy, manipulative people, crime, betrayal and fear all have a part to play in my novel. But friendship, support and simple pleasures all go a long way in helping to heal all concerned, despite a few hiccoughs and twists along the way.
Such is life! It's the agent's perogative not to like my storyline. But implausible?
I call it life's challenges.
Why do we have to leave the heady excitement of childhood behind, just because we grow out of our childhood bodies? I miss the carefree spontaneity of yelling goodbye, slamming the front door and disappearing off to explore parks, play two-ball against brick walls and jump over elastic stretched between two play-mates knees. I don't think my knees are up to it now, but it's the giddying euphoria I miss. The simple pleasures which buoyed the soul.
As Wordsworth wrote of childhood, "The heavens laugh with you, in your jubilee: I feel - I feel it all." Why then as we grow older does he write, "Shades of the prison-house begin to close/Upon the growing boy."
I've tried to capture that love of simple pleasures in Lies and Linguine. My heroine, Tess, finds pleasure in picking blackberries, not using her Blackberry. She loves nature, visiting the fair, daydreaming, eating 99's and noticing the changing seasons.
I come to a letter I received from an agent returning three chapters of Lies and Linguine. She'd scribbled in a corner of my returned submission letter, that my writing was "really rather good," but that the plot seemed a little implausible. Life does seem implausible sometimes! Just read the papers and a past blog of mine about life being stranger than fiction.
My plot includes a deceitful boyfriend lying for his own gains, a hero with mild OCD brought on by past tragedies, his sister who is battling breast cancer and a heroine who - although she loves another - stays with her boyfriend for longer than she should, through misplaced loyalty. Jealousy, manipulative people, crime, betrayal and fear all have a part to play in my novel. But friendship, support and simple pleasures all go a long way in helping to heal all concerned, despite a few hiccoughs and twists along the way.
Such is life! It's the agent's perogative not to like my storyline. But implausible?
I call it life's challenges.
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