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.
Monday, 24 May 2010
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.
Friday, 23 April 2010
The Big Smoke
It appears to me that trying to get to Hampstead Heath for a spot of research for my book, has similarities to trying to get published! Neither are a smooth journey.
I first attempted the journey to London last September on my birthday. I wanted to be selfish and indulge in my passion for that day. But not being writers, family members thought it strange that I'd want to spend the day alone. They missed the point that I would be spending the day surrounded by the characters in my book. So I ended up in Cambridge, and spent a lovely day with my mother and daughter instead.
Autumn also conjured up obstacles to defer another attempt. Still, writers know all about waiting patiently!
I made it to London last Monday. Uninterested people waved a nonchalant hand when I asked for occasional directions, just as uninterested agents have rejected my manuscript. I got on the tube going in the wrong direction, just as I'd received a letter from a publisher offering to publish my work....for a fee! Not a direction I wanted to travel down.
When I reached Hampstead Heath, the sun was shining and the blossoms were bursting. People pointed me in the right direction with a smile, just as some agents have been very complimentary about my writing and urged me to continue. Isn't it wonderful when an experience exceeds your expectations? I reached the summit of Parliament Hill, taking the same journey my fictional family did in Lies and Linguine. Sitting on a bench, shining with a polished patina from thousands of bottoms, I looked over the huge metropolis and felt as if Denise and her family had actually sat there before me. Just to add a further dimension to my visit, a group of impromptu gospel singers sprang into song on the summit of the hill. I drank in sun, the constellation of dandelions, the children's squeals, the smell of the grass and the distant rumble of traffic. It makes so much difference to visit a place you want to write about.
I also visited The London Book Fair. The quote of the day for me, was by author Richard Ford who was being interviewed in the Literary Cafe. He said, "Every writer experiences rejection. We all have to have a turn in the cold shower. Ultimately, be yourself. You've got to write what you've got to write."
How true!
I first attempted the journey to London last September on my birthday. I wanted to be selfish and indulge in my passion for that day. But not being writers, family members thought it strange that I'd want to spend the day alone. They missed the point that I would be spending the day surrounded by the characters in my book. So I ended up in Cambridge, and spent a lovely day with my mother and daughter instead.
Autumn also conjured up obstacles to defer another attempt. Still, writers know all about waiting patiently!
I made it to London last Monday. Uninterested people waved a nonchalant hand when I asked for occasional directions, just as uninterested agents have rejected my manuscript. I got on the tube going in the wrong direction, just as I'd received a letter from a publisher offering to publish my work....for a fee! Not a direction I wanted to travel down.
When I reached Hampstead Heath, the sun was shining and the blossoms were bursting. People pointed me in the right direction with a smile, just as some agents have been very complimentary about my writing and urged me to continue. Isn't it wonderful when an experience exceeds your expectations? I reached the summit of Parliament Hill, taking the same journey my fictional family did in Lies and Linguine. Sitting on a bench, shining with a polished patina from thousands of bottoms, I looked over the huge metropolis and felt as if Denise and her family had actually sat there before me. Just to add a further dimension to my visit, a group of impromptu gospel singers sprang into song on the summit of the hill. I drank in sun, the constellation of dandelions, the children's squeals, the smell of the grass and the distant rumble of traffic. It makes so much difference to visit a place you want to write about.
I also visited The London Book Fair. The quote of the day for me, was by author Richard Ford who was being interviewed in the Literary Cafe. He said, "Every writer experiences rejection. We all have to have a turn in the cold shower. Ultimately, be yourself. You've got to write what you've got to write."
How true!
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
The Big Smoke Beckons
Has a year passed already? It doesn't seem like twelve months ago that I was sitting in a masterclass entitled How To Become Published at The London Book Fair. And no - I haven't - yet. I've been told these things can't be rushed!
So it's with a skip in my step that I'm off to The London Book Fair 2010 on Monday. Seems like a good time to mull over my achievements since last year's fair.
Well, a year ago I hadn't won a competition for my first chapter. I hadn't had an agent request my entire manuscript having read my first three chapters, and I also hadn't started my second novel, which is now well under way.
I'm happy with that progress!
So it's with a skip in my step that I'm off to The London Book Fair 2010 on Monday. Seems like a good time to mull over my achievements since last year's fair.
Well, a year ago I hadn't won a competition for my first chapter. I hadn't had an agent request my entire manuscript having read my first three chapters, and I also hadn't started my second novel, which is now well under way.
I'm happy with that progress!
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Life is stranger than fiction!
It's true that life resembles fiction more than fiction resembles life. If I wrote about certain co-incidences or experiences, an agent may comment that it was a little unbelievable.
Take for example one day when I took our two spaniels for a walk on the paddock. Our Springer, Brook, as usual only had one thought in mind - retrieving the ball which I was throwing for her. Harlyn our Brittany spaniel, was busy tree-watching for any slight movement. A bird would be good, a squirrel would make her day! To her delight she locked eyes with a squirrel and so started a long stand off. No amount of bribery from me with a pocket full of treats would budge her. Eventually, I think the squirrel got bored and decided to make a leap for it. As it leap from the canopy of one tree to the next, it fell - onto the upturned face of Harlyn! She fell to the floor, the squirrel scampered off and Harlyn stood up and looked at me as if to say 'did that really happen?' The thing is, only me and a slightly over-weight red and white dog were witnesses to the drama. And although she swore me to secrecy over her embarressment, I thought it would be a good story to demonstrate just how crazy reality can be.
Great news! I received an email yesterday from a literary agent asking to read my full manuscript. Fantastic! I've worked on Blake, my antagonist, and hopefully he'll show a nicer side to his character.
I've also entered another competition. Describe a winter storm in 200 words. It's not a story, but a moment in time.
Winter Storm
Mauve clouds bruised the bi-polar skies, now grumbling miserably having been bright and sunny an hour earlier. Skeletal canopies lurched to and fro to the wind's egotistical demands, hushing bird song. Slowly at first, raindrops dimpled puddles like a rash. Tip tap on the dustbin lids.
A grey curtain of rain closed over the village, muting colours and beating a faster rhythm. Pewter skies unleashed a deluge , staining fences a shade darker and painting a glistening patina on pavements. Rain lashed against windows and over-flowed from gutters, splashing onto the tarmac below. Down pipes frothed and gurgled. Bulimic drains spewed leaves and debris into the road, unashamed and unrepentant. As the wind whisked up shrivelled leaves and prised roof tiles from their fixings, icy marbles played a deafening drum beat on car bonnets. Clattering. Rattling.
White-forked tongues licked the sky as the winter storm hit a crescendo. The clouds grumbled in reply as weak limbs were torn from scarred trees and scattered across the village green. As if shocked by its destruction, the wind sighed. The rain slowed to a gentle drizzle as a pale shaft of sunlight hinted at a smile from behind the clouds.
Take for example one day when I took our two spaniels for a walk on the paddock. Our Springer, Brook, as usual only had one thought in mind - retrieving the ball which I was throwing for her. Harlyn our Brittany spaniel, was busy tree-watching for any slight movement. A bird would be good, a squirrel would make her day! To her delight she locked eyes with a squirrel and so started a long stand off. No amount of bribery from me with a pocket full of treats would budge her. Eventually, I think the squirrel got bored and decided to make a leap for it. As it leap from the canopy of one tree to the next, it fell - onto the upturned face of Harlyn! She fell to the floor, the squirrel scampered off and Harlyn stood up and looked at me as if to say 'did that really happen?' The thing is, only me and a slightly over-weight red and white dog were witnesses to the drama. And although she swore me to secrecy over her embarressment, I thought it would be a good story to demonstrate just how crazy reality can be.
Great news! I received an email yesterday from a literary agent asking to read my full manuscript. Fantastic! I've worked on Blake, my antagonist, and hopefully he'll show a nicer side to his character.
I've also entered another competition. Describe a winter storm in 200 words. It's not a story, but a moment in time.
Winter Storm
Mauve clouds bruised the bi-polar skies, now grumbling miserably having been bright and sunny an hour earlier. Skeletal canopies lurched to and fro to the wind's egotistical demands, hushing bird song. Slowly at first, raindrops dimpled puddles like a rash. Tip tap on the dustbin lids.
A grey curtain of rain closed over the village, muting colours and beating a faster rhythm. Pewter skies unleashed a deluge , staining fences a shade darker and painting a glistening patina on pavements. Rain lashed against windows and over-flowed from gutters, splashing onto the tarmac below. Down pipes frothed and gurgled. Bulimic drains spewed leaves and debris into the road, unashamed and unrepentant. As the wind whisked up shrivelled leaves and prised roof tiles from their fixings, icy marbles played a deafening drum beat on car bonnets. Clattering. Rattling.
White-forked tongues licked the sky as the winter storm hit a crescendo. The clouds grumbled in reply as weak limbs were torn from scarred trees and scattered across the village green. As if shocked by its destruction, the wind sighed. The rain slowed to a gentle drizzle as a pale shaft of sunlight hinted at a smile from behind the clouds.
Friday, 19 March 2010
I Need Help!
No, not psychological help - although if you have any suggestions.......
I need help with my blog. I've just been browsing the net (and picking up the lingo!) and there are so many interesting blogs with photos, links etc. Just when I'm proud that I've actually worked out how to add a new post, I find out that I'm still at the starting block. A bit like my writing actually! Still, even the greatest writers had to start by learning how to spell their names!
I've tried following some written advice on my laptop and to be honest it looks like a foreign language. I'm not slow - honest. I passed my eleven plus and everything! But my head gets a faint buzzing sensation as I'm trying to process a list of, to me anyhow, technical mumbo jumbo. I suppose the buzzing could be from the sugar rush from the bag of Tutti Fruttis I've just eaten.
Anyway, my belated new year's resolution is to make my blog a little more 'all singing and all dancing' and to get a few followers! My lovely sister has signed up to follow me so already I don't feel like I'm talking to myself!
Watch this space!
I need help with my blog. I've just been browsing the net (and picking up the lingo!) and there are so many interesting blogs with photos, links etc. Just when I'm proud that I've actually worked out how to add a new post, I find out that I'm still at the starting block. A bit like my writing actually! Still, even the greatest writers had to start by learning how to spell their names!
I've tried following some written advice on my laptop and to be honest it looks like a foreign language. I'm not slow - honest. I passed my eleven plus and everything! But my head gets a faint buzzing sensation as I'm trying to process a list of, to me anyhow, technical mumbo jumbo. I suppose the buzzing could be from the sugar rush from the bag of Tutti Fruttis I've just eaten.
Anyway, my belated new year's resolution is to make my blog a little more 'all singing and all dancing' and to get a few followers! My lovely sister has signed up to follow me so already I don't feel like I'm talking to myself!
Watch this space!
Thursday, 18 March 2010
Gossamer Wings
Gossamer Wings
If my resting place be this crescent of golden sand,
Will it cradle my bouquet of life's memories?
Will my shadow fly on resplendent waves
with each skyward-tossed champagne spray?
If my ashes were laid upon soft grains,
Will gentle zephyrs carry my soul?
Will I remember when I wed barefoot on these sands
in flowing gown, 'neath bare blue skies?
If my essence drifts through murmuring boughs,
Will you hear me whisper through autumn leaves?
Will my spirit walk each winding path,
re-tracing steps I took in life?
If my soul floats with fragrant blossoms
Drifting on a summer's breeze,
Will I dance, as night falls and stars a-light,
with golden angels on gossamer wings?
By Angela Barton
If my resting place be this crescent of golden sand,
Will it cradle my bouquet of life's memories?
Will my shadow fly on resplendent waves
with each skyward-tossed champagne spray?
If my ashes were laid upon soft grains,
Will gentle zephyrs carry my soul?
Will I remember when I wed barefoot on these sands
in flowing gown, 'neath bare blue skies?
If my essence drifts through murmuring boughs,
Will you hear me whisper through autumn leaves?
Will my spirit walk each winding path,
re-tracing steps I took in life?
If my soul floats with fragrant blossoms
Drifting on a summer's breeze,
Will I dance, as night falls and stars a-light,
with golden angels on gossamer wings?
By Angela Barton
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