I find the river. I feel the walk beneath my soles. The sky holds a spreading heat and I follow the light into the water, where it dapples, moves through green weed and over stones. A fish startles to life and I see him flick through the depths.
Waterford Writers' Weekend is fast approaching and I will be leading a workshop called 'Get Flashy with Fiction' on Saturday, May 9th. The workshop will run from 10.30 am until 12.30 pm at Central Library, Waterford.
The pale yellow, shell-like construction of a daffodil . . . My niece presents me with the flower, along with a handful of catkins. The catkins draw my senses with their animal texture and my heart twists. This pure gesture stands out as my world continues to revolve with change. I take a sheet of blank paper, arrange the flowers, like a sketch. Every element has a shadow. I note the light and the darkness, capture them with my camera.
The Wind that Shook the Daffodils: A Memory Story by K. S. Moore The St David's Day concert was one of the highlights of the Primary...
She likes to sit right among the roses. She doesn't mind the thorns, doesn't fear them. They are only part of a rose, just as human prickles and niggles are part of their skin. Naturally, the petals draw her eye and her favour, like soft tissue, wrapped around a gift. The shade of pink is so light, she imagines its glide against her cheek, while the yellow is defiantly spring-like, late into the season.
Finding time to write has become more of a challenge since giving birth to my baby girl. Ok, let's be honest here, finding time to do anything other than look after her has become a challenge! However, as she skips past the ten week mark old (yes, 10 weeks!) I can cheerfully say 'I am getting more things done'.
Icicles don't bend, they stand up straight and spear. Through them, I see a white expanse, the field has stolen snow . . .
Owl eyes are the deepest. They draw you in, when you don't want to be drawn. When you want to sit still and mind your own business, stay lost in your own thoughts. This owl was curious. I saw it in his red-rust flecks. He wasn't about to blink. Then again, neither was I.
The road narrows and the fog hangs in, like dragon breath. We're on a nameless diversion – no signposts, not even sun to mark the horizon. Houses float out, make themselves known against white. If people live here, it can't be so desolate. It's just the weather.But the road shudders its way into the car, into our bodies, until we exclaim at its roughness. Our eyes find the dirt, not even a hint of a white line. We could not live here.
My new project, 'Write Club' continues to grow, as the third meeting took place last Saturday, at Waterford Central Library. The people who attended were full of positivity and passion for writing, which leant the session a definite energy. The atmosphere also seemed very relaxed, suggesting that people are settling in and beginning to enjoy this opportunity to meet with fellow writers, to work in a space away from home, and to receive support and encouragement.
Home WavesTo lie on the line between sand and sea will not be enough will not express my homesick, long-hearted fondness for here.
After an intense eight months of novel writing, I recently left my manuscript to sit and breathe for a few weeks. Last Friday, I chanced taking a peek at the first three chapters again. My husband keeps asking to read them and I just wanted to be sure they made some kind of sense. Surprisingly, they do. I did have to make one small adjustment as I had managed to repeat the same back story in two of the chapters. But apart from that, the chapters read through in quite an ordered and entertaining fashion.
I've been thinking about Antiheroes this week. The topic cropped up in a conversation between myself and my husband. He asked if I considered the leading male character from my novel to be an antihero. I said 'no' and for some reason this worried me.
I'm taking a break from the novel this week. As I mentioned in my previous post, I have managed to fill a major gap, but when I started to look at a couple of other chapters that needed a reshape, I found myself getting a sinking, sludgy feeling that I didn't like one bit. So, I've decided to step back from my first draft and let it sit for a while before I look at it again.
At the weekend, I hosted the first meeting of a new group called 'Write Club'. The group was formed from a small gathering of writers I have met at events / workshops or have chatted to on social media. The idea of 'Write Club' has been floating around my head for some time. I occasionally hold workshops and have noticed the huge difference just getting out of the house can make to general levels of productivity. I always bring a notepad myself and notice that my mind clears, allowing me to write very freely.
I'm quietly celebrating completing the first draft of my novel. I say 'quietly' because I know there's no point in getting too excited. There...
The birds tick time outside my door. I count the seconds, the colours. Such small lives. The bluetits and coaltits are the everyday ordinaries. If they were human they would wear a suit and tie, hold on to their jobs for dear life.
July can be a heady month; pollen still strong, the sun burgeoning. So far, this July has been a little damp and cooler than expected, but as a hay fever sufferer, I'm not complaining at all! I've been busy observing nature and scribbling fragments of summer micropoetry.
The tractor scores bright lines in the field. Four bales of silage already loom, great barrel-shadows with a sheen of their own.
I've made significant progress in the first draft of my novel and would say that I'm around two thirds of the way through. I feel as though I am pulling at threads, tightening them to create a secure and structured narrative. What was once a stream of words is now beginning to take shape.