A215 Draft of Poem

I'm realising something sad - for me but perhaps a relief for agents on my hit list - is that my novel is not good enough. It has to be a practise novel. I am going to use one of the protagonists, the soldier's wife, and write a book about her. I'll take bits and pieces from the discarded novel and a lot of the story line too.



The thing is this; when you start writing a story and nearly four years later, you're still with it, you've changed, your writing's changed - I'd like to say matured but who knows. So I've been trying to edit words that at best, leave me cold and, at worst, make me cringe.



Here's a draft of the first poem I've written since I was fifteen. A few summers ago. It's part of the OU Creative Writing course. Not good enough for a TMA so I'm putting it here so I can find it again.



Oh, please tell me if you've chucked an entire novel and started again? And do also tell if you know any good books on character creation because that should have been where I started - with very detailed characters. Story and plot come next, in my humble opinion.

A Cornish Village

On Cawsand Bay in spring

We’d run to meet a topaz sea

Skate barnacled rocks that bled our feet

And saffron sand as hot as larva

With diamonds glinting in the waves

We’d taste the brine on childish lips

And thought that life – just like the sky

Stretched on and on forever

In Cawsand village in summer

We’d sing a siren song

To trawl the sailors in from Plymouth

And hold them in our girlish arms

How they loved our wild brown eyes

And flapped like fish in nets of hair

They spoke of loves in English towns

But spilled their seed in Celtic coves.

In Cawsand quay in Autumn

My baby son and I

Threw bread to angry gulls

And watched grey water writhe and rise

Then with small fat hands my child

Skimmed spitting surf with pebbles

Worn down to shallow flint

And I kiss the softness of his neck

And pray that times stands time.

In Cawsand square in winter

I pass the tourists spying

On my home, my life, my loves.

I am a ghost. They pass right through me

A faded women by a silent sea.

I will shed this skin of ages

And dive among the jewelled fishes

To find the mermaid in my soul

***********************************

My Girl Jessie

Recently, the RSPCA appear to have declared war on owners who dress their pets up or anthropomorphise them in any way. I do agree that the sight of Paris Hilton wearing her dog as an accessory is tasteless and worrying. All animals should be allowed to exhibit their natural behaviour which is difficult if you're kept in a shoulder bag. Dogs are dogs. They need a hunt every a day and an owner who understands them. But there are far worse things than dressing your dog up as Peter Pan or Beyoncé. In China dogs are killed in the most painful and protracted way for their fur and meat. Tesco would have us eat petit foie gras and the treatment of battery chickens is heart breaking. So I think the RSPCA could be shooting themselves in the foot by seemingly targeting a large section of pet owners who love and treat their dogs well - but put them in pink coats with clips in their hair.

So, this is my girl Jessie in her pink woolly leggings. Despite being only four she has arthritis in her joints - the result of neglect by her previous owners. My vet suggested leggings and rather than boring black I found these which suit her dippy tart nature.

The Factory Cat

Just submitted a short story to Your Cat. Not getting excited at all because they seem to publish most excellent work by known writers. Very enjoyable to write though. I'll post a few lines when I get my rejection letter. By the way, does anybody know - if your story is 1784 words do you state this or do you round it off to 1700? And - don't go just yet - have you read Nicci French's Losing You? The best thing I've read for ages. So exciting and chilling. And,and...how do I lose the green eyes? They were red, corrected them with red eye remover but now they're green and Jessie has the most lovely amber eyes.

On loss and Gain

I lost a dear friend a few days ago in the most tragic way. We are just a blink of an eye in time. I thought I couldn't write but now I find it's all I can do. I've written a poem, a short story about a cat and a new beginning to my novel. I've stayed away from writing how I feel - too self indulgent - maybe later.



I've written a new first page to my novel, Sitting Pretty and will carry on editing for content for probably the next six to nine months and then line edit. That sounds very organised and organised is what I'd like to be. Washing out before I go to work, lunch boxes made, ironing every night, both socks matching,no driving kids to school in my pjs. No more trying to write like I think I should, I'll just write from the heart.



New first page:



Chapter One. Sian.

If I told you that my husband travelled the world and, occasionally killed people, you probably wouldn’t invite me in for coffee. But if I said that he served his queen and country in the British army then maybe you would.

The truth, I guess, is somewhere in between which means it’s easier for me to stay here, behind the wire, safely in the camp with the other soldiers’ wives.

Ten years ago at seventeen, I was just a bolshie girl from the valleys, newly married to my Private Evans and carrying my father’s chip on my shoulder. A miner’s daughter who wanted to change the world. Now I know my place and my place is here; Aborfield Garrison where I clean the NAAFI and support my husband.

I’m Sergeant Evans, ‘Wife of’. That’s right, I got a promotion but you can call me Sian. And now we want another stripe and that’s why we’re dressed up like Ken and Barbie, with a freezing January wind whipping round our legs. We’re waiting with another Ken and Barbie - our mates, Mo and Alan, for the army transport to take us to the Warrant Officers Mess Ball. We get a tick in the box for socialising you see.

‘Fucking transport’s always late.’ Steve flicks a cigarette butt which lights up the black sky like a scud missile before landing, burning red, a few feet from the defunct tank, the symbolic watchdog of the base.