Holidays

You overwork something for too long and like The Little Donkey that wouldn’t go, it’s going to start to break. So we have holidays, a time to rejuvenate. Summer holidays are the gold standard of all holidays; often planned in the winter months they become the light at the end of the tunnel; the reward for our hard work, the treat for our children, the time to be a family again.

Summer holidays come laden with myth like memories; the long summer of Seventy Six when according to my romantic memory we spent days and days at Nash Point. Childhood holidays when we were bombing along the streets on our bikes and bursting through the lazy haze that rose from concrete pavements. Teenage holidays when we dressed from head to toe in black and walked the melting urban landscape in unsuitable footwear to sit in a friend’s bedsit and listen to something depressing on the record player.

Summer holidays, when your dad undertook a massive DIY project and your mother washed and ironed and cleaned for days on end, so that when the holidays came there was no washing and ironing to do (Ok we will talk about that later.)

Of course there are also far away holidays, holidays abroad, walking holidays, camping holidays. They are the summer holidays and I am on mine. Right now; this is day one.  

What shall I do with it?

Nash Point, my favorite place in all the world

Cleaning

Yes, I have a cleaning thing. When I stop. When I pause. Everything looks grubby. Sometimes I feel like I can’t operate effectively until every glass is gleaming and every surface is reflective.

Resting

I am hopeless at this. I cannot rest. Last night, as a warm up I tried to watch T.V. and ended up sorting socks. To be honest there was nothing on.

Holidaying abroad

I am the working poor. Nothing more to be said here.

Day Trips

This is a good idea. I have been on a few with my boy and we have gotten lost in the countryside several times. I feel we bonded. He feels mummy has no sense of direction and actually called for help, you know like the scarecrow does when Dorothy falls asleep in the poppies.

Writing stuff

Yes. I want to write stuff. I have several pieces to work on. One is about a dreamer who’s dreams spill out, one is about a child killer, one is about the broken half of a mirror and one is about an incompetent fairy god mother. And there are so many more. Yet it feels indulgent to write when the bathroom needs doing.

The Bathroom

All we need to do here is sand down, gloss and lay the floor. We have had a concrete bathroom floor for over a year. I should be ashamed of myself.

Getting over work and getting drunk.

I have reached such levels of perfection, that it would be a waste of a holiday to work this any further, I should like to drink white wine and listen to Sixto Rodriguez. Again and again.

I could manifest. It’s what sports persons do, a creative visualization, of me winning. So the plan is, to do ironing in the morning, then clean the windows and wash the curtains and finally sit down with the book, with the words and write them just as they should be laid down, as they come out of my finger tips.

An Aspiring Writer

Hard work and aspiration: modern day meaningless tag lines. Aspiration can only get you so far. I am dripping with aspiration I have it in bucket loads. I aspire to be a good teacher, to learn new things, to read lots of books, to play video games, to write, to meet people, to win literary prizes and to wear a fabulous outfit at the award ceremony.

Don’t for one moment think I just sit about aspiring all day long, no I am ….pro active in my aspiration. “Pro-active” I despise that word, I remember the first time I heard it at meeting in Staffordshire County Council. I was outraged that "active", a verb, a doing word, required a prefix to differentiate it from doing things and like; you know, really doing things.

So in what way have I been activating my aspirations? Well I have made a commitment. Again everything is beginning to sound so new speak, perhaps I have watched, read and listened to far too much politics, but hear me out please.

I have made a writing commitment and this blog is part of it. Now I am an author I will share my take on life, my thoughts, experiences and hints and tips on a weekly basis.  I could just write these in a diary, but a blog is about exposure and no one is going to read my work unless I expose it to them.

I am an active twitter user and am slowly building a small following in the twitter sphere. 

I have created a J Freese facebook page which I post to regularly.

I use Wordpress as a catalog for my short stories and poems.  Writing new stories then gives me something to read at events.  In the space of a month I have read at three events, that’s two stories Count DireLife and The Light map and one poem My Mothers Land.

On top of the requirement to provide words (what kind of a blog would it be otherwise?) I also need images in my posts to break them up and avoid the horror of a wall of text.  So I take photographs, or screen grabs sometimes edit them in photoshop and finally install them into the blog. Now I can include a photo in my twitter posts, on facebook and on Pinterest.

Get that for aspiration, I told you I have it in buckets. I said to husband the other day that I feel as though after ten years (the child is ten) we have finally come alive again, we have woken up and are doing things. The only problem is that ten years ago I was thirty four and now I’m knackered. Much as I have loved this recent burst of activity I’m simply washed out.

Next weekend I want to stay at home and go no further than the backyard. Tonight my main aspiration is to put my feet up, drink tea and watch a movie or else I fear my candle will be burnt at both ends.

What Is Friend?

We all know of the archetypal writer, an introverted character, struggling to find the right word, passionate with a message, a muse an inspiration. 

I describe the writer of leisure, the writer who is able to indulge a creative whim, the writer who does not have to get up and go to work tomorrow, or see to the dinner or put together a fancy dress costume at late notice for a play you missed in the school newsletter.

The leisurely writer is aloof and mingles with only a select few. OK I might be going a bit far with this, but this is how I always envisaged a writer. When in fact the only way a writer is likely to come up with new ideas, original notions and character driven narratives is by getting out there and mixing.

In the past month my family and I have been doing quite a lot of mixing, we have done two craft fairs (one in the pouring rain), we have been to one private art showing of contemporary sculpture, and then last weekend we part took in a Cos-play event and later that evening we attended an international language and cultural event where I read my poem My Mother’s Land.

I love people. I like nearly everyone I meet and am generally a dreadful judge of character. I enjoy talking to people and people give me ideas, ideas for plot lines, ideas for characters, even just ideas for character descriptions.

During these past weeks of mixing I have met and talked too old ladies about sewing, young mothers about children, a well traveled woman who wrote for the world of fashion, a doctor of philosophy who didn’t know what sominal realism was but defined nominal realism for me. I have met and talked to games enthusiasts, I have discussed gardening, community projects, I have petted numerous dogs and conversed with several tramps all of whom were enamored with my husband’s art work.

At the language and cultural event (LESIN) I met my first Mexican (South America fascinates me), I spoke to some Arab men (two of whom turned out to be visiting from my home town Cardiff). I chatted to several Spaniards; who were all quite stereo-typically smoking on the balcony. I talked to a chap from the Czech Republic, an American travel writer and a Syrian Asylum seeker.

These have all been great experiences, new conversations, new music, new dancing (from the Philippines) the beautiful rhythm of foreign languages and exiting exotic food. The language and cultural evening was several hours of thoroughly enjoyable newness; but for one thing…

The Syrian: he stood alone in the corner of the balcony, I spoke to him and asked his story. He said “I am Asylum”. He has been here for eleven months and his English is poor. I asked had he made any friends.  “What is friend?” And I struggled to explain with words he might understand.

Mixing is important, it’s where you get ideas and inspiration but it’s also how you make friends and everyone needs a friend.

Three of my most hated tips for writers.

I’ve discovered an anomaly; there is dissidence between knowledge and application.

Without wishing to be a depressive, it is apparent, that in a global sense things are not very good: there is an Exodus from terror states; poverty is on the rise, there are great inequalities in the world, a shortage of natural resources and a butchering of the land. There’s a bunch of other bad things too, but I don’t need to labour the point.

All of these bad things were created by humans,  humans that have vast knowledge in all realms including various mathematically calculated dimensions. Knowledge is in abundance; yet there is dissidence between the knowledge and the application of knowledge.

While humankind continues to make a complete mess of the planet; and of being kind humans we preoccupy ourselves with shallow attempts at perfection and self improvement. We swallow this information in the same bite sized hints and tips I refer to when creating canapés.

The internet and the book shop are heavy with how to’s:

How to make a hologram (I looked it up the other week)

Five Tips for glossy hair.

Top Tips to half your household chores.

A Woman in your own Right: Assertiveness and You.

RULES FOR WRITERS.

Hints and Tips for writers are nearly always written by authors I have never heard of who recommend practice that is achievable only if you are a bored aristocrat in danger of sliding into some over indulgent languor.

Here in descending order are three of my most hated tips:

Write it down

On the face of it this seems like a good rule. However ideas don’t always arrive fully formed, a formed idea should be written down, when convenient. I don’t recommend writing down your good idea about the aftermath of a house fire when the sausages are burning. I do have lots of pens and note books all over the house. I don’t know which idea is in which note book and feel that ideas need to be thoroughly mulled over prior to finding the notebook.

Keep writing

Practice makes perfect, but writing and writing is not the answer, editing is the answer. It’s all very well writing 1000 words in an hour or 4000 a day, but if they are badly organised then no one will want to read them. Editing sounds a lot less impressive, it can mean three hours removing ten words, replacing six and adjusting punctuation, but it gives a much better result.

Stick to the routine.

This must be for those writers with a place of their own and no other occupation. How do you stick to a routine when there is a parent’s evening? Or you have a lesson to plan for? If for example Haruki Murakami were to make an appearance at my local community centre (in your dreams Freese) am I supposed not to turn up because it clashes with my routine? I feel better advice would be to write when you can.

A writer writes because they must, a mother nurtures because she loves, a teacher teaches because of potential. We are all more than the sum of one thing, and we have to do our thing, when we can, to our own rules: rules that work for us.

The Write Outfit

I am having a Cinderella moment; I have nothing to wear.

I should go shopping, but I hate clothes shopping; too often the garments on offer are the wrong colour, too big or out of my price range. Finding the perfect outfit in a charity shop is a skill that eludes me. There must be a technique; someone should start an evening class: I’d enroll.

If I were a full time writer or a recluse (research suggests there’s a hairs breath between the two) then I might have a single occasions outfit and my continued wearing of it could be explained away as eccentricity.

Potential Eccentric Writers Outfits.

Carry On Screaming

A Molyneux of Paris style gown, in the deepest purple crushed velvet with sharp Dracula collar.  Occasion wear screaming gothic romanticism for the writer of dark fiction. Disadvantages would be a perquisite pan cake flat tummy.

Little Miss Dumbeldore

Another floor length number, this time in black satin, with great pointed magicians sleeves edged in white velvet.  Sumptuous outerwear for the writer of metaphysical fiction. The Disadvantages are as for the first choice outfit along with the danger of appearing swamped.

My Dress of Many Colours

Still reaching to the ankle is the ultimate bohemian gypsy garb, all flowing lace, embroidery, ribbons and little strips of velvet; very Lady of Shalott. A dress for a poet of the textured soul. Disadvantages lay in its construction; with the involvement of many textures there is a danger of looking like a beautiful cushion cover.

I am not, as it happens a recluse and I’m not that much of an eccentric, so I have compiled a second list selected for understated stylishness.

Potential Stylishly Arty Writers Outfits

The Factory Floor

Sporting Beatnik Chic with super tight black jeans, long sleeved high collared top, black shiny boots; a timeless ensemble for expressionists. Here stands the writer that cuts to the core of emotion and leaves punctuation to the discretion of the reader. Disadvantages lie in not looking young enough.

  

Breakfast at a Coffee Shop:

A knee length, black cotton dress with starched white cotton collar.  For the writer who tells it as it is. Adverbs avoided at all costs whilst teetering on the brink of something we have read before. Disadvantages include lingering in a safe look reminiscent of the Wednesday Addams general get up.

Ninja Warrior

An inspired, Japanese, two piece comprising: Capri length black satin trousers with matching black tailored shirt displaying embroidered button detail. Slashing the space between dreams and reality, this is an outfit for the writer who never really wakes up. Disadvantages you may look like you’re still in your pajamas.

So when she finally turns up, my fairy godmother that is, we have some things to discuss. And seeing as this week we are talking fashion you might be interested to know that she turns up all over the place; she has made appearances in several of my short stories and is trying to sneak her way into my first ever theatre piece. She dresses like Pola Negri .

Writing Like A Rock God

On Friday I gave a reading of my short story Count DireLife (which you can read here) to a small audience from various artistic backgrounds. Though the venue was huge and the microphone hissy, I came away with a great feeling of achievement, a little applause, then a little more as the MC encouraged it and a compliment or two not so much about my story but about my delivery and confidence.

I feel as though I underwent an initiation process, rather like the journey a band might take. The band starts playing small venues, their friends attend, sometimes the drummers Dad will come, there will be a few old blokes at the bar and maybe the girl who runs the cloak room will step away from the coats and take a look too. I wonder how lonely the lead singer must feel when he or she says “Thankyou.” to the sound of their lover and the old bloke clapping.

I wonder how many bands just play that one gig and give up. I doubt there are many. They will have written their songs, practiced their set, thought about their costume and given it their all. Which is what I did.

And then I had a moment of crisis. What if no one really wants to read my words?

Though Friday was the first time I ever read my work aloud among strangers, I have shown my work to others with varying degrees of success. I’ve had people tell me they loved my work, they find it too flowery, that it was evocative, that I have a beautiful way with words, that there was simply too much detail, that it was depressing and very unusual.

I just want people to read it, and to appreciate it.

I’ve never had any one yell at me to get off the stage, or throw plastic cups since they stopped serving bottles. I had a pleasant response, the only coughing came from me, I met a nice group of people who I hope to see again and most of all I had fun.

What would the rock god do next? Having secured a venue they would sneak through town at night and post flyers advertising their next gig. And so it would go on, until the band has a following and finally a manager, who has contacts and knows people and is often over bearing and one day you know they might make it. And maybe they might not. They will have had a load of fun, a stack of stories to tell and by the time they have hit mid forty their sex god pose will have been perfected to a state of imperfection.

So let’s hope my debut with the squeaky microphone in a fabulous venue is the beginning of my gigging career. As I will be reading I don’t need to practice my pout, but I just may have to mix up some paste and get posting flyers all over town.

When A Writer Writes

I am going to a cultural event on Friday, where I shall mingle with other creative types. I will be attending in my capacity as a writer. I have even asked to give a reading of a short story which is yet to be completed.

According to somewhat disturbing advice published regularly on the internet, a writer is someone who writes every day. I hope those hosting this event do not require evidence of such dedication to the craft, though I tried it for about three weeks and this is what happened:

I wrote a short story about why cleaning is a waste of time (I think I wrote it on the lap top and now I can’t find it.) When I find it I intend to use it as an experiment on social media (watch this space)

I completed Chapter 9

Chapter nine haunted me for months; I could not move it on in the manner required. Once complete I should have been able to tackle Chapter 10, which is also written, but needs editing, but I had intended to write every day. I assumed that meant writing something new.

I wrote an incomplete story about beings that live in the walls and feed off emotion; they are getting bored because everyone is very much the same.

The idea had been sitting around in my head for some time and was based on the notion that we are all living pretty much the same lives. It was unfinished because the day ran out and I was trying to write every day.

I wrote a story about a 14 year pregnancy

Still only in draft format, the landscape was previously styled for a story about a puppeteer rapist.

In response to a competition brief (now closed) I wrote a story about Spring Suicides

Currently as a third draft this was inspired by a review of The Babadook, it’s really about the relationship between the mother and son, the Spring Suicides were supposed to be about the Mother character coming to terms with her loss, the story was to hold the theme together.

I wrote about the discovery of a fairy in a dystopian future (incomplete)

This was in response to the election results; it’s about when the majority makes a bad decision.

For the cultural event I have a story about a woman who disappears, ceases to exist, and reforms elsewhere, in the steam of a hot coffee, the cheese of lasagna. This came from a concept I tried to weave into a novel five years ago, I got quite a way in and then abandoned it.

The point is that a writer does not have to write every day, a writer has to edit, to think, to read, to re-visit, to let it sit or run on as required and then to propagate. I might be at the propagation stage.  The story of the disappearing woman is taking root; it needs to be ready for planting by Friday.