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Category Archives: Writing

In my Reading Poetry seminar, we were given David Cameron’s speech on immigration from The 24th November 2014, and tasked to write a found poem.

This is mine:

“I”

Today
I
Want
to talk about immigration.
That is what
I
Want.
It needs to be –
Controlled.
It needs to be –
Within.
and it needs to be centred around –
What
I
Want.

(By Lisa Harte, 2015)

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Today at the Buddle writers we had to write something with these key things:

Dog walker
Angel
Feeling unwanted
Heavy rain
Garden centre
Hand made chocolates

This is the poem that I wrote:

Heavy rain, what a drain
Running for shelter, in a garden centre
A stone angel has closed her arms
The dog walker sighs, the dog walker cries

Running for shelter, in a garden centre
Forever a bore, soaked to the core
The dog walker sighs, the dog walker cries
Hand made chocolates, kept safe in pockets

Forever a bore, soaked to the core
A parted friend, will be seen again
Hand made chocolates, kept safe in pockets
Kept safe in store, forever more

A parted friend, will be seen again
Heavy rain, what a drain
Kept safe in store, forever more
A stone angel has closed her arms.

I decided to write a poem instead of prose because one of the members was complaining that we didn’t so enough poetry as a group.

My poem was well received ^_^

It’s not writers block, that’s for sure. Because I am still writing. I’m just not focusing on the big project instead doing little ones, and starting brand new ones. I’ve really gotten into the characters not yet seen in the Killer Queen story, and now all I want to do is write about them, and not write about the characters from my book I trying to write.

Have I fallen out of love with Marcus and Euridy and now want to indulge in Elija and Svetlana? It seems strange to me that I can be so fickle with my characters when I had such a great passion for them before. I blame it on getting to a dull part that I know I will more than likely cut, but yet still feel the need to write it just because it’s in my novel plan. But what is it?

When I sit down to write my mind doesn’t go blank, but rather I get engulfed by fatigue and just want to go to sleep and daydream instead. It could be the meds. It could just be my chronic depression. Hell. I could even blame the weather.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that even at the best of times, even without writers block, or even when you are motivated, shit still can get in the way.

Hardly a positive thought. But it’s true. And please don’t tell me to suck it up, or just force myself to do it. I’ve heard it all before. I’ve said it all to myself too.

Depression is a horrible thing. And sometimes you just have to wait for the dark cloud to let up a little.

I think this story needs a few more tweaks, but other than that I am very happy with it.

Enjoy!

The Busdriver and Carma

The busdriver came barreling down the dirt road; he leaned as close to the big clockwork steering wheel as he could possibly get. His scrawny fingers wrapped around the cool black metal so tightly his knuckles were threatening to break free. There was no hiding his foul mood. Not that anyone would care to notice, he thought miserably to himself.

Such was his lot in life, he fumed. It didn’t matter how hard he worked, how many hours he clocked in or how many years he put in with this sell out corporate bus company one little mistake was enough to send him on the graveyard shift like a newbie. No, he corrects himself, he didn’t make a mistake. The busdriver still thought himself in the right. He always was, you know, people were just too stupid to see it. His superior, a retired busdriver who now thought the world revolved around what came out of his ass – sorry, mouth, was just one of those sorts. So PC that he probably wiped his backside with brown paper just so he could claim to be “multicultural”. He was the one who took the complaint from that tramp seriously. What has the world come to when the word of someone like her was worth more than someone like him? Everyone was just annoyed because he still had the balls to stand up for good, honest values.

Suddenly, unregulated rain starts to pelt the panoramic windshield. The busdriver’s face beats vermillion red. If he was on his normal route the weather would be nice and controlled, coordinated with city regulations and business needs. Out here in the sticks no one cared about proper order so the rain fell where and when it liked! Turning the dirt into mud that would splash up against the lovely chrome sheen on his bus, covering the ungrateful passengers with mud and unregulated water that they would stomp and trek through his lovely pristine bus. Didn’t they know hard he worked to keep the stench that these people dragged in out? Didn’t they appreciate that he had to clean the floors and scrape their leftovers from the bottom of the seats!? The more the busdriver thought about it the angrier he got, and the more he stomped his foot down on the accelerator. The dashboard was beeping its red warnings at him, and finally the computer overrode the mute button that he had activated:

“Comrade,” the computer said in the nonsense drone of a woman, “your speed has now maintained excess beyond government regulations. Please reduce speed or company policy will have to intervene to maintain the standard of regulation.”

The bus driver grumbled, it didn’t matter where he went; somewhere there was always a woman nagging him to do things another way. Nevertheless, he took his foot off and turned on the auto drive, just to placate the computer. He took in a few deep breaths to try and use the calming techniques that the company counselor had taught him. He imagined the colours he was breathing in, and how they would change when he breathed them out. At first he laughed out right at the idiocy of this, but then the counselor – who was thankfully a man – told him that the colours changed because he was filtering the bad out, or something to that affect. Since the busdriver always thought that he was right, this made a lot more sense to him,

He was just starting to reach a sense of calm when the computer flashed the warm tones of cyan blue on the dashboard, and said in her honeyed voice: “Approaching passenger.”

The busdriver’s eyes popped open, seeing the rain was still flowing down his windshield his eyes narrowed to angry slits as he scowled at the dashboard.

“Computer,” he said, “the unregulated weather is not optimised for passenger boarding.”

“Comrade, Detroitstate Incorporated Company Policy section 10 paragraph 9 citations state that-”

“Yeah, yeah,” the busdriver grumbled, as he pressed mute, cutting the computer off. He had been lectured on this so many times he knew what she would say. Her words still haunted his nightmares.

The bus came to a leisurely stop; the busdriver took a calming breath and then touched the dashboard command and the glass doors opened with a well-oiled woosh. And just as he suspected the passenger was wet and dirty. And a woman! He looked up to the sky where he imagined corporate headquarters floated around and gave them a silent “I told you so” lecture.

Just as she was about to put one of her muddy feet on the metal steps the busdriver barked: “Halt!” and the woman obediently retracted herself back.

“State your destination and stand still for your ID scan,” the busdriver mentally winced as he realised that he forgot to be polite and say please.

“Sir,” the woman began in a soft voice, the busdriver did not like this. Women were only demure and polite when they wanted something, “I desire to go somewhere sheltered. I don’t know where I am to state a destination beyond this.”

The bus driver said nothing; he just scowled at the woman. After a period of uncomfortable silence he asked, “How much money do you have?”

He had quickly looked at the ID read the computer got from this sorry looking figure, Carma-Something her name was and she had no registered job. Figures. Why would an employed person be out here anyways?

“Excuse me, sir, but I haven’t any.”

“Then why did you hail my bus down!” the busdriver screeched.

Instead of being cowed, the woman took her first step on to the bus and out of the rain. Finally sheltered, she shacks off her meek persona and looked him directly in the eye. The busdriver straightened, how dare she look at him like an equal!?

“I can pay with other means,” she said suggestively.

When the busdriver didn’t respond she thought maybe he was simple, and began to undo the buttons of her coat so he understood.

“You will desist, madam!”

The woman pressed her lips together in a thin line and looked the busdriver up and down. Carma had no doubt as to what sort of man he would be. Everything in his life would be well ordered and controlled; if someone were stupid enough to try and stick around he would surely beat them into submission. His hair was perfectly greased back, face shaved down to the pinky flesh that never spent a day outside of the city. She wondered if he actually ironed and cleaned his own clothes, not a button was out of place. John’s like him were a dying breed, that’s how she knew them all so well. Her like were the only leg over they could ever get these days.

“If you have no fare you will alight yourself from Detroitstate Incorporated company immediately! ”

The woman sneered, no one was gonna miss his flaring nostrils, that’s for sure. She quickly undid the strap around her waist to finish opening her coat and pulled out the Regulation 5 pistol she had alighted from a foolishly trusting police officer.

She really enjoyed how the busdriver’s eyes nearly popped out of his pasty head when he saw it. But most of all she loved how his mouth dropped to his chest, and jerked back when she shot him. She liked the R5guns better than the last R3 she had, these new ones made no sound as the bullet was liberated from its metal cadge which meant she didn’t jump back in shock missing the target.

The busdriver slumped down, his arms limp and dangling over the seat. Satisfied that he was dead, the woman reached into his pockets to see if he had anything useful.

There was a set of what she assumed where house keys on a spiral ring, an appointment card to see a quack down in the city-proper and a battered, brown leather wallet. The woman sighed; it was completely empty.

She dragged the busdriver off his seat, down the metal steps. His polished boots went clunk clunk down the metal grids. And then thud as he hit the dirt road. She tossed his empty wallet after him and hit the door-close on the dashboard.

“Computer, state location please.”

The computer obliged with a map location on the screen grid. Excellent. Unfamiliar with this bus module she let the computer issue auto-drive and sat back.

It felt good to be out of the rain.

On the school run, my daughter Lilianna decided to call the side walk ‘The Red Bone Forest’, it’s red cement you see. But we got to talking about what this forest would look like. Kids do have a massive imaginative scope, and in broad daylight holding mommy’s hand spooky stories are safe to speak of.

I’m sitting in Costa coffee, waiting for my friends from English Lit to turn up before we head off to Northumbria University for a day of workshops and lectures (I even crossed the damn bridge without screaming!) and well, the words just started to flow. Here is the begging of a new story:

The Red Bone Forest is a scary place where goblins gather in their hoards and you have to cross the Troll Bridge to enter, though why would any sane person choose to do so is beyond most people. The forest bed is covered in a thick, dry moss that has the same colour as dried blood, but rather than crunch under foot it oozes something thick and pungent. The trees, black and this of trunk leer at your, with long gnarly branches that seek to grab you at ever turn. The forest could be mistaken for being alive, as the canopy will change, seeking to blot out the light so that the dark ghouls will feel more at ease to come out and snatch the wandering souls.

But why is it called the Red Bone Forest? The trees aren’t red, and there are no bones around for anything that enters is eaten whole. And don’t be mistaken to think that the forest is haunted or cursed, I assure you that the residents are very much present and accounted for. It is their own deviousness that gives the trees and wood their own malevolence.

No. I’m afraid the tale goes far back into our memories, it involves a beloved king and his special armour, his enchantress of a daughter and what befell their family. So sick back listeners, put the light on and beware of shadows. This tale is not something to be listened to lightly….

Man it’s been a while. I tell ya’ I can sure let life get in my way a lot of the time.

Never mind though, eh? I am back and I am going to try and get into the habit of updating this more often. I can’t really be bothered to wait until the 1st of January to make a change in life. I might as well get the practice in now, right?

I’ve been managing to go to my writing group every week. We haven’t done a lot of writing because we have been spending time going through submissions for our anthology project. We haven’t gotten to my pieces yet and I don’t have any problems telling you that I am really anxious about it.

I’ll be working on essay works for college soon and I am really looking forward to getting stuck into that. I love writing essays. They’re so much fun, and so different to what I normally do.  Plus, I get a good grade on them which is a nice little stroke for my ego ;).

I have decided I am going to read some Steampunk novels because I have a few budding ideas that I would like to write in that genre. I think because I have a fascination with goggles and I saw a boy at college that I think would look really dapper in a steampunk outfit. Haha.

Anyway, I have to go and work on my sewing project in time for my daily politics show. It’s my effort to not go to sleep and avoid, you know…. living.

10-4

Just uploaded my first story on wattpad:

http://www.wattpad.com/story/2574236-the-cedar-witch

My 3rd assignment came back yesterday – FINALLY!!! – and the tutor said once I made my corrections I should submit it to one of the magazines I’ve researched. Ha! Of course she pointed out that they probably get loads of submissions and not to get my hopes up but still! I was so jazzed that as soon as I tightened up my sentences and fixed a few tense lapses I submitted it. It wasn’t until after I sent the email that I realised I forgot to put ENGLAND on the bottom of my address, and this is an American magazine. Whoops.

Response time is about 2 months the online submission guide says, the payment is pretty lowest but I wold get a free copy of the magazine. This might not seem like much but it’s one less thing for me to buy – yes I have bought this magazine before – and as I’m not too attached to the story I’ve just tried to sell I’m feeling quite proud of myself just for being in a position to try.

I’ve also realised that this particular story I’ve redrafted about 8 times. When that penny dropped I kinda laughed. Knowing that redrafting many times is not a sign of failure but growth. Ian Irvine one of my favourite authors just posted on his Facebook account that he has redrafted his plot sequence 8 times already and it still has loads of scribbles and adjustments on it.

My final thought is that a body of work is a lot like an oil painting; to the artist it is never finished.

10:4 /

I hate having to wait for the mail every morning. I’m currently doing a long distance writing course and instead of opting to do it all online I decided that because I’m rather nostalgic I opted to have my assignments done by post…. It’s gonna be 2 weeks now and I really really hope that my assignment comes back because i have the 3rd one all ready to send off right away. I’m very proud of myself for that, getting on top of things is something in struggle with but I successfully batted aside my chronic depression for long enough to complete my assignment…. Now I just have to wait to send it off.

If all I get today is another blank envelope from a broadband company and a letter of sales bs from my bank I might just scream in frustration….

Luckily tomorrow is Halloween so if I do my neighbours will just think I’m practicing. Ha.

10-4 /

I finished My first draft of The Cedar Witch this morning, I also only went over my aim for 4 000 words by 200 so I am rather impressed with myself. I’m glad that I chose to keep out the hobgoblins because that not only would have added too much bulk but also it wasn’t relevant to the story. One brilliant thing I am learning the more I write is to control word vomit. Haha. Still, I will be keeping that bit about the hobgoblins for another story.

So what no? Well I’m gonna leaves for a bit, read it again with fresh eyes to make sure I am accurate with the tense and typos, then decide if I am brave enough to post it on wattpad. S between now and then m going to try and read up more on this whole electronic rights business…. Because if I am honest it still gives me a bloody headache.

If I post this story on a site like wattpad does that mean I can’t try and sell it to a magazine or ezine if I wanted to? What if I posted it to a blog?

The mind boggles.

10-4/