POETRY AND PROSE

Once in a while I try my hand at poetry. It brings home the importance of valuing every word and ensuring it's the right one.

My father was Russian. He and his family escaped to England from St Petersburg during the Russian Revolution. It's quite impossible to research his background but it did inspire me to write these two short poems:

ROMANCE
The revolution brought my father to England,
Leaving behind the trampled glitter
Of the Russian court.
His stories recreated in my childhood mind
The romance of pale faced princesses
And surging cavalry,
Of royal forests
And gilded domes
And tables groaning with an orient
Of fruits and meats.
A world now buried forever
Beneath the crimson blanket
Of the Bolsheviks.
Now Russia is free again
But there is no romance on the street corners
Where the new Mafia holds sway
And Western evangelists prey
Upon a people desperate
For a new life.

TO RUSSIA WITH LOVE
Once, on the Steppes of Russia,
They slit the soles of prisoners' feet
And inserted stones.
The skin healed over the stones
But the captives could no longer
Walk without pain.
I was no captive.
I came to you willingly.
So why did you have to
Plant stones in my heart?
Now you will never know
If I stay for love
Or because it hurts too much
To run away.

BEREAVEMENT, AND THERAPY

WHEN A LOVED ONE DIES

It's nearly two months since I wrote in this blog. During that time my dear husband of 42 years died, and anyone who's loved and lived closely with another person for even a fraction of that time will know how devastating that can be. My family has been wonderful but inevitably they have to return to their own responsibilities, their homes, their children, their jobs.

So what is left?

I consider myself most fortunate that I have two major interests that bring purpose and pleasure to my life.

As a painter I've been able to lose myself in creating my latest 'masterpiece', slipping away even during my husband's last illness for brief moments at the easel, and already I'm planning my annual exhibition of paintings (in early December).

And as a writer I am never ever alone! The characters of whatever novel I'm currently working on buzz around in my head - a second family, some loveable, some not so much, but all interesting. Just yesterday I made a start on another project, a novel for children 10 to 13.  It will be called 'THE BOY WHO COULD FLY'.

I believe everyone's life is enhanced by having a creative outlet, and if it's one that involves other people - real or imaginary! - all the better. Art and writing are mine. Sport - active participation, not just watching a match on TV, garden design, cooking for others, tapestry or embroidery, breeding dogs, renovating houses - the list is endless. What is yours?

FREDDIE THE CROSS-DRESSER

THE DEATH OF FREDDIE KNIGHT

Another excerpt from ME, DINGO AND SIBELIUS - this concerns the death of Freddie, one of the residents at Russets Retirement Home.  If you enjoy it buy the book - all the royalties are donated to our local Radiotherapy Unit Appeal and the Prospect Hospice.

In the afternoon I visit the funeral parlour where Freddie's body has been taken. Over the years this has been the temporary resting place for several of our residents. Most recently, of course, Dingo.

I come to a halt in the doorway, overcome by memories and regrets.

'Miss Churchill? May I help you?' It's Mr Harris, who runs things here with his younger brother and his twenty year old son, Simon. I often wonder if Simon really wanted to be here, surrounded by dead bodies, or if he chose the easiest path and might one day rebel and run off to join the Army or run a bar in Thailand or even to drive coaches for Saga Holidays.

'I've brought clothes for Mr Knight,' I tell Mr Harris. I open the small suitcase and lift out one of Freddie's silky floral dresses. The turquoise and cream, his favourite, has been burnt. None of us at Russets could bear to see it again.

Mr Harris's eyes widen but he makes no comment.

'And these are the shoes he liked. Underwear, of course. Silk stockings, he preferred them to tights.' Last, I unwrapped Freddie's best wig, long, curly and blonde.

'Er - you don't think a nice suit would be more appropriate? Perhaps a white shirt? Striped tie?'

'This is what Freddie was, and his instructions, before he died, were very specific. I hope you don't have any objections, Mr Harris.'

'Of course not, Miss Churchill, we're always happy to follow our clients' wishes.'

'In that case - do you have anyone who's skilled with make-up - or would I have to arrange that myself?'

'No, no, we can do it. My brother deals with that aspect.'

I have a sudden mental picture of Edgar Harris, a heavy balding man in his fifties, bending over Freddie's corpse and daubing his face with thick white foundation, over bright rouge and lipstick, making him look like a clown.

'Freddie had excellent taste, Mr Harris. His make-up was always low key, discreet. Perhaps I should find someone -'

'It's entirely up to you, Miss Churchill, but I think you'll find most people would find the task a little - disturbing.'

I'd been thinking of Georgie, with a restraining hand from myself, but perhaps that might not be a good idea.

'Leave it with me for today, Mr Harris. I'll come back to you tomorrow.'

Back at Russets, Georgie was taking a break before starting the evening meal. Four large balls of pastry, wrapped in clingfilm, stood on one of the worktops, dusted with flour.

She got up and poured me a coffee.

'How did it go?'

'All right. Mr Harris was a bit startled when I showed him Freddie's clothes.'

She laughed. 'He would be - especially if he knew Freddie used to be a bank manager!'

'The thing is - I'm not happy to let them do his make-up. I - well, I was wondering if you'd be willing to - to -'

Georgie choked, spraying coffee over the table. 'Me! You're joking, of course. Freddie's dead, Charlie. He's a corpse!'

'I know,' I said unhappily. 'But he wanted to look just as he did in life. I can't bear to have him buried looking like the guy from the Rocky Horror Picture Show!'

'Who's going to see? I suppose the odd maggot might consider it a bit OTT, but really, Charlie -'

'Stop it!'

The stress of this day, Freddie's solicitor, his ex-wife, the funeral parlour - and now Georgie talking about maggots - it's all too much. I'm blubbing like a baby, letting out a long howl, and then Georgie's up and clasping me to her apron.

'All right, all right! I'll do it. But I warn you, I'll probably have nightmares afterwards!'

I rush to the phone and make the appointment before she can change her mind.

FROGS AND CONNECTIONS

FROGS AND THEIR PLACE IN A ROMANTIC NOVEL

Walking back from our local paper shop the other morning I found a fully grown dead frog in the road and stooped to examine him. He was perfect, undamaged, arms spread out, his little hands raised above his head. He even had little thumbs.

Made me feel quite sad and reminded me of the sad little frog in my novel NEVER SLEEP WITH A NEIGHBOUR! 

In this story my protagonist is children's author Ali, whose own protagonist is a frog. Here she is, reading out her newest story to a school hall full of kids, their Mums and teachers - and the man who's driving her nuts:

"In a very large house in Edinburgh there lived a very small frog called Juan Pablo Romero Delgado de Bona Villa."

Ali looked up from her reading and waited for the giggles to cease. The hall was full to the door, pupils sitting cross legged on the floor, teachers and several mothers on chairs at the rear. Ali hadn't realised her appearance would create such interest.
"Juan  Pablo Romero Delgado de Bona Villa was a long long way from home. He could still remember the brilliant colours, the heat and the sounds of the tropical rain forest where he was born and he missed them every day. He knew he was a Brazilian poison dart frog. He knew he was bright blue with black spots on his back. He knew he was quite handsome. What he didn't know was how he came to be living all on his own in a large glass tank in a house in Edinburgh.  And he was lonely. So lonely that he wept at night."

HOW WE VIEW OLD PEOPLE

CAN YOU SEE PAST THE WRINKLES?

In ME, DINGO AND SIBELIUS the main character is a young woman, the odd one out in her family, who inherits a fortune and buys the retirement home where she's been a care worker for five years.

The main theme, however, is the way older people are viewed and treated in these modern times.

There's lots of conflict, a touch of romance and a tragedy, but there's also a happy ending.

If you want to cheer up an older person in your family, this book could do it!

As with my previous books, my royalties are shared between our local hospice, our local hospital's radiotherapy appeal and MacMillan Nurses.

FROM SHORT STORY TO NOVEL

WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? AND CAN YOU TURN IT INTO A NOVEL?

You can't just define it by the number of words. In my anthology THE FLOATER the shortest short story is 513 words, the longest nearly 5000. The accepted maximum is around 10,000 words. Beyond that it becomes wearisome - unless you add several more elements and turn it into a novel.

Because the chief difference between a short story and a novel is that a story covers a single event, a single experience, a single incident or a single revelation. There are few characters, not much conflict and no sub-plots.

But although a short story has fewer words, it's not necessarily easier to write. It's a bit like composing a poem. Every words must count, must have significance. As for the endings! Ah, that can be the hardest task of all. An open ending? A closed ending? All the loose ends tied up? A full circle back to the beginning?

Here's my shortest story, A HICCUP IN TIME:

It took Dodwell six months to build the time machine. He had ordered it in kit form from Taiwan and the manual, translated into a quaint form of English, had severely taxed his limited knowledge of electronics.

His first trip had been a near disaster, catapulting him into his own bed some twenty years in the future.It had been disconcerting to find himself lying beside an older Dodwell and disappointing to find that his strict diet of sheep’s milk, yoghurt and oranges had not preserved him from thinning hair and a paunch. He would have liked to enquire further after his future health, but the older Dodwell’s bulging eyes evinced such terror that he had thought it best to mutter a quick “Sorry” and beat it for the door.

A pity about the little blonde who had dived beneath the sheets. Had he been able to stay longer he might have discovered her identity but at least he had something good to look forward to.

For the time being he would concentrate on his main interest: the great artists and performers of the past whose autographs he so desired to collect. The time machine was the instrument through which he would meet them in the flesh.

His second journey went only slightly awry. Whilst he had focussed on 1901 and the playwright George Bernard Shaw he arrived instead in 1999, face to face with Melvyn Bragg, a writer whose work still received occasional mention in the more comprehensive Literary Companions of Dodswell’s own time. Bragg had been pathetically pleased to give his autograph to a 22^nd century time traveller and Dodwell had managed to sell it on for a few Euros on his return.

Since then he had met many of his idols and rarely received a rebuff. Jane Austen had been amiable and courteous, Emily Bronte abrupt and a little puzzled. Nijinsky had taken some pinning down and of course there had been the language problem, but Pavlova, Caruso, Mark Twain, Laurence Olivier, Graham Norton – Dodwell now had them all.

Inevitably however the time machine failed, three days after its guarantee expired. It happened in London’s West End where Dodwell had popped in to see the 2013 production of The Book of Mormon.

No amount of twiddling or kicking would restart the machine, and in despair Dodwell was forced to retreat into its cabin, later suffering the indignity of being clamped.

Trapped in time, Dodwell prayed for deliverance but as the weeks went by he decided it wasn’t such a bad life. Most people were friendly. Those who had initially regarded him with suspicion decided he was harmless enough and began to bring him food, blankets, the Daily Mirror.

He became a fixture in the West End landscape, even meriting an article in the Telegraph Sunday Magazine. On fine days Japanese tourists surrounded him with their digital cameras, posing alongside his machine. Some asked him to pose with them. He always said yes. It gave him some amusement to picture the bewilderment on their faces when they saw the empty spaces on their photographs.

Now, could you turn this into a full length novel?

You'd have to add complications. Obstacles. More characters. An ongoing conflict or situation which is resolved at the end.

Perhaps Dodwell is not the only time traveller who's ended up in London in the year 2013. In this case the short story, perhaps minus the last few paragraphs, becomes the first chapter of a novel in which the two travellers meet up, struggle to find a solution to the problem, maybe fall in love if this is going to be a romantic fantasy, and live happily ever after as a tourist attraction.

Another alternative is that Dodwell - alone or with the proposed second traveller - decides to abandon his time machine, settle down in Bognor Regis and use his knowledge of the future to make a fortune and become Mayor.

Of course, the short story could become the final chapter. Perhaps Dodwell has an enemy in the 22nd century who wants to get rid of him and has programmed the time machine to expire in Leicester Square a hundred and fifty years in the past.

The possibilities are endless.

CREATING REAL, FLAWED CHARACTERS

Heroines Don't Have To Be Beautiful, Blonde and Boring

The journey of a plain girl through your novel can be far more interesting. In my latest novel, ME, DINGO AND SIBELIUS,  my heroine Charlie has become more lovable and more alive with each chapter. I'm really very fond of her and felt sad when I finally put her to bed! Perhaps I'll write a sequel one day.

Here's the first chapter. I hope you like it. 

It's Monday. And it starts like any other Monday.

Mum downstairs cremating breakfast. My sister Georgie and my niece Rosie screaming at each other in Rosie's bedroom. My other niece, Daisy, screaming for her morning bottle. The kitchen radio blasting out the Chris Evans Show. And me, grumpy because my hair drier, the only one in the house that still works, is missing.

Looking into the mirror I see my Dad. As usual. With the hair drier I might at least move up a notch or two on the charm scale.

'OK, who's got it?' I yell.

Of course, I already know. Rosie, who spends hours each morning creating elaborate hairstyles to impress her schoolmates. Is it worth marching into her bedroom and trying to claim it? I've tried that before and it's come down to a physical fight for possession which Rosie usually wins. It's surprising how strong a skinny twelve year old can be.

Right now her quarrel with Georgie is escalating. I can hear them through the thin wall.

'I don't care what the others wear, Rosie, you're NOT going to school in six inch heels! Apart from the fact that you'll probably break an ankle, you look ridiculous.'

'Everybody's wearing them, I'll be the odd one out.'

'I'm sure they're not. And you can take off those false eyelashes, too. They're mine, aren't they? For heaven's sake, you're twelve, Rosie.'

'And ten months. Practically a teenager!' Rosie's sobbing increases in volume, but it's not going to soften Georgie's heart.

Who'd be a Mum? Me, I admit. But fat chance now. Thirty two already and only one proposal to chalk up. Jason Fishlock, former handyman at the Sundowners Retirement Home. Clammy hands and a noticeable squint. He must have thought he was in with a chance, being that I wasn't likely to attract anyone else.

Pausing only to give my bird's nest curls one last despairing comb through, I grab my rucksack and run downstairs.

In the kitchen Mum, a vision of cool elegant efficiency, is stirring something vigorously in a large pan. A stranger watching her might assume she knew what she was doing, despite the scatter of eggshells on the floor, leaving slimy trails of albumen across the tiles. Once upon a time Georgie reigned in the kitchen, but that was in the days when she still had dreams of owning her own restaurant. Nowadays, leaving out Mum's occasional urge to cook breakfast, our family's diet consists primarily of tins, packets, takeaways and pizzas, unless I have a day off and I'm prepared to cook a meal from scratch. The irony is that the others appear to thrive on it. I'm the only one who ever gets zits or stomach ache or lank hair.

'I'm making scrambled egg,' says Mum.

'I guessed.'

She turns the pan upside down. 'Hmm. Seems to have set solid. Still, shame to waste it. Want some?'

'Just toast for me, Mum. I'm having lunch out.'

Her eyes turn bright with hope. 'Anywhere nice? Who are you going with?'

'British Home Stores, and Alice Howell. We're taking the residents on a shopping trip.'

'Still. You never know who you might see while you're out. You should wear that nice green jacket I got you from the charity shop.'

Yeah. The one that makes me look like a leprechaun's kid sister.

'Give up, Mum. I'm not likely to meet Mr Right in BHS or anywhere else. I'm past my sell by date and I look like – like - '

'You look very nice, love.'

Nice. Not beautiful. Not even pretty. Just – nice.

'If you'd do something with your hair, and maybe a bit of make-up?'

'It's no use. I'm never going to look like you or Georgie. I look like my Dad.'

'Your Dad was a very handsome man, God bless him.'

But handsome in a man equals plain, or at most, passable, in a woman.

No one else in the family has inherited Dad's genes. The hair, uncontrollable without half a pot of gel and half an hour of blow drying. The snub nose and wide mouth. The golden brown eyes that practically disappear when I smile. The lack of height.

Georgie and Rosie have blue eyes and slender figures like Mum. They also have Mum's long golden locks, like Rapunzel in the fairy stories. It's too soon to tell with Daisy, only ten weeks old and still bald as a coot. At the moment she looks like Harry Hill without the spectacles but no doubt she'll metamorphose into something blonde, slim and elegant like the rest of the Churchill clan.

I walk past the hall mirror without bothering to look. What's the use? I'm stuck with what I am. The ugly duckling. The runt of the litter. The one that's nearly but not quite.

And if I don't set off now, I'm going to be late for work.

WHAT CAN I WRITE ABOUT? - PART TWO

MORE WAYS TO FIND IDEAS

The bible is a never ending source of ideas. Conflict, love, war, domination, betrayal, sin, faith, temptation - how about a modern day Judas? A team of young men spreading the word about - what? A man - or woman - resisting temptation to give up or give in?
Take an emotional situation - bereavement, illness, homelessness, infidelity, envy - apply this to your main character and see what happens.
Just another handful of starting points for your short story or novel!

How about fairy stories? Hansel and Gretel? Jack climbing the ladder (of success) and finding a hostile giant at the top? Rapunzel locked in her tower - perhaps a young woman locked away in an attic. Update the characters, change the setting and you're away!

Think of a location - a prison,  a retirement home, a school, a hospital. What sort of characters will you find there, and what will they be up to?

WHAT CAN I WRITE ABOUT?

IS YOUR BRAIN EMPTY OF NEW IDEAS? PICK UP A NEWSPAPER!

If you're a writer and you're suddenly needing new inspiration, check out your local or national newspapers.

Not the inch high headlines but the small paragraphs that  are hoarded by editors to be used as fillers on their pages.

Odd, intriguing, funny or just plain weird, they're a wonderful storehouse of starting points for short story writers or novelists. 

Here are a few which I've keyed into my IDEAS file :

A FRENCH HUNTER HAS HAD HIS RIGHT HAND AMPUTATED AFTER BEING SHOT BY HIS DOG WHILE DEER HUNTING

BELGIAN WOMAN SETS OUT TO DRIVE 38 MILES TO BRUSSELS USING HER SATNAV,  ARRIVES IN THE CROATIAN CAPITAL ZAGREB 2 DAYS AND 901 MILES LATER.

PUB LANDLORD FINDS DEAD BODY OF REGULAR CUSTOMER IN THE GENTS' LAVATORY. FEARING THE POLICE WOULD CLOSE THE PUB FOR INVESTIGATIONS, HE HIDES THE BODY IN ONE OF THE PUB'S BEDROOMS FOR 4 DAYS.

AMERICAN FARMER EATEN BY OWN PIGS - here's one for the horror fiction writers. ALL THAT'S FOUND IS HIS SET OF FALSE TEETH.

COMA MOTHER LOSES 13 YEARS OF MEMORIES.

MOTHER RUNS BROTHEL TO PAY FOR CHILDREN'S SCHOOL FEES.

These are all genuine reports - mainly from my regular English  newspaper, THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.

And here's my own favourite, possibly my next project:|

WOMAN LEAVES NOTICE ON DOOR OF HER ANTIQUE SHOP - 'BACK IN 2 MINUTES'. THIRTY  YEARS LATER SHE STILL HASN'T RETURNED.

WRITING - IT'S ALL IN THE MIND!

If you're feeling bored and frustrated, with nothing to do except go to work, clean house, cook dinner, feed the offspring, feed the cat, walk the dog, weed the garden, mow the lawn, check the bank statement, watch Match of the Day or The Great British Bake Off, perhaps you need a new interest.

So, assuming you enjoy reading and managed to stay awake through at least a few English language classes at school, why not become an author? Writing fiction - creating fictional people, putting them into scary or crazy situations - is FUN, and a long long way from writing an essay on 'What I did during the summer holidays'.

Perhaps there's no risk of your becoming the new Stephen King, Katie Fforde or J K Rowling, but hey, who needs money? And no one's saying it's not hard work, but the enormous, amazing, fantastic pleasure is in creating a world from inside your brain that's totally different from anyone else's.

So, why not have a go? It's easier - and harder - than you think!