BOOKS FOR HOLIDAY READING

GOING AWAY? OR STAYING AT HOME?

Make time to read an enjoyable book, whichever you decide. Here are some suggestions for all of you, all on Amazon Kindle, some also as paperbacks:

THE MYSTERY OF CRAVEN MANOR (for 9-13 year olds). A boy and a girl trapped in a creepy manor house. Still a best seller.

ME, DINGO AND SIBELIUS. Penny Plain Charlie longs to find a partner, lose her virginity and make a success of her life. She achieves all three when she inherits a fortune.

NEVER SLEEP WITH A NEIGHBOUR! After a bitter divorce Ali is off men. All she wants is a quiet life in a quiet village to pursue her writing career, but her new neighbour has other ideas.

THE RELUCTANT BRIDE. A Will they, won't they? romance.

THE FLOATER. Short macabre stories for both sexes.

All available on Amazon http://www.amazon.co.uk/JOY-WODHAMS/e/B00C8T4WOQ/ref=ntathr_dp_pel_1

HOW TO INTRODUCE CONFLICT IN YOUR NOVEL

Here's a story:

Jess was a very pretty baby. Everyone admired her. As she grew, she made many friends. At school she was always top of the class. She left university with an excellent degree. She got a well-paid and interesting job and rose to become a director of the company. She married her childhood sweetheart who loved her to bits and they had two beautiful perfect children, who also did well at school and were perfectly sweet and well-behaved. They had a perfect house which never needed repairs, a car that never broke down. Nobody had a moment's illness. The story ends with Jess and her husband celebrating their silver wedding, surrounded by loving family and friends.

A good story? Interesting? NO!

All the way through such a story you're waiting (hoping!) for the Big Foot Up There to stamp down on them and disrupt their perfect life.

You can't sustain interest in a story or novel without introducing some form of CONFLICT, something to upset the status quo. It can take any number of forms. Here are some of them:

Another character, or characters, who is jealous, envious, hostile, more ambitious, unfaithful, dishonest.

A health problem, a crippling accident - to your main character or a loved one.

Loss of wealth, loss of job, loss of home, loss of a loved one.

External events - a terrorist attack, a murderer on the loose, floods, storms, war.

These are just a few suggestions.

Whichever you choose (one or several) your story will then show how your main character struggles with, and hopefully overcomes, the problem(s), becomes stronger and regains that perfect life.

A much more interesting story.

It doesn't have to be melodramatic. Here's a very simple and homely example:

Two newly-weds move into their first home, a ramshackle cottage on the outskirts of a village. They renovate it and live happily ever after. Where's the conflict?

a) Husband falls through the bedroom floor and breaks a leg

b) They find the cottage has dry rot and they have to move back in with Mum and Dad while it's being sorted - and while husband's leg is in plaster.

c) There's Japanese knotweed in the garden

d) Their planning application is turned down and they have to rejig it.

e) The work goes on and on and they become so exhausted they begin to squabble.

And so on, and so on.

This can be a warm and funny story, and the reader expects and knows there'll be a happy ending, but it's how your character(s) struggle with and overcome conflict and problems that will hold their interest to the end.

I NEVER KNEW FONTS COULD BE SO INTERESTING

A REMARKABLE BOOK

I picked up a fascinating book at a secondhand store. It's called JUST MY TYPE by Simon Garfierld and is all about fonts. No time to do more than dip into it at the moment but each time I do I get something of interest. For instance, John Baskerville,printer and creator of the Baskerville font (obviously), died in 1774 and his widow had the equivalent of a car boot sale and offered everything in his print foundry for £4000 including the matrices etc for the Baskerville font.
John Baskerville, at his own wish, was buried vertically in his mausoleum but was subsequently moved several times, ending up (horizontal) in a bricked up vault in Birmingham.There are sections on the 10 most popular fonts, the ten worst fonts, fonts to write a love letter, one called Jesus Loves You which incorporates thorns and barbed wire. The Sex Pistols publicity used Ransom Note, which is the one that looks as if every letter has been cut out of a different magazine or newspaper.And if you're into illustration or cover design there's an app called TypeDrawing which allows you to choose a font, colour and size, and use your finger to swirl the word patterns on screen to paint an object or picture.

SWITCHING GENDER

Male? Female? Or Even, One Day, Transgender?

I hadn't really thought about it before, but recently I realised that coming up to half my stories and novels  have been written from the viewpoint of the opposite sex, that is, from the viewpoint of a man or boy.

I can't give a reason, except that for certain themes and situations it seems to fit. For instance, in my short story THE FLOATER, an elderly man is on honeymoon with his very young second bride. In THE SMILE, an English couple are stranded in a remote Spanish village still adhering to the decrees of the Spanish Inquisition. The husband is the narrator.

In THE MYSTERY OF CRAVEN MANOR and THERE'S A LION IN MY BED!, both for Middle Grade readers, the main characters are boys of 11 or 12.

And in CABBAGE BOY, the novel I'm writing now,

the viewpoint character is a boy coming up to 16 years old.

So, a note to all writers: don't just accept that you have to write from the viewpoint of your own sex. If  your story needs it, try changing gender. It's easier than you think!

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.