Madge's Musings 24th Day of Advent

 'The Winter festival is nearly upon us and the Guardian had a meeting outside the Citadel to remind us of the rules this year. No magic was top of the list but he managed to bang on about everyone taking responsibility. Not sure what for mind you, some folk haven't got an idea what it means, some don't care and the rest of us is getting on as best as we can.

I hovered around the fringes, keeping me eye open for them as wanted my services. I sold a few potions and got a few orders so not a wasted day. Myra Button wanted me to look at her grandson. Scrawny thing he is. They've always had trouble birthing boys. The girls arrive pink and plump and bawling, the boys never seem to thrive. I gave her a couple of politices to slap on his chest and muttered a few reviving words over him. Bugger this 'no magic' thing, that little mite needed some help. He may rally, who knows.

I'm off for a few beers in the local tavern tonight. Some singing too if we're lucky. There are some fine minstrels in Lunecaster this year and I hope to hear them. We don't have much music round my way but the festival usually brings out the best entertainment. 

I hope we see some fireworks tomorrow, even if they'll miss the usual magical touch. Although I may throw in a spell under my breath. No promises mind, I'm a law abiding old woman.' 

Madge's Musings 22nd Day of Advent

 'After much less beer and much more sleep I think I may have sorted out what Cecile's story is.

The Strigid were some of the first dwellers in Grimwise Forest. Unlike others they didn't live in cottages or caverns dug into the earth. They lived in the trees themselves, in the canopy or within the trunks of the older trees. They shared the wood using gentle spells, the sort that leaves the living being unharmed. It's some of the most ancient magic and some of the hardest to do. Always easier to bend someone or something to your will by force rather than consent. But the Strigid women are very good at ancient magic so they were able to make a home in community with the forest. 

This made them very popular with the trees but less so with some of the other inhabitants of the forest. Folk always seem to fear what they don't understand. Like the way the Guardian has banned magic, coz he don't understand it see. Never will properly, being a man and all. Anyway, the Strigid were viewed as strange or other and left alone mostly. Only trouble was the stories that folk told about them made them out to be dangerous. So whenever something bad happened in Grimwise the Strigid were likely to be blamed. Superstitious nonsense but often powerful nonsense.

Recently the new Dark Lord, him what rules over Grimwise, started rumours that the Strigid were plotting against everyone in the forest, stirring up nature against them. How daft. But sometimes folk will believe any old rubbish if they're scared enough. Cecile told me that there is a lot of fear in Grimwise since the rise of Warin. He's the new Dark Lord. She said he's cruel, rules through fear. All the gentle folk are scared that he'll turn on them. They are withdrawing, hiding in the darkest parts of the forest and staying out of Warin's way. Easier said than done in my experience. If the powers that be want to find you they usually have ways of doing so.

So Cecile was tending one of the trees, the one her family lived in. They need gentle words and spells regularly. And they need special herbs watered onto their roots. Cecile was watering when some of Warin's men came. She didn't hear them, so engrossed in her work. They started to mock her, teasing at first. Nothing she hadn't heard before. Then it got darker, threatening and she was scared. She tried to make her way round the tree so she could slip through the secret door but the men followed, circling round the tree and stopping her escape. She managed to slip away but they began to chase her. She crashed through the trees, hearing them moan as she did so. This hurt her. Not physically but in her heart. The Strigid women have a deep bond with the trees and Cecile was saddened by the damage she did to them.

She managed to find the edge of the forest, ran out into the light and fled across the Great Plain. She ran towards the walls of Lunecaster, slipping past a dozing guard. And the first person she bumped into was Sassy who gathered her up and then she ended up at my place. She saw something in me which told her I might be the person to turn to. The attraction of magic I guess. So we've formed a little bond of our own and I need to decide what we should do next. I'm worried that what's going on in Grimwise might be more serious than just tormenting some gentle souls.'

Madge's Musings 21st Day of Advent

 'We saw in the Solstice sitting on Granny's tartan blanket in the shadow of the city walls. I packed a picnic, lots of cake, beer and cordial and we watched as the watery sun rose and then vanished behind a cloud. Standard Solstice stuff really. Before the rain started Cecile told me a bit about herself and how she came to be hunted.

Turns out she's a Strigid. No, me neither. But she explained that her people lived in Grimwise Forest before the new Dark Lord arrived. They were some of the original forest dwellers, living in the trunks of trees and digging in the soft earth. For thousands of years they lived in harmony with the other forest folk and ... well I confess I dropped off at that stage so I missed the whole history of the Strigid. But it turns out that some people thought the Strigid brought bad omens. They wanted to drive them out of the forest but the Strigid were strong and cunning. Now the new Dark Lord had revived the old superstitions and Cecile had been seen too close to some dwelling and was chased.

I'm not explaining this very well, am I? Turns out the Strigid take longer to tell a tale than the Vikings. I got the gist of it, which is that Cecile's people are considered unlucky and if anyone catches sight of one of them they raise the alarm. So she was hunted out of Grimwise and is now hiding with me. Not sure what that makes me but I bet it ain't good.

We returned just before the heavens opened and Cecile went upstairs for a lie down. I headed for the workshop to consult Mother's notebooks. She knew a lot about the people of Astara so there may be something about the Strigid. Cecile might need an advocate when she talks to the Guardian about staying.'

Madge's Musings 20th Day of Advent

 'One of the downsides of being old is the insomnia. Bloody annoying it is. Now I can nap like a good 'un, close me eyes and I'm away. But at night, in me nightie under lavender rinsed sheets and mountain weight blankets I only manage a few hours and then I'm awake again, mind racing away. So I usually get up, make tea and spent a while thinking up new potions or salves. Good time for a rifle through Mother's notebooks too.

So last night it was normal for me to be fumbling under the bed for me slippers and cursing. I wrapped a blanket round me shoulders and headed for the kitchen. No sooner I've got the kettle on than there's a tapping at the window. I pull the curtain and there's those moon-like eyes and fringe out in the yard. Made me gasp she did but she was so still that there was nothing threatening so I lets her in. This time she agreed to a weak tea, as it's chilly out, and I cut two slices of cake just in case.

The fire was poked into life and we sat on opposite sides of the table and sipped tea. She licked her lips between sips like before and nibbled the cake. I let her settle and watched. Eventually she stopped sipping and sat in silence. I took this to be my cue.

'So, Cecile, what brings you back here in the middle of the night?'

I waited as she seemed to arrange her thoughts before speaking. Everything about her was slow and still. Not like most folk I comes into contact with so it was a refreshing change to wait quietly until she was ready to speak.

'I have need of shelter. I sensed kindness from you today so when I needed somewhere to go I thought of you. I am hunted you see. May I stay?'

She gazed at me, her eyes full of pleading and fear. I have seen fear before, anyone who remembers the Great Mage Wars does. But this was something different, something raw and animal. This girl was scared for her life, really scared.

What could I say? I made up a spare bed, made more tea and she's sleeping upstairs now as I sit and wonder who could possibly be hunting a child like Cecile. Tomorrow is Solstice. I hope the changing of times will bring some clarity.'

Madge's Musings 19th Day of Advent

 'Of course it was Sassy banging on the door. Come to let me know what she'd found out. Bought a friend with her, a tall slender girl called Cecile with moon-like eyes peering out from under her fringe. Didn't say a word and wouldn't have tea or beer. Finally got her to take a glass of cordial which she sipped, licking her lips between sips. Odd soul but harmless.

Sassy said that she'd heard from Harold that some more spies were being sent to Grimwise in the next days. Harold's brother, possibly called Addy, was volunteering to go. I snorted and told her what I thought of people who volunteered.

'Biggest bunch of fools ever birthed! Never volunteer fro anything, that's my advice. Only leads to trouble.'

Sassy wittered on for a bit while Cecile sipped and licked. I almost forgot she was there, blending into the shadows. If it weren't for the smell of the cordial she'd have vanished altogether.

I eventually got Sassy to stop talking, promised to visit with some potions next market day and ushered her to the door. As she pinned her second best hat on, feathers still drooping from the rain, Cecile plucked at my sleeve. Her voice was no louder than a whisper but thick and husky.

'Thank you for the cordial, missus. Most kind. I hope we meet again.'

They slipped out into the rain and the door swung closed. I was alone again with my own thoughts. Yet it was as if Cecile had never left. Her presence hovered in the shadows all evening until I closed the door and went to bed.'

Madge's Musings 18th Day of Advent

 'It's been tipping it down today so I've spent the time catching up on brewing and knitting. I think I've been sold some goat wool, it's rough as a badger's arse and don't knit well. If I could remember where I got it I'd go round there and box some ears. I'm not unpicking it, I'll turn it into a blanket and someone can have it for a present.

I occurs to me that I've been rabbiting on as if you know everything about Lunecaster when you might never have been here so I'll fill you in about my home. The Guardian, currently Randall, is in charge of things. They levy taxes, work out how the money gets spent, decide when we go to war. They're also in charge of all the rites and rituals of the city and it's their duty to celebrate all the festivals at the right times and with the right clobber on. The Elders assist in the rites, they're the holders of the sacred parchments and texts. They study the old scrolls and some of them do a bit of prophesy and divination on the side. The storytellers are the keepers of the old tales and stories, they take note of events and spin them into stories that tell the history of our city and land. Some of them can go into trances and use what they see there to clarify or explain. Edmund is the most gifted storyteller of his generation and can go into deep trances. I've heard that he once had a three day trance and woke up so hungry he tried to eat the scroll on his desk. I can relate to that, I've had naps that have left me starving. Not for dried up old scrolls though, tea and toast for me.

Lunecaster is a walled city and hasn't been taken by enemies for so long no-one is alive who saw that. The guard are charged with patrolling the walls and maintaining the gates, four of those at the four compass points. My brother Gilbert started his career in the guards on the West Gate, opening and closing it morning and night and standing to attention when the bigwigs arrived. He's moved into the barracks now and can have a bit of a lie in of a morning.

Across the Great Plain is Grimwise Forest. It's a dark, strange place and us city dwellers don't go there unless we have to. I sometimes forage on the edge but as soon as I gets too far in things get cold and eerie so I stay on the fringes. There's a new Dark Lord there, name of Warin. Don't know much about him but rumour is that he's more brutal than the last Dark Lord and he were a bugger and no mistake.

There's the mountains and the coast too but I'll tell you about them another time. Someone's knocking on the door so duty calls.'

Madge's Musings 17th Day of Advent

 'Change is a good thing most of the time, ain't it? At least that's what folk keep telling me. I must admit that when I change a potion and gives it more flavour people seem to like it. Maybe not the extra I charge for the new one though. I always like to check out anything new that pops up in the city and sometimes I have to admit that the change has improved things. But not all changes are good.

When the old Guardian stood down most people sighed and said about time too. He was getting on a bit, even from my perspective. His speeches were so rambling no-one could make 'ead nor tail of 'em. And he'd taken to wandering about at night wearing nowt but a robe and a silly grin. Poor old soul was deserving of his retirement. The city deserved it too, in my opinion. A new broom, we all said, needs to sweep through the Citadel and shake stuff up. Well, that's certainly happened and I'm not sure it's made things much better.

For many weeks the Elders debated who would make the best Guardian. I heard that their 'debates' were mainly arguments but so many of them are in my experience. In the end there were two candidates left. One was Theobald, one of the Elders who had been living in the Citadel for more years than anyone could remember. Truth is, he was much older than anyone else in the Citadel so no-one knew for sure how long it had been. I remember Mother mentioning doing business with him so he is certainly the oldest person I know living in Lunecaster. Everyone I spoke to couldn't see the wisdom in replacing one old fool with an even older one. As luck would have it the other candidate was Randall who I think I told you was a childhood friend of Edmund the storyteller. 

After a public vote Edmund was elected. The citizens loved his fresh young energy and the passionate way he promised that Lunecaster would never be second best. The youths in particular loved that, they always want to feel superior. And since his election Randall has been changing things, improving most of them to give him his due. But, according to Edmund, he's not feeling very secure in his position. Apparently some reports came out of Grimwise that the new Dark Lord was planning to take advantage of the new Guardian's inexperience. Edmund told me that nothing more specific than that was in the reports but Randall felt threatened and sent spies into Grimwise to find out what was planned. Only a few managed to get reports back to the Citadel, most vanished without trace and at least one escaped and was killed in the attempt to get back to the city. That was the last straw for Randall and hence the ban on magic.

Don't make much sense to me. That magic was used over in Grimwise, no link to us in Lunecaster. But that's where we are so that's how it is. Edmund warned me that Randall was unpredictable and that I should keep my head down and just concentrate on mixing a few harmless potions and delivering babies.

Don't know me very well, do 'e?'

Madge's Musings 16th Day of Advent

 'That all took longer than I hoped it would. Good job I took a good picnic with me, nobody offered me as much as a crumb until I got in to see Edmund.

Now you probably don't know Edmund but I've known him for, gosh, most of his life actually. I was friendly with his mother. She was a basket weaver, very skilled and I went to her stall every time I needed a new pannier or a wrap for a potion bottle that was more top class than the usual ones. We got friendly, both enjoyed a bit of a gossip and swapped tales of who was courting whom and whose wife didn't know about it. So I got to know her and her family. She was very proud of her son who was apprenticed to the Storyteller's Guild. He was a very bright boy and she was right to be proud. He was a quiet lad but always a keen observer of everything around him. If you got him chatting he could spin a yarn from the smallest thing. He once told a story about a goose that was chased by a three legged dog that he saw in the Citadel Square, had all the stall holders in stitches. We knew he'd go far.

And he has. He's one of the city's best storytellers, a real genius at dream stories and interpretations. Just the sort of person who would know what was going on at the higher levels of the city. He's a childhood friend of the current Guardian so who knows what they chat about over beer.

It took a long time to get to see Edmund, I had to call in several favours and then send a message reminding him of my friendship with his mother. But once I was with him he was warm and friendly, we spent a few hours chatting and reliving some interesting times with his mother at the market.

What he told me was chilling and told in confidence so I must think long and hard about how much I can share. Grab a beer or gin if that's your thing and I'll let you know what I think's happening in Lunecaster.'

Madge's Musings 14th Day of Advent

 'I didn't sleep well last night. Combination of too much thinking and too much gin. But I did come to a decision. I need to go to Storyteller's Keep.

Now those of you who aren't native Lunecastarians might not know what Storyteller's Keep is. Or even what a storyteller is so I'll try to fill you in. In Astara stories are vey important, more important than they are in other places. I know that most of you will have told stories to your little 'uns and most of you will have had stories told to you when you were little. In Astara we do that too, tell entertaining and teaching stories to our children. The mountain folk tell tales of the mystery of trees and what to do if you get lost in a snow storm; the coast folk tell stories about how to caulk your keel and what to do if swallowed by a giant fish; us lowland folk tell stories about haunted forests and the dangers of falling in the river. So far, so normal, right?

But there's more to our stories than just telling you useful stuff and making you laugh or scared. They contain real hard truths, the sort that you need to make the world go round. They are solid things that keep the past where it belongs and warns the future not to try it on. The storytellers are the ones who listen to the stories, shape them and find their true form, they listen to dreams too and tell you what they really mean. Not the rubbish that those painted trolls in tents tell you neither. The gritty, smelly, unpleasant truth.

So whatever is going on in Grimwise Forest will already be known to the storytellers. It will be written in one of their books and will have been shared in the telling. Someone will have had a dream about it and may even now be pondering its meaning. And that's the person I need to find.

So I'm packing some food and drink and heading off for Storyteller's Keep. It can take a while to find the right storyteller and persuade them to let you in on there secrets so best to be prepared. I'll take a cushion too, their chairs can be a bit uncomfortable after the first hour. I may be well padded in the sitting area but there's no point suffering for someone else's art.'

Madge's Musings 13th Day of Advent

 'Remind me to mind my own business! Next time I wants to know the story behind the gossip that is. I've just spent the night answering daft questions in the barracks. Like I was a common criminal, if you please.

I'd just settled down for an after dinner nap when the door gets the sort of pounding that threatened to have it off its hinges. I levers myself out of the chair and before I've got it open more than a crack, two guards are pushing their way in and both shouting at me at once. My head swivels from one to t'other, no idea which one to answer first. They grabs me arms and I'm frog marched - why do they call it that?- out of the house, down the alley and towards the barracks. In me slippers and indoor shawl! Bloody cheek.

At the barracks some bloke with a weepy eye barks at them and we hustle up stairs, down stairs and I swear along the same corridor twice until I'm shoved in a room and left alone. Well, you can imagine how I felt. Chuffing mad I'll tell you. How would they like it if someone did that to their mother or granny. By the time someone came to talk to me I'd built up a right head of steam I can tell you.

You'll never guess who it was? The fella with the eye patch from the riverside tavern! Turns out he's one of the Guardian's spies, watching for 'undesirable elements'. Well, I know I'm past me prime but that's just plain rude. I told him he's no looker himself and he bangs his fists on the the table and glares at me. Now a lesser woman would've backed down at this point. He had a great glare, really menacing but I've been glared at by experts in the mountains so I just leaned back in me chair and asked if an old lady might have a cushion.

Storms out he does, yells at someone outside, comes back banging doors and stamping about. 

'What were you doing consorting with Crafty Nick?'

I snorted and told him my consorting days were over. He's not amused, tells me he's got all the time in the world and stomps out. So I sits there until someone brings a cushion - tatty, smelly old thing which I chucks on the floor - and I waits. Every now and then he pops back, barks more questions which I refuse to answer and storms out again. Loads of energy these guards, must be all the square bashing they do. At one point he takes the torches away and sneers 'see how you like the dark'. No problem. I leans back in the chair and has a doze. He really don't know much about old women.

Eventually some bloke in a fancy coat and polished boots arrives, sits opposite me and asks the same questions only more polite like. He's bought tea too so I guess he was properly raised. I tells him I was passing a message from Crafty Nick's mother, I'd never met him before nor likely to again and could I go home now coz I'm stiffening up in this bloody chair. He smiles the way a lizard doesn't, taps the table and nods. Before I know it I'm getting the bum's rush and am standing outside the barracks in me slippers. 

Thinking about it now, although I'm still steaming, they must have checked me out and found out I was a harmless old healer woken suddenly from a nap who didn't know anything she shouldn't. If only they knew. I've forgotten more than most of them will ever know and that's a fact.

More importantly, I think there must be something more going on than I imagined. And I hate not knowing. But first I need to lower these aching bones into a hot herbal bath and ruminate with a few large gins.'

Madge's Musings 11th Day of Advent

 'No matter how long you live in a place there are always parts of it that you don't know or that you hardly visit. For me it's the wharf and riverfront.

My life doesn't take me to the riverfront much. I've delivered a couple of babies there but mostly I don't have need to go there. The riverside wharf where the goods from the coast are landed is a very masculine place, full of ropes and barrels and lawlessness. Not to say there aren't women down there but they're very secretive types and don't mix much with the rest of us. Many a young man has lost his virginity and sometimes more to the wharf women.

So for me to venture down to one of the riverfront taverns is a new experience. But I know that the bloke I want to speak to will be here some time today so I'm prepared to take a bit of a risk. Still got me knitting needles in me backpack though. Can't be too careful.

As taverns go it's not as seedy as some of those near the barracks. Clean floor and tables, good beer and cheap food. I settled in for a long wait, lit a pipe and huddled into a corner. Tried to look inconspicuous too. Never been very good at that, takes up too much space to blend in quietly. Also, there was a darts match going on and one of the women serving was taking bets and well, I got a bit carried away. Several bets later I was unofficial substitute for the home team and throwing at a double to win the match. So much for staying in the shadows.

After we'd celebrated our win and the beer was flowing I leaned on the bar and winked at the serving woman. Luckily I wasn't her type so there were no misunderstandings and she sidled over. I've always wondered why they spend so long polishing the glasses and was in half a mind to ask but stayed focused. I asked her if she had seen Crafty Nick. She raised her eyebrows, looked across the bar and nodded. Lurching against a wall was a skinny bloke, eyepatch, stains on his jacket. She shook her head.

'Standing behind him, the dark man.'

A dark, shadowy figure was standing in the doorway, pipe clenched between his lips, scanning the room. He didn't look very crafty but he was the one I needed to see. I pushed my way across the bar, brushing off congratulations and thieving fingers until I was standing next to the skinny drunk. Crafty Nick looked at me. I looked at him.

'Right, I want a word with you, Nick.'

I grabbed his elbow and propelled him out of the door into a back yard where the beer barrels were kept.  

'I want to know about spying in Grimwise. Word has it you do business with them and you know your way round the barracks. So, what can you tell me?'

Crafty Nick is one of those silent types, think they're all mysterious because they don't say much. Luckily I know how to get them to talk. Usually at the point of a knitting needle. And I may have threatened to tell his mother where he was hanging out these days. Don't matter how big or how old a bloke is, he still don't want to disappoint his mother.

Nick was good enough to tell me about the Guardian's plot to infiltrate Grimwise, plant spies there and bring the Dark Lord down 'for the glory of Lunecaster' as Nick put it. Glory be buggered! Stupid plan if you asks me. They're not stupid in Grimwise neither and it seemed that they'd already seen right through it. According to Nick there were still several spies in Grimwise and they'd stopped sending reports back. He'd know, him and his mates were tasked with picking the messages up from secret locations along the river. I made Nick promise to visit his mother and he made me promise to play in the next darts match. He'd bet his mother's house on another win so I guess I'll have to keep that promise.

What worries me is that if there are spies in Grimwise and they ain't sending messages anymore, we'd best prepare for more bodies. And that's something I don't want to see.'

Madge's Musings 10th Day of Advent

 'Let me stick the kettle on and I'll tell you about my trip to the Infirmary. Very illuminating, if you're a bit morbid that is.

How do you like your tea? Black no sugar, you must be from a coastal family. Us lowland dwellers like our dairy. Father took eight sugars, said tea wasn't tea unless  he could stand his pencil up in it. Mother hated how he stirred tea with his pencil but you can't civilise a carver so he said. Now I like a good slosh of milk but nothing more than a nip of whisky extra. Medicinal you know.

So I popped in to the Infirmary this morning and found Daisy and Dilys doing the rounds. Busy as ever. They were grateful for the potions and fussed about making me tea and the like. Rather embarrassing but I put up with it, they're a little over the top. I've known them since school and they've always been like that. Matching outfits, walking around arm in arm, keeping each other's secrets. We weren't friends exactly, too different I guess. But they were harmless and we moved in similar circles. In fact I think at one time my brother was courting both of them, maybe at the same time. But they were never going to give up their friendship for something as silly as marriage so all their romances fizzled out eventually.

They were most concerned about the banning of magic for healing. None of us was totally sure that healing was covered by the ban, it's all so new, but they weren't prepared to take any chances. So they were putting a splint on the broken leg of a lad who'd fallen out of an apple tree fetching his sister's kite from the upper branches. The boy was very distressed but his mother was almost hysterical. My fingers itched to wave the incantations over his skinny leg and knit the bone together but I knew I shouldn't interfere.

We went to the nurses' room and over tea and plum duff they told me about when the victim from Grimwise was bought in. 

'No doubt they were magical wounds,' said Dilys

'His face were half gone, melted like candle wax. Only a lad too,' added Daisy.

'What was 'e doing there? Nothing for a young lad over there. I only go when there's special herbs I need. Spooks me out does Grimwise. Too dark and closed for my liking.'

Daisy plumped up her cushions, shuffled down and leaned over for a whisper.

'Word is he was a spy! Can you believe it, Madge, a real spy. Lenny who cleans the wards says the Guardian has been sending spies into Grimwise to find out more about this new Lord they've got. Can't remember his name but you know the one.'

'So, Lenny says that they found out who he was and chased him from the forest, blasting him with magic. Getting stronger and stronger until they caught him real good and he died. Some of the guards saw what was happening, they brought his body back. Terrible for his mother.'

'Do you know her?'

They shook their heads, Daisy wiped a tear away and Dilys patted her hand. I said my goodbyes and staggered home with the empty potion bottles and jars clinking in my backpack. I've got lots of orders for potions and a promise not to use magic until we all know the full details of this magic ban.

So my next mission is to find out who this lad was and what he was doing in Grimwise. And I think I know who to ask.'

Madge's Musings 9th Day of Advent

 'Well I guess you're back to hear what Sassy Talbot told me. I hope you take disappointment well because it isn't very exciting.

Now as I understand it this gossip came to Sassy from her brother Harold who heard it from his mate Bill who got it from goodness knows who in one of several taverns he visited over the last week. So you can judge how reliable it is, I'm reserving mine for another day.

So whoever the story came from in the first place was wandering on the outskirts of Grimwise Forest minding their own business when they saw a group come out of the forest. They were scary and had weapons and ... well you can guess the rest. There seems to have been another person there but Sassy was vague about that. This second person antagonised the Grimwise crowd and they attacked him, using magic at one point and the person telling the tale had to drag the ruined body back to Lunecaster where the guards took over and the Guardian banned magic.

Oh, I can't be bothered with anymore of this rubbish! Truth be told, Sassy didn't have a clue and she just wanted to be centre of attention for a while. It happens to women like her when the lustre wears off I've heard. But it did get my curiosity going so I wandered off to the dining room in the Citadel and did a bit of eavesdropping. Halfway through my second pie I overheard a group of Elders disgusting the new orders from the Guardian. He's hosting a delegation from Grimwise soon and the magic ban is partly to stop them using it when they're in Lunecaster. 

A couple of guards sat at the next table and while I was dabbing the cake crumbs off my shawl they talked about the terrible burns that had been inflicted on the victims of the attack. One of them said he'd never seen anything that awful and his mate said that it was hard to believe what they bought into the infirmary had once been a man. Put me right off ordering another slice of cake that did. 

I've got some friends in the infirmary so I think I'll pop over tomorrow with some poultices and potions for them. Who knows what we may chat about?

So I'd better get some herbs infusing and check my stocks of oil of lavender.'

Madge's Musings 8th Day of Advent

 'Let me shove this shopping away and I'll let you know what's been going on.

I bumped into Sassy Talbot at the market today. Quite a feat as I did three laps of the bread stall to avoid her. I think she doubled back behind the leather stand when I was catching my breath. Had lots to tell me, she said, so we popped into a nearby inn for a little snack and a chat. What's the difference between an inn and a tavern? The prices. At an inn they wipe the bottom of the pie dish and charge you for the privilege. But the beer is usually better and the tables less sticky and wobbly.

Her name ain't really Sassy, it's Judith. She changed it so she'd sound more, well, sassy I suppose. She always thought she was that little bit more special than me, especially when it came to fellas. One time both had our eye on the same chap, Derek the Digger, lovely muscles and a fine head of hair. Saw him last week near Storyteller's Keep. Both have headed south and rest somewhere behind his belt buckle now. Anyhow, Sassy started getting frisky with him when he was with me at the Harvest Dance. Reckoned she was more curvaceous, had an hour glass figure and more to offer in that way than I did. I popped to visit the WC and when I came back Derek, Sassy and my pint had vanished. Saw him next morning in her kitchen with a soppy grin on his face and her father's mug in his hand. Didn't last. And he had the cheek to come sniffing round me again. Gave him purple hair and a limp for his trouble, only one using magic.

Anyhow, over a three pie lunch - two savoury, one sweet - Sassy told me what her Harold had heard from Bill in the herb garden. Sounds dodgy but they're both gardeners and it's mulching time. She spent so long plucking at the sleeve of me cardie that she found the loose thread where I caught me sleeve on a bramble in Grimwise Forest doing a bit of foraging last month. Kept pulling and pulling until I had me elbow hanging out. Too far gone for darning which is why I found myself sitting here with a mug of gin, unravelling a perfectly serviceable cardigan and finding new rude names for Sassy Talbot.

And once I've finished all three I'll tell you what she said.'

Madge's Musings 7th Day of Advent

 'It's really weird me chatting away here and not knowing if anyone is out there listening. But as long as it don't mean I've lost me marbles I'll keep going for a bit longer.

Do you believe in the power of dreams? I don't usually hold with soothsayers, seers and the like but there may be something in it I guess. As long as you don't think that dreaming about numbers means you're going to get a sudden windfall or that spotting green hat means you'll meet a leprechaun. By the way, if you do meet a leprechaun and he invites you out to tea make sure you get separate bills. A friend of mine got stung for a huge bill when she didn't notice all his mates buying beer and expensive bar snacks while they chatted. Mind you she was trying to sell him the fishing rights on a river that doesn't exist at the time so she should've known better.

So, back to the dream. Last night I woke with cold feet and a dry mouth with the most vivid memory of a dream. I often have great dreams but not the sort that I remember for long after waking. This one was about several people getting ready to move from one home to another. They were packing stuff up, moving furniture and the like. There was an older woman who wanted to go with them but they kept putting her off. She gathered all her stuff in a bundle and followed them to a boat, one of those paddle steamer things but she couldn't get on. As the boat began to move she cursed it and chucked her bundle into the water. I woke up then but something about it seemed important. Maybe I forgot a piece of the story, maybe I remembered it wrong. But it's bothering me today and I'm finding it hard to focus on potions. So I've left the workshop and I'm trying to find that bloody pamphlet about dreams that I picked up on a trip into the mountains. But I did some clearing up some months ago and stuff ain't where I left it.

So, here I am, cross-legged and stiff on the floor with me lap full of papers and dust. It'll take me a few minutes to get going again. Then I'm off to the tavern for a few beers and a pipe. Fancy coming with me? Your round first, mind.' 

Madge's Musings 6th Day of Advent

 'How long are you expecting me to do this? I've got other things to get on with you know.

Well, if I must keep going ... Today's been a quiet day. Most taverns have closed and there ain't a market today so most folk spend the day with family. Not a tradition I hold with, not with my family anyway.

I'll tell you something about my family. We don't speak much these days. In fact I can't remember the last time I heard from any of them. Not that I'm much better at keeping in touch so I don't blame them. When Mother died the glue that kept us together peeled apart and we all went our own ways. Father fell into a dark place and none of us could reach him. One day he turned on me and sent me packing. I've been on my own ever since. Got a few friends but no-one really close.

I don't blame him for it, I was very much my mother's daughter and the magic had taken her. He couldn't stand to look at me and be reminded of her. So I left, or more accurately I was kicked out. My brothers stood aside and waited for the dust to settle. I'm not sure what happened next, I was out of the loop see. But when Father died they sold his workshop and that was the end of that.

I see Gilbert when I have occasion to go to the Citadel but apart from a greeting grunt we don't speak. I guess he still feels as Father did. Magic took Mother and I'm a witch so I must be partly to blame for her death.

Nonsense of course. If she hadn't gone to fight in the Great Mage War she'd never have been killed. Obvious. Also obvious, it wasn't nowt to do with me, a small child with no influence over anyone. But grief can make the sanest, kindest of men into a madman. 

Anyhow, that's all I've got to say about that now. Time for a cup of tea, a couple of slices of cake and a snooze before I work out what I have to do next week. So off you pop and leave an old woman in peace.'

Madge's Musings 5th Day of Advent

 'It's amazing what you can learn in a few hours down the local tavern over a beer or two. Someone always seems to know something interesting and if you're good at nodding and tutting you can get all the gossip and scandal. So I thought I'd pop me second best shawl on and listen in while supping a couple of Danny Light's better beers. You have to know that he waters the beer and know the name of the wench he doesn't want his mother to know he's been seeing before you get a decent pint.

Anyhow, it turns out that this magic ban is more serious than I thought. It's not the first time magic has been banned in Lunecaster. After the Great Mage Wars the Guardian banned magic from being used within the city walls. Some of the wounds that were inflicted were terrible. Or so I heard, I was only a girl when the Great Mage Wars were happening so I didn't see much. Mother told some tales when she'd had a beer that made me rather queasy but as I say I didn't see anything myself. Although magic wasn't allowed in the city everyone knew that some had to go on, for healing and the like, otherwise we'd have been patching folk up with bandages and poultices the old fashioned way. That was the old Guardian in them days. He knew that some magic was important and turned a blind eye to it. Some folk took liberties but mostly people were sensible. It was mainly fighting magic that was banned.The sort that made people's arms vanish or their heads shrink. Good job too, nasty stuff fighting magic.

This new Guardian, well he's very young and new to the position. He's banned all magic, no exceptions. Technically that means I'm not allowed to use magic when making my potions. Now no-one will suffer if the love potions stop working but there are more serious things than whether some young folk can get to snog the object of their affections. There are potions and spells that keep people healthy, keep the mad from hurting themselves, keep the dark thoughts away. Some of the old folk who lived through the Great Mage Wars need their little bit of magic to keep the nightmares away. And there's many a lass who's grateful for the soothing power of magic when her time comes and the baby's on the large side.

So all the talk at the tavern was about what we'd do if we couldn't use magic anymore. Danny Light spent a fortune on having the curse removed from his bar and he's worried that if magic stays banned someone who takes exception to his weak beer might curse it again. I'm more worried what will happen when I runs out of potions and need to brew again. Because if I can't use magic I've got no way to make some silver. And then who's going to put bread on my table?

Some of the more heated patrons at the tavern are thinking of going to the Citadel to petition the Guardian. Us old 'uns sucked our teeth - if we still had them - and cautioned against. Folk are getting twitchy and the Guardian isn't likely to welcome delegations. Some of the guards are a bit trigger happy too, too fond of a ruck as it happens. My brother among them. I kept quiet. If they knew I had a brother in the guard they'd want me to go see him. We don't speak see, not since Mother died and he sided with Father. 

I have a feeling things will heat up in the next few days. Lucky for me I've got a stack of herbs to dry and store. Keep me out of circulation until things calm down. Nothing as soothing as dubbing dried herbs between your hands. Maybe we should all try that rather than getting agitated.'

Madge's Musings 4th Day of Advent

 'Well, I managed to get all those pesky potions sorted. Thankfully they don't weigh too much, arms aren't as strong as they once was. Terrible thing about getting old, everything starts to give up on you. Not all at once. Not like a powerful curse. Just bit by bit, every day a little weaker, a little slower. Still, there are compensations. Never heard so much gossip as when the hair went greyer. Everyone wants to tell you every little bit of tittle tattle. If you knew what I know ...

Anyways, the fire's banked up, the tea's brewed and I've got me slippers on so I'll let you in on a secret.

Those love potions? Flavoured water most of 'em. Drop of blackberry syrup, touch of fennel juice, no-one's any the wiser. And I don't guarantee results so it's not my doing if they don't always work. Course I do pop a genuine one in each batch. Well, would you order from someone if there were never any results?

I don't believe in messing with stuff like that, love and the like but they're my best sellers. And if the plain daughter of the baker wants to waste her silver on the vain son of the builder, who am I to object? Although that one turned out to be a good one and he still don't know how he ended up married to her and her dreadful family. Buy your bread elsewhere I say, they put chalk in the flour. But she's as happy as can be, all puffed out with pride, three little 'uns and another on the way by the look of her. New bonnet last weekend too. I worry that he'll end up worn to a shadow though, dark marks under his eyes these days.

But, as I say, not my worry and that's a fact. I just give the people what they want.

Everyone said that it was a love potion that trapped Mother. Why else would a mountain girl with magical powers marry a carver without his own workshop? Well, the truth is it was just love, the true and pure sort. It did make folk wonder though. Mother was a real beauty, taller than most mountain women, golden hair and hazel eyes, slender in the waist and sweet natured until roused. Father couldn't help but fall for her he always said. She took his heart and wrapped it in her own. Father was a short man, like myself, and stocky in build like many carvers. A strong base for moving timber about he said. He could tell when a tree was ready just through touch, feeling the sap flowing under the bark. Knew just by looking at it what it would carve into as well. A real artist in his own way.

Between them they made a strong couple. Her magic and beauty, his strength and stability. Much better than if they had been matched by magic, they were matched by nature.

Now, if you don't mind I need a snooze. So off you pop. Take a potion with you, slip it to your beloved and see if it's a fizzer!'

Madge's Musings 3rd Day of Advent

 'Well that was bloody annoying. All that thinking about Aunt Bertha and now I'm behind with potion brewing. I'm supposed to have this batch of love potions ready by tomorrow so I'll be having a late night in the workshop.

I found Aunt Bertha's notebook after moving several boxes. Never had much organisation in the house so it took a while to find them but they were under a box of bottles I'd moved from my Father's after we parted ways. Anyway, once I'd found them I spent more time than I should have reading through and remembering.

That side of my family are, well my Father never got on with them so we didn't see them very often. Mother would take us to visit when the weather allowed but the mountain people were mysterious and therefore very attractive. I'm not sure if you know this but magical abilities are passed from mother to daughter so it was from my Mother's mountain family that I got my magical ability. When Mother left her family to marry Father she cut herself off from that life but she made sure that we knew where we came from. As her daughter I always knew the importance of the bloodline. My brothers were more interested in Father's family and the wood link. Father was a carver and had sap in his veins, which my brothers loved and wished they had his talent.

So, there I was rifling through Aunt Bertha's notebook and thinking about my visits to the mountains when I dozed off. I dreamed that I was visiting, I dreamed I tasted my Grandma's flat bread and Luka's fruit beer. It was a good dream. Except when I woke up my neck was stiff, my knees were locked and the fire had gone out. So I am behind with my work, I'm cranky and I have nothing to say to you. It's your fault for making me think of this stuff anyway.

Shove off now, I'm busy and you're in the way. Come back tomorrow and I may have more time for you.

And close the door behind you!'

Madge's Musings 2nd Day of Advent

 'So, let me get these boots off and I'll tell you what I found out. Blessed if I know why you're interested but there we go.

Market was crowded today, pushing and shoving. Took all the strength in my pointy elbows to get through. Anyway I finally found someone who knew what was going on and over a beer - or three! - I got the story out of him. Seems that some folk came down from the mountains to cause bother, someone got hurt and the Guardian got scared and banned magic. Well that's not a very good explanation so I decided that a trip to the Citadel was the way to get some more reliable information.

Now, I need tea, so you'll have to wait.

Right, where was I? The Citadel, that's right. The problem with getting into the Citadel is that there are guards everywhere. That problem can be made to go away if you know a little magic and a few of the guards. In the basement is a small dining room, good cake and the gossip is first rate. So I found a corner table and listened. Three slices of cake later and I knew what happened.

Mountain people are misunderstood in Lunecaster. Everyone thinks that they're savage and brutal. Truth is, most of them are but they're also great company and master brewers. The best beer I ever tasted was when I went to my cousin Luka's wedding. No hangover either. That side of the family don't come down from the mountains very often but Aunt Bertha has been known to visit. She's the sort of witch I'd love to be, really creative and boy, can she curse. If you ever get cursed by Aunt Bertha you stay cursed. See that doorstop? That was my second, no third cat and it scratched Aunt Bertha. Turned it to stone without even blinking. Great witch.

Anyhow, seems that some of the mountain folk were gathering something on the edge of the forest, disturbed something and there was a huge battle, proper magical one too. Reminded the Guardian of the last days of the Great Mage War and he suddenly banned magic and that's where we are now.

Stupid if you ask me. Not that anyone ever does, old women are invisible these days. Not like during the Mage Wars when crones were valued. So now we're not supposed to do any magic, 'on pain of banishment' according to the posters. And I've got all these potions to finish. So, I may bend the rules a little and hope no-one notices the Veil of Unseeing I've draped over the workshop.'

Madge's Musings 1st Day of Advent

 I wanted to steal an idea from other writers and write a story in episodes over Advent. However, as is often the case with my ideas, I have failed to come up with a good story idea! 

So I thought I'd throw my blog over to the protagonist of my much re-written novel, currently called Lunecaster. She's full of interesting things and thoughts and will have no trouble coming up with something to say. Without further ado, here's Madge.

'Before I start, and I think it's a daft idea anyway, let's get one thing straight. I'm a witch. Now I know that the correct term round here is 'enchantress' but those who know me will tell you that I'm rarely enchanting. I'm a proper down and dirty, messy, murky witch. No pointy hats or cats neither. I prefer a good solid bonnet and cats keep leaving me, probably because I forget to feed them.

I can't imagine what you think I'm going to write, I'm far too busy for literature. These potions won't brew themselves, you know. And don't get smart and tell me to make 'em with magic either! That's a very old joke. 

Things are very touchy round here at the minute. Directives flying from the Citadel every day and no-one knows whether we're coming or going. I'm keeping me head down, don't need no trouble at my age, which is none of your business. I've seen it all before. But this time, I don't know, feels different.

Just so you know, the last directive, signed by the Guardian and the Council of Elders said that magic is now banned in Lancaster. Bloody cheek! I'm off to the market to get the gossip so I'll fill you in tomorrow. Now, where did I put my shawl...?'

New Beginnings

 The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many things,

Of shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings.

This year, as I'm sure you've noticed, has been different.

We're all adapting and finding things out about ourselves and nothing is quite as it was.

Along with many others I have been unsettled by events, pulled out of my comfort zone and forced to look at things anew. One of the ways this disruption has manifested itself for me is by an inability to concentrate. I have found it very hard to read, only completing three books since March and failing to get my current book started properly. I have also found it difficult to write. A couple of short stories and several abortive beginnings are all I have to show for this year.

All this saddens me. Reading and writing have always been my solace, my safe haven and my way to express myself. To lose these has been hard and has left my mind fuzzy and woolly and dull. I don't feel like myself and I'm not sure who I do feel like either.

Luckily November is looming and I have decided, for better or worse, to attempt NaNoWriMo once again. I have an idea for a story about a girl and a locked room which I hope I can get a rough plan together for and then it's off with the writing. Assuming that the Covid gremlins don't pull me down I will return to a regular writing habit and flex my imagination once again.

Fingers firmly crossed, of course!

I Can Achieve Anything - I Think.

So, about ten days ago I had a story published in an anthology, Heartache and Hope published by Birch Moon Press. If you'd like to buy a copy it is available through their website https://birchmoonpress.co.uk/

But this isn't a post about that.

Since the anthology was published I've spent a lot of time thinking about what this means for me. I have long held a dream that one day I would have a piece of my writing published somewhere. And now Birch Moon Press have made my dream come true.

Is that the end of the story, the end of my dreams? Hell no!

The fact that something I wrote was 'good enough' to be published has given me huge amounts of confidence. I now have something I can point to when submitting my work, when talking to people about my writing. It all feels real and professional and, quite frankly, bloody awesome!

I now view my writing as something which I can really do, something that has merit and value and that I can share with others. I have been writing bits and bobs since Heartache and Hope was published and I have found myself looking at these bits of writing as things which will one day have a life away from my laptop, a life all of their own. I am now so fired up to write, to submit, to enter contests that I hardly recognise myself. But that is the joy of confidence. It takes you to places you never thought you'd visit, it fills your heart and mind and makes all things possible. For the first time in my rather long life I know that I can do whatever I want, whatever I wish with this creative gift I have .

I can achieve anything if I want to. Now to decide what it is that I want ...

A 'Thank You' to Birch Moon Press

Yesterday a long held dream of mine came true.
I am now a professionally published writer.

At the start of lockdown a group of six women writers and artists had an idea to compile an anthology of work responding to the pandemic. They wanted to see what women thought of the virus, the way it altered all our lives and what if anything we could learn from this experience. Birch Moon Press was born out of this and I submitted a story for the anthology.

These women, and many more besides, met through a Facebook group. We have become friends and have even managed to meet up in real life. I am in awe of the way they juggle families, careers and creative endeavours and their support for all women is a wonderful thing. I have learned so much from all of them and am honoured to call them friends and fellow creatives.

Yesterday the anthology was published and you can buy a copy here https://birchmoonpress.co.uk/

I would like to thank Maddy, Nikki, Sophie, Alice, Chrissie and Renee for bringing this wonderful enterprise to life, for supporting me as a writer and for being my friends. What they have done for me is truly life affirming. If I never have another thing published I will be content. One of my stories has gone out into the world and that is enough. My words and ideas are living independently of me and I'm as giddy as if my son had become President of the World!

A dream come true indeed.
Now, maybe I need to write another story that I can release into the wild ...

How does it feel to have a story go out into the world?

I'm new at this. Today, for the first time, one of my stories is out in the big wide world.
Really out there. Not being read by friends and family, out there for strangers to read.
How do I feel about this? Good question.

I suppose as a writer that should be my goal, to share my work and my stories with everyone. But so far that hasn't happened. I have sent things to contests and agents but nothing has made it any further than cyberspace and emails.

Today is different. Today an anthology of work is published by a new small press and I have something included. So somewhere, sometime, someone I don't know is reading my story. And I'm so nervous about that.

The chances of anyone telling me what they thought of my story are slim. I'm one of many and any feedback will probably be for the whole body of work. So I will have no idea what they thought of my story or even if they thought about it at all. But even so, it's out there, on it's own, finding an audience.

So I guess I have to embrace the weirdness and enjoy the feeling that I am a real, proper writer at last. I have a story to tell and there are people reading it as I type.

If you want to read the anthology, and I hope you do, you can download it from https://birchmoonpress.co.uk/
There is a variety of work, reflecting on their experiences of the pandemic. I am proud to be included, such talent and range. All the proceeds are being donated to https://rosauk.org/ who support women and girls through grants to make the UK a kinder, safer place for women.

I'd love any feedback and promise to reply if you comment.

What to do with a homeless story

So a while ago I finished writing a novel/novella. 56,000 word fantasy novel. And I spent several months sending it to any agent I could find who had an interest in fantasy. 

You've guessed what happened next: nothing. No interest at all and the novel lies dormant on my hard drive. Now, why am I not sending it out to other agents? Well, the truth is, I'm now writing something else in a different genre and it's much more the sort of thing that I want to write.

So why did I write a fantasy novel in the first place? It was a product of an odd conversation and NaNoWriMo. And when it was done I thought I should give it a chance in the big wide world so I went down the traditional publishing route and hit a dead end.

I know that most manuscripts don't get representation and most end up on the hard drive of death. But I want my little story to have its moment in the sun. So my dilemma now is do I self publish via Amazon and see if anyone will part with a few quid for it or do I break it down and publish as a series here or on Canelo? And how do I ever think up a good pseudonym to use on Amazon?

Help!

So, who is this person?

One of the lovely things about being a writer is getting to invent people. When I start a story I usually have a really clear picture of the main character. I know their name, what sort of person they are, little details about their background. I even go as far as to know what they'd have for breakfast or if they prefer tea or coffee. Details like that rarely make it into the story but they mean that the character is 'real' to me and I feel able to tell their story.

But sometimes there is a character who hides in the shadows, who won't reveal themselves to me as I begin. The novel I'm writing at the moment had such a character. I had a name for them and a vague idea what they were like but so much was hidden. Even as far as their physical appearance. Is she tall? Thin? Blue eyes? Nothing seemed 'solid' about her. She was like a ghost. How do you write about a character that hided from you?

But then suddenly she stepped out of the shadows and stood there clear as day. From the depths of my memory came the figure of a Great Aunt who was just the type of person I needed my character to be like. A few alterations and she was perfect - not my Great Aunt, my antagonist. She arrived with a full set of quirks and foibles and waited for me to bring her into the story.

So maybe all the characters are there in my head already, standing in the wings, waiting for their cue. No wonder I'm so flaky sometimes: my head's full of people jostling for their moment in the spotlight.

Book Review - The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker

Hello much neglected blog readers. I realised that it's ages since I did a book review and I've read some cracking stuff lately so I'm popping a quick review of the book I finished last night up here. Hope you enjoy it.

Who doesn't know the story of the siege of Troy and the beautiful Helen? It's a tale that we were told as kids and we've also probably seen a film or two about it. Some of us may even have read The Iliad - most probably in translation. I read it a few years ago and found it hard work, so many strange names and so many lists of terrible ways to die. But it's a compelling tale of love, lust and power so I guess that's why it's lasted through the centuries.

Pat Barker tells the story from the point of view of the women. But not the powerful and beautiful women, although some of them used to be like that. This is the tale of the women who are captured and enslaved by the Greek army as they besiege Troy. The protagonist is Briseis, who was a kings daughter and married into royalty before the Greeks overthrew her home . She was given as a 'prize' to Achilles, the great Greek hero of The Iliad. We learn of her life among the other enslaved women, how they serve their captors and watch as their homes burn. We see the great Greek heroes through her eyes and they don't often look very heroic.

We also see things from the perspective of Achilles who lives to fight, lets his pride rule his head and loses all he loves as a result of his stubborn decisions. He's not a likable character but it is easy to see that things turn out they way they do for him because of circumstances beyond his control. For this is a world ruled by gods, fate and destiny. Achilles knows his fate and seems powerless to change it, in fact he doesn't seem to want to even if it means losing the one mortal he loves.

There are some gritty descriptions of the brutality of war both on and off the battlefield and there are tender moments that brought a tear to my eye. Pat Barker's style is very readable and I loved that as a contrast to the rather lofty translation of The Iliad I read previously. She keeps the pace going and I was eager to find out what happened next despite it being and old, well told story. I have yet not read anything else by her but will certainly look at her previous work and see what other tales she has to tell.

Times They Are A Changing

It's hard to know what to say at the moment. Things are odd and people odder. Whichever way you turn there is someone screaming that it's all too much, they can't cope, it's not fair. And so you turn away and there's another person shouting that everyone's being selfish, why can't the schools re-open, how are they supposed to manage if they can't see their mates.

And on and on and on.

I try to hold on to the little moments of kindness, the little moments of joy in this chaos and drown out the noise with bird song. I've been planting seeds and am enjoying watching them germinate. Hopefully if I look after them and the slugs stay away we will have some lovely veggies to eat later in the year. I have been planning a new book and enjoying the process of stepping into a new story.

So we soldier on, following the rules and hoping things will soon improve. Stay safe and look after your loved ones.

Difficult Times

I have thought long and hard about whether to write this post. Things are so difficult at the moment and I'm no sure that I have anything useful or insightful to add. But there is no denying that things are strange and worrying so I decided to share a few observations here. 

I have no special insight, it goes without saying. I'm an average citizen trying to get on with things in the face of everything. I am coping, as we all are, but I am not thriving. I don't suppose many of us are. Things seem to change on a daily basis and we are all struggling to know what to do or who to believe.

I am in a fortunate position compared to many. My loved ones are well, looking after themselves and staying strong. I have no close elderly relatives to fret about. In fact, my OH and I probably are the elderly relatives! But I am aware all the time that others are worried and frightened about their loved ones and I feel great compassion for my friends who are suffering. These are difficult times for all of us.

I am also fortunate that I have no school age children whose education is being disrupted, who are worried about exams, who are worried about friends and family and looking to me for reassurance.  My OH is working from home and we are safe and well. Fingers crossed it stays that way but as we are all generally healthy we hope that if we do get ill it will be mild and over quickly. I am thinking all the time about friends who are not so fortunate, who are feeling stressed at the moment and may not be managing as well as we are.

However, I do feel the stress, the anxiety and the worry. It's so hard to step away from the rolling news of doom being played out on screens everywhere. I feel the strain on my mental health building and am mindful of the need to step away, to breathe, to refocus. I am choosing to stay at home, to isolate myself from others despite not being ill. I might be contagious and not know it so it seems like a wise thing to do. But if this goes on for a long time I can see it having a negative effect on us all. We are social animals, we need face to face interaction with others and not just through screens. I am grateful for the technology that allows us to connect while we isolate but I look forward to coffee with a friend and a good gossip, to laughing and hugging again.

We are all making sacrifices at this time. It may get worse before it gets better and that is sobering. How long we will have to live isolated lives is uncertain and for many that is another source of stress. Plans are being cancelled and lives put on hold. 

But there is light even here. I have been struck by the blossoming of creativity from many.  People sharing stories, drawing classes online, virtual choirs, old favourite TV shows popping up on iPlayer. There is so much goodness, kindness, loveliness emerging it gives me hope. I hope that we don't lose it when things go back to 'normal'. Do we even want the old normal back? I'm not sure I do. stepping away from the madness should give us time to decide what is important in life, what we really need to thrive. This could be the time to re-evaluate. I do hope so.

So, a few thoughts. My two penn'orth. I wish all my friends good mental and physical health. Keep those you love safe and cherish them. We are learning that life can be fragile. The things that matter are the people we love, our health and well being. You can't buy them but it is easy to take them for granted. Let's relearn how to value each other. Let's weather this storm and come through it more whole, more mindful and more considerate than we entered it. 

The Shock of Success

One of the things that is so strange about being a writer is how solitary it can be. You sit in a room at a laptop or huddled over a notebook, creating characters, making up stories and plotting them out. You spend hours, days, weeks, months, even years getting things written and polished until you are happy with the result. The brave among us then find a potential home for our work and if we're lucky we get the work out into the world and it finds some readers. For the rest of us, the work sits on the hard drive or in our notebook, unread and unseen. Most of the time I am the latter, a secret horder of work which no-one ever sees.

But I do love a Twitter writing competition. So I often compose something in response to a Twitter prompt and let it loose, never expecting anything more than a few kind comments and a couple of likes. So imagine my shock when this week I took part in a prompt set by Curtis Brown and I won! I was so stunned that at one point I was nearly reduced to tears. That something I had written and touched people and been deemed to be the best was so amazing to me. Not just anybody either, these were industry professionals, people who know what they're talking about! In life I've got so used to not coming top in anything that I don't quite know how to process what happened. I am obviously delighted and have found it hard to keep the smile off my face all weekend. And to add to the loveliness there is a prize of a place on one of Curtis Brown's wonderful writing courses. I'm still deciding which one to take but what a lovely dilemma to have. 

I have been thinking about my reaction to the success of my little Twitter tale. As someone who has never risen to the top I was so surprised I had to check several times that I hadn't misread the tweet. I found it hard to speak. In fact I had to show my family the tweet as I found it hard to articulate what had happened. Why should I be surprised at my success? Well, as I've said, it's not something that I'm used to. I'm Mrs Average, middle of the pack, one of the crowd. And that's ok, I'm happy with that. But it did get me thinking. What if I were to somehow achieve some degree of success with my writing? How would that feel? How would I feel? 

I don't have any answers. I hope that in the future I will get to feel like this again, it's quite intoxicating. Maybe after the writing course, when I can decide which one to take, I'll have something that will find some success and I can get used to this wonderful feeling of success. 

Can't seem to make my mind up ...

Nobody ever said that being a writer would be easy. And I can attest to the fact that at the moment, for me, it's certainly true.

As you know I have been submitting my finished manuscript and plotting out the sequel. No joy with the submitting yet but it's a long, slow process so that's fine. The new story is fully plotted out and ready to go. All is well, yes?

No!

Because a new and very exciting story has jumped into my head. It's something more akin to what I always dreamed I'd write rather than the story that emerged from NaNoWriMo. And it is all I can think about. I've plotted it out and in my head I've written the first sentences. It's the most exciting thing I've come up with since taking my writing seriously and it has left me confused.

I don't know whether to go with the shiny new story or put it on the back burner until I've written the sequel that I was planning. I think I know the answer but it scares me. I so want to write the new shiny story. It's so exciting and I have such good feelings about it. But should I abandon the project I was working on? I also worry if I leave it alone it will never see the light of day.

Another thought I have had is about self publishing the fantasy novel under a different name and getting going with the new project.

Of course all this is spinning my mind around and leaving me unable to write anything!

What to do? Who knows? Hopefully I can figure it all out in the next few days...

Five Minute Writer January 15th - Unfinished Sentences

Unfinished Sentences


On Monday evenings, I always try to do some yoga. It's calming and good for my flexibity. At least that's what my sister said when she persuaded me to join her at the village hall. At first everything was fine. I started as a complete novice and the instructor was very kind, helping out as my stiff limbs refused to bend as they should. I was so sore the next morning and vowed I'd never go again. But I did and as the weeks went by it got easily. Things were freeing up and I could do the poses and moves withpout too much fuss. Until today that is. I don't know what happened but I was checking my breathing as we moved into warrior three and I heard a click. Everything that had been moving freely seized up and I was stuck. There was no way I was feeling anything like a warrior at that moment. I was terrified that I would be carried out on a stretcher stuck in a half finished yoga pose. But again the instructor came to my assistence, gently moving my limbs and encouraging me to free myself and return to the stance of a human being. Strangely the next morning I didn't feel at all stiff. But I did feel very foolish and I may never set foot in the village hall again.

Five Minute Free Write

I decided to go freestyle today and leave the prompts alone. This is a sketch of an incident on the bus the other day.

I got on the bus with my son and we sat down only for a woman to begin shouting at us. She was distraught about something but all I caught was that we were looking at her with 'black eyes'. She wandered to the front of the bus and began to yell at the driver who waited patiently and asked if she wanted to get off the bus. It became obvious that she didn't but she carried on shouting and swearing. Naturally, being British, we all sat with our eyes downcast and listened. Nobody seemed to know what to do or even if doing something was the right thing to do. She eventually went upstairs and the bus drove off. We then heard her yelling and loud noises which seemed to be her hitting or kicking the side panels on the bus. The driver radioed some message to the depot but we carried on. Every now and then there was another thump and more swearing from upstairs. Two young professionals got on, asked the driver some questions and went upstairs to speak to the woman. She came down and got off the bus, cursing and punching the bus as she did so. The young people seemed to know how to deal with her and phoned for someone to go and make sure she was OK.

It was obvious that she was in some sort of crisis and I guess that the young people who spoke to her were mental health care professionals of some sort. The driver said she was a regular on the route so they knew what to do. My point is that in an ideal world someone would have been looking after her and she wouldn't have been wandering around on her own in obvious distress. But this isn't an ideal world and unless a crisis is reached little seems to be done to help those who are vulnerable. They are left to their own devices and picked up when they become a danger to themselves or a 'nuisance' to the rest of us.

I hope they found her and helped her. I hope she had a better end to her day than the beginning seemed to be. I hope she had a quiet and calm time later that day. And I am so glad there are people like those two young people to care for the most vulnerable in our society.

Last Line Triggers

Today's task is to take the last line of a novel and use it either as a first or last line of a story or as an inspiration. I really enjoyed doing this one, made me think outside the box.

'It had never occurred to him that a dog might be clairvoyant.' from Spooky, a short story by David Dean.

All those years and I never knew the old dog was clairvoyant. He'd behave like any other dog most of the time but just occasionally he'd do summat daft. Like that time he dragged me away from the pub and all the way through the wheat field until we found that little kid, crying and lost. Never crossed my mind that he was using psychic powers or the like. Then there was the day he wouldn't come out from under the bed, shaking like a leaf and no way to persuade him to go for his normal walk. The day the doodlebug hit the church that were, about the time we normally walked past too. But those were just coincidences my missus said. Dogs don't know stuff she said. Now you tell me he didn't know stuff now. It were him what picked the balls out of the sack, he chose those numbers and he got all of em right, two weeks running. First week was a jackpot of six million, next week was four million. We was the luckiest folk in the village then. Shame the old dog didn't live to see the Life of Riley we're living now. Run over by the milk float three days after we cashed the second cheque. Poor old Lucky, he were a good dog.

Character Pen Portrait

Late posting again but here is the 9th of my Five Minute Writer pieces. I decided to write some short pen portraits of my main characters to get further under their skins and I thought I'd share one with you. This is my protagonist, the driving force of my first story and the one I am planning at the moment. I hope you like her as much as I do.

Character Pen Portrait

Madge is an older, feisty woman. She can be abrupt and even rude but she is caring and fiercely loyal to her friends. When she was young, pre-teen, her mother left the family home to fight in the Great Magical War where she was killed. Madge's father banned her from using magic despite her talents obviously laying in that direction. She studied healing instead, using magic covertly to make her potions the best in Lunecaster. When magic was banned across the city Madge was sad but carried on using magic to enhance her healing, knowing that the penaltiy for doing so would be banishment or death. When her beloved father died her brother Gilbert disowned her as a witch and she lost her family forever. He forced her to leave the family home which saddened her further. Madge is very 'home' focussed, she values the comfort and stability of having her own space. She isn't a great housekeeper, living in a state of clutter with trinkets and treasures covering every surface. A canny business woman, she barters hard at the market to obtain the best supplies at the best price. She is selective in her friendships. Once you are her friend she would move mountains for you. In appearance she is short and plump with a mop of unruly grey hair escaping from her shapeless felt bonnet. She wears vast flowing skirts with many pockets and always has a shawl knotted across her ample bosom.

Are you too fond of backstory?

Are you too fond of backstory?


Take a character, imagine their sex and age but keep them nameless. Imagine they wake up in bed having lost their memory. Write what happens next.


Woman, 51.


She threw the blankets off, struggled to unwrap her left leg from the sheet and sat up. Eyes wide, she scanned the room. Square, green walls, tired curtains. Where was she?
The bed creaked as she swung her legs over the side. The air was cold, a draught blew from under the door and something was scratching the door panel. As she placed her feet down they brushed against a faded pair of slippers. She carefully slipped her feet in, they fitted but felt wrong. She pulled her feet out and stood, feeling a tightness across her belly. The floor was cold, wooden and unpolished. Nothing looked familiar and still that scratching at the door.
Resting her hand on the brass knob at the bottom of the bed she shuffled towards the door. The handle was porcelain and cool to her fingers. She took a deep breath and reached out.

Five Minute Writer - January 7th

Who's Calling, Please?

You pick up the phone to make a call but instead of the dial tone, you hear someone asking for help ...
The small voice sounded terrified, repeating 'Help me, please help me,' over and over. I wasn't sure if it was a child or an adult but the terror was unmistakable.
'Who is this?' I whispered, trying not to sound scared myself.
'Helpme, there's a monster in the house. I'm on my own and he's coming up the stairs.'
I swallowed hard, the receiver slipping in my sweaty hands. My mind raced, thoughts jumbled as I tried to find the right thing to say.
'Can you get out of the house? Can you escape?'
My voice was higher pitched and squeaked down the receiver.
'He's at the door, I'm in the wardrobe. The light's gone on ...'
I heard the person 's breathing quicken and the phone thudded to the floor. Scuffling sounds, a creak of hinges and the line went dead. I squealed and dropped my handset.

Five Minute Writer - January 6th

Twelfth Night, Christmas decorations down. The festive season over for another year. How do I feel about that? Well, the lounge looks bare yet normal again. We don't put much up but as soon as it all comes down you notice the change. Back to school or work for most normality returns. We get back into our usual routines, try to remember what day the bins go out, get the ironing board out again.

So much for festivities, real life is here and we must embrace it. There are new challenges for me including planning a second novel and finding a home for the first one. There is a podcast to plan and a health and fitness 'regime' to establish. So the new year has bought much to do and much to think about.

I wave goodbye to the festive season, not mourning it exactly but noting its passing. There will be less sparkle and glitter, less sugar and gin but it was a nice diversion while it lasted. Time to think about other things, to look beyond the season and take it all in. The good, the bad and the ugly of 2020.

Five Minute Writer - January 5th

Not So Beautiful Words

As a writer I should be equally in love with all words, right? Well, that's not how it is. As a human I have preferences, likes and dislikes. Some words I use far too often, others I avoid like the proverbial plague. Today's task is to share something about a word I don't like. So here it is, one of my least favourite words - moist.
Yuk. Typing that was traumatic. It's a word that has nasty connotations in my mind. It brings up images of sweaty hands being wiped down soiled jeans, wet tissues left on tables, dampness and dankness. It's a word I shy away from, one that brings a sneer to my face without bidding. Nasty little word.
I'm not sure where some of these images come from. There must have been an episode that triggered my dislike of 'mositness' but it's buried so far down I can't begin to think what is was. It's a sleazy word, inhabiting the slimy side of life, a very male word that makes my skin crawl. There are so many words that could be used in its stead, why does it even exist? Yuk again I say.

Five Minute Writer - January 4th

Forgot to post this yesterday! However, the prompt was to think of 1010 uses for an object. There was a list to choose from and I selected an old ironing board. Here's what I came up with in five minutes.

101 uses for ... an old ironing board

Ripping the torn cover from the rusted frame of the ironing board he tipped it over and stood back, hands on hips, brows knitted.
'I think it'll stay up. We could use some rope to tie it to the trees. Then chuck the canvas over it.'
Timmy stomped over to the bushes, knelt down and pulled the orange rope from its hising place. It was tangle and took ages to unknot. The nylon fibres bit into Jemma's jands and bought tears to her eyes. She wanted to stop but didn't want to look weak in Timmy's eyes. He rarely played with her these days, preferring cricket or canoeing with his school friends.
They tied the ironing board securl between the trees and struggled to drape the old tent canvas across the framework. Finally, they stood in silence, admiring their hard work. A sturdy tented structure, a shelter from the weather, a den for the summer. Timmy nodded, put and arm around Jemma and pulled his kid sister into his side.
'Not bad for a girl,' he grinned.

Five Minute Writer - January 3rd

Today was about looking at the relationships we can create between concrete and abstract nouns. Most of what I wrote was trivial and not very interesting but I thought I'd share a couple that I liked.

Life is like a bead. Tiny, perfect, colourful yet with a hole running through. Best when threaded with others.

Life is like a book. A beginning and an ending, adventures and characters within, sometimes happy, sometimes sad. Do not judge by the cover though.

Five Minute Writer - January 2nd

Today's task was to write a list about something. I chose one from the suggested ideas and here is today's contribution - it's not very interesting!

List of pet hates /irritations
Rudeness - it takes no time at all to be polite and it can really make someone's day.
People not saying please or thank you - I was brought up to say these and I am appallled when people don't say them. Maybe I'm of an older generation but I think it's important to acknowledge when someone has done a service for you.
Unkindness - why must folk be unkind to others? Does it make them feel big or clever? It's a mystery to me. A little kindness goes a long way.
Thoughtlessness - again I don't understand this one. A moment to consider the other person and everyone feels happy and valued.
Litter - so much mess, such lack of consideration for the environment. Again, I was brought up to take my litter home or find a bin. I couldn't drop anything on the floor.
Bigotry - this one has surfaced big time recently. I wish everyone could listen to the other point of view, acknowledge it and move on. We don't have to agree but we can all respect the other viewpoint.

Five Minute Writer - January 1st

I wanted something to kick start my writing habit and Nicola Young suggested I take a look at The Five Minute Writer by Margaret Geraghty. It's filled with ideas and exercises to do which give you something to write about when you feel blocked or stuck. Maybe just when you're not sure what to write to kick the habit off on any given day. So I'm using these exercises to get into a good, regular writing habit. And to keep myself accountable I'm planning to post what I write here so everyone can see when I fall behind or lose the habit.

The first exercise asks about rituals and ritualistic behaviour. Here is what I came up with in my allotted five minutes.

The Power of Ritual
Filling the kettle is a time to contemplate. Only a few seconds until there is enough water to boil but it is a time to stare out of the window and wonder at the world. Someone is passing, where are they going? Early morning bus to catch maybe, dog to walk usually. The water fills the kettle and I place and plug, a blue light glows to signal electric current passing. The wonders of modern convenient living. No need to draw water from a well or pump, no need to build and light a fire. All modern living happens with the click of a switch. The national grid connects me to every other soul who is making tea at 7am. Steam rises and I pull the kettle from its cradle, pour the water onto leaves and wait, staring through the window again. I seem to spend many minutes watching through windows. Kitchen, lounge, bus, coffee shop. All panes I have watched the world through. I must have seen many thousand souls passing by the windows, wondered at their lives, guessed who they were and where they were heading.