I’ve always had a love of book illustrations; first as a reader, and now as a writer. For most readers, the scenes from a story will appear (sometimes in great detail) in their mind—if the writer has done their job properly. But illustrations often give a complementary visual for the reader, or even a different point of view.

Recently, I’ve been searching for ‘affordable’ illustrations online. I’m working on creating a dedicated reading and writing space; ‘A Room of One’s Own’ as Virginia Woolf put it. This, I hope, will include a library wall, a wing-backed reading chair, a proper desk, and a wall dedicated to book-related art.

My budget for this artwork isn’t huge. But that doesn’t mean I’m not having fun searching for suitable pieces. I’ve been amazed at the life-stories of some of the artists, and have also come across some ‘unaffordable’ artwork, that literally makes my heart beat faster. The work of Tom Lovell (1909-1997) is a case in point.

Tom was an American illustrator who, during his long career, painted everything from historical scenes to romantic images for women’s magazines. He was known for the exhaustive research he conducted into historical events he was asked to paint, and for the attention to detail in all his illustrations. For me, his paintings are far more than scenes from a story—they’re entire stories in their own right, and so vibrant that it would be easy to reimagine them into completely new plot lines.

As an example of what I mean; The Tom Lovell painting above was shared by someone in an online group, with a comment attached saying that she felt sure someone from the group would be able to come up with a vignette for it… To say I was immediately ‘on it’ would be an understatement. I spotted the painting/post at the beginning of my evening meal, grabbed a notebook and pen, and by the end of the meal I had a passable vignette that just needed the odd tweak. The whole thing, including edits, took about an hour.

The first thing I did though was to really look at the painting. Tom Lovell himself said: "I consider myself a storyteller with a brush. I try to place myself back in imagined situations that would make interesting and appealing pictures. I am intent on producing paintings that relate to the human experience.” With this in mind, I tried to figure out a plausible ‘imagined situation’ which could have resulted in this particular picture.

What struck me first was the pallet of colours he’d used. Apart from the bright scarlet of the woman’s lips, the check of her shirt and threads in the carpet, everything else seems oddly muted. The woman kneeling on the carpet looks relatively young, but her hair appears to be grey. Also, the two women are at opposite ends of the emotional spectrum; one is eerily calm and detached in her body language, the other openly distressed. I began to make assumptions about the reasons for this—until I finally had my vignette:

 
The sound of Annabel’s sobs saturated the air around them. As Mary’s hand stroked across her sister’s hair, the tips of her fingers memorised its feel, and she breathed in its familiar, strawberry-tinged fragrance, even as she prayed for a similar release. But the sorrow within her had no voice. It had taken on the density of stone, weighing her down, and encasing her heart inside a fortress of unnatural calm.

Perhaps that was only right? She was, after all, the elder sibling, and Annabel had never been one to rein in her emotions. It would be unfair to ask it of her now.

Mary knew that if they were to have any hope of getting through this, then she would need to stay in control. Whatever her feelings, they could not be acknowledged; not yet.
She needed to be strong—just like the slats at her back, she realised; grateful for the hard wooden seat that had become her only support.

Her throat began to ache, and the world seemed suddenly dull. Scarlet highlights, woven into her clothes, and scattered across soft furnishings, were all that caught her eye; appearing almost too violent, in a view where every other colour had faded to shades of grey and brown.

Our parents are gone…dead. That was the fact continuously circling through Mary’s conscious mind. And layered beneath this thought was the knowledge that, with them, all hope of a settled and predictable future had also died. What options remained?

She continued to stroke Annabel’s hair, allowing herself to grow ever more distant from the dark, chaotic emotions flowing from her sister’s tear-wracked body. Mary was the one who needed to organise their lives. It was up to her.

The house would have to be sold, of course. It was a family home and far too big for them, even if they both lived here. Then there was the furniture. Much of it was antique, and a luxury they could no longer afford. Thankfully, it should appeal to both trade and private buyers. If they were careful, there would be enough money to see Annabel through her final years at private school. And if she attained her predicted grades, there was a good chance she’d be offered help, through scholarships, for university…

Turning her head slightly, Mary’s eyes rested on the Georgian chest-on-chest that had been their father’s pride and joy. The sight of its aged mahogany, the colour almost glowing beneath layers of lovingly applied beeswax, threatened to shatter the wall she had so carefully built—to set free the waves of sharp-edged grief that tore at her mind for release.

But that must come later. Now she must plan… for both their sakes.

 
Of course, the original scene was probably nothing like the one I came up with—and other writers would likely imagine something entirely different when presented with the same visual prompt…but that’s the point.

A talented illustrator can create work that not only captures the scene they’ve been employed to turn into art, but also gives others a flash of inspiration that can lead to even more stories.

That is why I wanted to write this blog, and applaud the visual journey that all illustrators take us on, as both readers and writers.

It would seem that creativity breeds creativity—in a strangely satisfying cycle.
 

During my journey as a writer, I've come across any number of 'helpful' articles about how to keep my plot lines engaging and realistic. Obviously, the latter isn't as important in a story that relies heavily on fantasy elements, but anything remotely contemporary needs to keep the reader on-board when it comes to them believing that 'this COULD happen'.

I once heard a radio interview with a crime-fiction author (and no, despite racking my brains, I can't remember his name) that also covered the subject of believability. The interviewer asked how he came up with his plot lines, and he said that he had real-life members of the police force (active and retired) who helped him. They'd regularly get together, and would tell him stories about their working life, and from there he'd manipulate the 'real' events into fictional plot lines.  He then went on to tell the interviewer that there were some things that would never make it into one of his books. Not because they were too gruesome or shocking, but because they would be deemed 'unbelievable' by the reading public.

That observation stopped me in my tracks. Real events that aren't believable?  But... the fact that they're 'real' surely makes them automatically believable?  Then I remembered the famous Mark Twain quote: Truth is stranger than fiction.  Which I suppose, by default, means that real life is often stranger than anything you'll read in a book.

That's where 'The Case for Coincidence' comes in. Going back to those helpful articles; I've come across numerous instances where 'coincidence' is either deemed an inappropriate plot device (because who would believe it) or writers are advised to keep the coincidence relatively mild (for the same reason).

In other words: When turning REAL events into a piece of fiction, be prepared to cut out any wondrous elements in order to convince your readers that it could actually happen.

Are you seeing the irony here?

Take the case of Jim Lewis and Jim Springer. Two men who were twins, separated at birth, and who led independent lives until they were reunited at the age of 39. Both men had named their childhood pet dog 'Toy', they'd chosen careers in law enforcement, had been married twice (first to women called Linda and then to women named Betty), and both had a son they'd named James Allen/Alan. And there were even more coincidences within their lives than that...

So, could I, as a writer, get away with having characters with a similar level of coincidence tying them together?  NO. Well, not unless I wanted to make it into a 'parallel universe' story. A story in which, for example, characters with lives like theirs were actually experiencing the points in time and space where parallel universes touch... that might make it believable.

The thing is, readers have certain expectations when reading a contemporary story, Real life only rarely holds such huge doses of coincidence. For those who haven't experienced it themselves, it's a reality that's hard to believe.

Which is rather a pity. And it means I STILL have to find fantastical ways in which to write about events that are, coincidentally, all too real...  

A few days ago, a fellow writer on WeBook asked me how/why I'd decided to write a challenge piece in present tense rather than past tense. My answer was: because it sounded right.

I'd actually written the story in both past and present tense. I'd read it out loud several times, and then gone with the version that sounded  best; the tense that I felt most suited the story, my main character, and the words I'd used.

You're probably wondering how tense can affect sound/rhythm. Well, it's the difference between 'bells ringing out' and 'bells rang out' - the tense fundamentally changes the sound of a sentence. In short stories especially, it's a difference that's worth considering.

Which got me thinking. Just how much does writing rely on rhythm?

In my case, the answer is: a LOT.

I actually write to music, and it's important that it's the right music. There's no way that I'd listen to something dramatic, full of brass and drums, if I was writing a story about love, fond memories or quiet introspection, and I wouldn't listen to a gentle, flowing piece of music, with lots of soothing piano and strings, if I was writing an action scene. If what I'm listening to isn't right, the words won't come. In fact, I'd rather write to no music at all, than the wrong music.

I also do a lot of reading out loud. I use this technique to not only help me pick up on any mistakes I've made, but also to check that the wording I've selected delivers on the emotion, atmosphere and pacing I'm after.

In other words: I'm checking the rhythm of my writing. If it doesn't sound right as the spoken word, it's not right as the written word.

For example: Action scenes and high-tension passages have short/sharp sentences and a punchier choice of wording. Meandering, poetic prose won't give the reader the thrill they expect.

To my mind, the length of sentences, word choices and tense can be every bit as important as plot line, scene setting and characters - they're the back-ground structure that holds together the story you want to tell.

Does writing rely on rhythm?  You bet it does...

For any 'artistic type' there's a roller coaster that can't be avoided. The BIG ONE: Public Opinion.

From the moment I decided to publish my stories, I became vulnerable to every reader's opinion on them. And even though common sense told me that there's no pleasing all of the people, all of the time... I'm afraid that common sense is no comfort when you receive your first bad review.

There are those who will tell writers 'don't ever read your reviews' and all I can think is that these are authors who've been on the Public Opinion roller coaster a few times, survived it, and decided they were idiots to get on in the first place. But as a relatively new author, those reviews hold an allure that's hard to resist, and I find myself checking sites like Amazon and Goodreads, to see what readers are saying about my stories. I guess, coming from a background where a lot of my feedback came from fellow writers, on a dedicated authors website, there's a part of me that believes that writers critiquing writers is fine (for the technical stuff) but it's ultimately the readers who can tell you what they like to see between the covers of a book or on their e-reader. I value their feedback, so why would I ignore it?

But here's the thing: Every story I write carries a piece of me. It might be an emotion, a memory, a dream or an ambition.  At the very least, it's something my imagination was responsible for - and there's no separating imagination from its owner.  My stories, at some level, are personal: and I'd defy any artist, whatever their medium, to deny that.

Over the last five years, I've learned to take the hits alongside the pats on the back. Both have value. It's  the silences that are perhaps the worst. Are these a 'no news is good news' kind of thing, or a 'don't say anything if you haven't got anything nice to say' kind of thing? Yup, crazy as it seems, it's 'no response at all' that I find most unsettling.

That's where acres  of PATIENCE comes in useful. With patience, you can rest easy in the knowledge that some people might take longer to read a book they've bought (they may have a whole raft of books waiting to be read) or perhaps they need longer to form an opinion than other readers? Maybe they just don't DO reviews and prefer to keep their thoughts to themselves? Whatever the reasons for the silence, I've found that patience is a valuable virtue that allows me to stop worrying and keep writing.

Sometimes it even pays off.

Last April, when I was gearing up to release 'Betty Sue's Teatime Tales', I did a Goodreads giveaway for two signed copies. In the past, I've found these a great way to garner interest in a book, and I've even had some good reviews come through as a result. There's never any pressure on the recipients to leave a review... but you kind of hope they will (and it will be positive). So, with the copies posted off to the two people (out of over 1,200) picked, I kept my fingers crossed that they'd like the book.

Nothing. Not a peep... for over seven months. I admit that 'patience' had become 'they obviously don't write reviews: ah well!'  But I was wrong. A few days ago I got a 4* rating and a positive review from one of the giveaway winners.

Of course, I also discovered I'd  been given my first 1* rating on the same day... which is all part of the roller coaster experience! 

It's finally here! - Christmas AND the final book in The Lifelight Series. (can you tell I'm excited?)

New Age Light is making its debut on Kindle today - just in time for you to indulge your reading habit, whilst recovering from a Christmas dinner induced 'food coma':

It seemed impossible that a marriage between Liam and Lucy Allgood could ever work. Conceiving a child would be nothing short of a miracle.

And yet... Twenty years later, they are still together, very much in love, and deliriously happy to discover that Lucy is pregnant. Neither expected the depth of shock that reverberates throughout their families, or the chain reaction their announcement ignites. A reaction that places everyone they know and love in serious danger.

A visit to Texas and the Legacy Ranch is a chance for Liam to reconnect with his roots, a chance for them to prepare for impending parenthood. But from the moment of their arrival, everything they have built together begins to unravel.

Lucy is hearing voices in her head, and is convinced that a dark-haired man is following her. Liam’s friend, Sebastian Oran, has become suspiciously overprotective and insists she has bodyguards.

As the birth of her child draws nearer, secrets are revealed that make Lucy question her safety, her blind trust in Liam, and her own sanity.

An epoch draws near. In the final book of 'The Lifelight Series', is this the end for the Lifelights... or a new beginning?

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

 
As with my last Blog post, this one was sparked by the monthly challenge set by WEbook - this time for October. They wanted their members to write a story (up to 850 words) that revolves around a specific room, where the characters have been, or feel, 'abandoned'. 

To your left there's a window.
To your right there's a wardrobe.
Behind you is a fireplace.
In front of you is a door.
It doesn't look like there's anyone here. 

Not as easy as it sounds.  In fact, downright tricky... especially when you don't want to end up with a story that's a mirror image of what others have submitted.

So, when I sat down to write, I was trying to think of how I could turn the room itself into a metaphor.  Metaphors are something that I find fascinating, and they can be useful to a writer because they allow us to say/describe one thing, whilst meaning/describing something entirely different.  And I figured, if I could pull it off, I'd have a pretty cool plot line, with the ability to layer the story, explore a number of topics, and give the reader something to really think about. 

Ambitious?  You bet!  But that's half the fun of writing, and the whole point of the exercise: to challenge myself.

It took me a while, but I'm hoping that what I ended up with is a story that most people will 'get', without me telling them exactly what it's about.

See what you make of it... and don't forget about the challenge. It's open for submissions until 31st October.

Happy reading and writing!


WARDROBE SHAPED BOXES

Stepping from the wardrobe, onto dusty floorboards, his cry of despair echoed through the empty room.

At the centre of the space, he turned in a circle. Tired eyes took in the fireplace, the window, the door… and the now shut wardrobe, with its single, full-length mirror.

He knew the room's door would be locked, but tried it anyway. Misshapen fingers grasped the oversized brass knob, twisting and rattling it to no avail. His booted foot kicked at its panelled surface.  The sound of steel-toed leather on wood mimicked the hollow beat of an aged heart, encased in wasting flesh and bone, made fragile by time.

Crossing to the fireplace, he noted that it was slightly different to the one before. Maybe… Aching limbs folded downwards, with little regard for the impact on his body.  Pain speared up from his knees as they hit the floor, and leaning forward, he peered upwards from the hearth, past the iron grate, to the void above. There was nothing to see; just a bricked-off flue.

Staggering to his feet, with more will-power than strength, he ran his fingertips across the tile surround and wooden mantelpiece, testing for the slightest give in either.  Wasn’t that how it worked in adventure novels?  A secret catch, cleverly disguised; a cobweb-decorated passage that led to freedom. 

There was nothing of the kind.

Three steps, to where the floorboards creaked and he could swear he heard movement from below; pause to listen for a moment, with no reward; four more steps and he was at the window, staring through the rippled and air-bubbled glass.  Mist, as always, met his gaze, shrouding whatever landscape lay beyond. Was there the whisper of laughter, rising up from the place he could not see?

He waited for more; time was something he had in abundance... but silence reigned.

Looking over his shoulder, he stared at the wardrobe on the opposite wall. There’d been one like it in his childhood bedroom. Too large, too dark, too ornately carved.  It had overpowered the room just as this one did.  And that long, bevelled mirror… how many times had he stood in front of it, with tears running down his cheeks and the burn of strap-marks radiating pain from thighs, buttocks and back?  He’d sworn he would never visit such a punishment on his own children—and he never had.

Not that they’d thanked him for it. Instead, they’d railed against the freedom he’d allowed them, and interpreted his lack of discipline as a lack of care… a lack of love.  It had taken years for them to come to understand each other. Wasted years.

For a moment clarity returned, and he remembered them as they were; blond-haired angels with smiling blue eyes and happy faces, who grew into confident, arrogant teenagers, with little life-learned sense.  And then… into adults who treated him with cool civility, veneered with familial duty. He tried to bring them closer in his mind; flicking through the faces of too many strangers. But they had gone.

As surely as the room was always empty, the door locked, the fireplace a dead end, and the window a blank pane of mist-filled glass—there was nothing.  No memories, except the pain of his childhood, embodied within a piece of furniture.

With a sigh, he turned back to the wardrobe, aware of hate building within; irrational, ridiculous, satisfying.  Hate was something he could use, to give his time here meaning.  In front of a wardrobe just like this, he’d felt a child’s hatred for adults who kept their love for him inaccessible; walled-up behind their need for his obedience to, and dependence on, them.  In front of a wardrobe like this, he’d glimpsed love; the reflection of a soft, sweet-faced woman holding his child.  In front of a wardrobe like this, he’d accepted the abandonment of his own mind.

But wait… that was something new.  What woman?

Frustration burned as brightly as his hatred now.  This new ‘something’ was important. He knew it as surely as he recognised this room for what it was—a prison with a constantly open door; a way out that never changed in shape or form, but offered little by way of escape.

A rush of heated breath, and a stream of curses. He had no choice. It was time to move on.
Spinning on his heel, he crossed to where the reflection of a sobbing boy stared back at him.  But… he was old now, wasn’t he?  His limbs were aching and tired, and his mind a confusion of images he couldn’t quite make sense of.  So why did his younger self refuse to fade?

Another glance at the room he knew so well, and when the wardrobe's door swung open, he stepped across its threshold with weary resignation. The void beyond was as dark as ever, hope the distant outline of another doorway... and briefly, he understood.

The mind is not made up of boxes—but of wardrobes in empty rooms.

Two days ago, I was trying to come up with a submission for WeBook's September Challenge.  I'd entered one earlier in the month, but not everyone liked it; and though I'd argue against trying to please all of the people all of the time... part of me agreed with the critique given, and I wasn't entirely happy with my submission.

The hunt was on for another idea.

Then another member of the community posted a submission that included a parent making a sacrifice; one born of desperation--and something in my mind shifted.  The feeling that story gave me reminded me of something else... something tinged with desperation.

It took me a while to remember what that 'something' was: a poem I'd written years ago, called 'For The Lost'.  Not that I'm very good at poetry, but I was experimenting.

Obviously, as it stood, the poem wasn't suitable for the challenge (which was to write a piece that had the same first and last lines BUT the meaning of the words had to change).  Still... I decided it had potential.

So I sat... and I thought... and then I thought some more (it's what writers tend to do). Until, finally, I hit on the idea of using the original poem as the 'backbone' of my challenge piece and interspersing it with a more detailed monologue. In effect, I'd have two monologues, by the same person, but hopefully different enough to keep the reader engaged.

It was a format I hadn't attempted before, but I was more than eager to give it a go.  My 'old' poem was about to evolve into something new.

And I'll be honest: I'm quite pleased with the end result, though I don't suppose I've pleased all of the people with this submission either.  The point is, as writers we should never be afraid to revisit old ideas and build/incorporate them into something new; something that excites us.

Whatever you write, be it lyrics, poetry, short stories or novels, you should treasure each of the ideas that your imagination gives to you, because you never know when it will 'come in handy' for something else, or spark a project you hadn't initially considered.

Happy Writing!

SUCH PAIN (previously 'For The Lost')

Such pain,
Giving way to disbelief.

Was it only this morning, when happiness was all I knew? Golden sunlight coloured everything; as I was driven to hospital, and handled with care. Like a precious treasure.

As shock invades,
Tears are not nearly enough.

Now my mind is divorced from reality, working on a different time-scale; slower. I watch the doctors and nurses as they move around me, with serious expressions and softly spoken conversation. I can feel my lover’s hands, wrapped around mine. Part of me wants to shake-free from his grasp; though it’s my only anchor, in a world I no longer recognise.

What is it they are telling me?
No life exists?
Lies.
I’d know.

How can anyone be so stupid?  Is this a genuine mistake or a twisted joke?  You’d think, with so many letters after their names, they’d have more common sense. It’s just not possible… I’d be able to tell if something was wrong; there’d be physical pain, a sense of something tearing free. There’d definitely be blood.

Nature isn’t this cruel—taking life without warning.

A silent scream begins to rise,
Horror sweeping all aside,
I’m empty now.

I’m afraid of needles—but that’s what they insist on.  Pinpricks, blood tests and knives; I assume they’ll use knives.  The doctors and nurses keep smiling at me, and I wonder if they’ll smile as they work over my unconscious body; stripping me of more than lifeless, unneeded tissue. I don’t want to close my eyes, I want to see and know for sure… but I have no choice.

No comfort in the voices,
They bring only words.

When my eyes open again, I can see the tears in my lover’s gaze and feel his hands on mine once more. I watch as his lips move, knowing that sound accompanies the action… but I can’t make sense of it. Others come; awkward and bizarrely cheerful, talking about the future.  Why won’t they leave me alone?

And flowers?
What good are they?
No beauty left in anything,
No scent sweet enough.

I’ve always loved sunflowers; all flowers, if I’m truthful.  Now I’m home, there are vases and vases of them; kindly meant, but funereal in feel.

Dreams are blackened,
Depression all-consuming.

Funny, how the sun has disappeared. The world is full of shadows now; an everlasting twilight that never brightens with morning’s welcome, but slips into night’s embrace with a contented sigh.  I see a lot of night. I cannot sleep.

Time has no meaning,
A life hangs in limbo,
No healing here.

Not yet.

My lover’s eyes are filled with worry. It pushes aside the suffering that mirrored my own; that showed me I wasn’t alone, and comforted me. He says he loves me, and it’s time to move on, to live and try again… but the wounds are still so raw.  How can I?

Memory is cruel,
Life is precious,
Death requires grieving.

Even now, with two years passed, I haven’t forgotten. Though life goes on, I am forever changed. Fear is still a living thing, curling around my heart and mind.

Goodbye my first,
My unborn family,
Untainted,
I think of you.

Alarm-bells are ringing and people are rushing. Death hovers over me once more. There are so many things that can go wrong. One heart has already failed, leaving me far too soon. Is this life any stronger?  Has fate become kinder?

My lover’s grip is tight and steady, immovable fingers I cling to. I will be strong; through the burn and trauma of contracting muscles, and the voices of strangers all around me. Time moves so slowly… until I hear it; the scratchy cry I never thought would come.

Such pain,
Giving way to disbelief.