AUTHOR'S CORNER;

This is the season to be jolly, count our blessings and spread Christmas cheer to our family and friends.  Where presents underneath that Christmas tree are beautifully wrapped and carefully placed.  Where every house tries to outdo the one next to them with spectacular lights and flashing ornaments. When all that matters is the size of that turkey and the creative trimmings that go along with it.  When hairstyles have got to be had and that special dress must be found. Sparkle, sparkle, on Christmas day for all the world to see; that's what matters, right?

My run up to Christmas started much the same this year; I planned to sparkle and shimmer beneath those lovely lights. Anticipating the admirable looks from my family as I, the hostess, cooked up a Christmas feast to die for!  I fretted about the size of that turkey and Iceland was called upon to home deliver me a lorry load of party treats!  I planned it all meticulously, right down to the last detail.  But what I didn't plan for was my daughter going into hospital.

Suddenly my world seemed quite small and Christmas.... what Christmas?   What started off as a sore throat soon turned into tonsillitis and by the time her throat closed up and her face had turned yellow and swelled and the good doctors in A&E had put her on a drip and taken blood tests, I was facing the possibility that it might be glandular fever!

Her pretty face had ballooned to twice its normal size, her eyes hardly open, and she curled up like a foetus.  It was not looking good.  What's more, she had just started a part time job and she had a load of coursework and exams to revise for in the new year.  She is a Biomedical student at uni and had passed the first year with a first!  Now it seemed, within a blink of an eye, that she would not be able to revise, much less go to work.  My beautiful girl, my adorable, intelligent girl, that button nosed, wide eyed toddler that I used to put on my knee was a young woman in trouble.

Christmas preparations fell by the wayside, invitations did not seem to matter and as for my hair and outfit.... who cared??  All I cared about was my child.  And though I like to think of myself as a strong woman, I could not help but burst into tears when she said she thought she was going to die.  No parent, no matter how strong, sensible or intelligent can stand to hear those words come out of their child's mouth. The world seemed to fog up and my vision became very narrow; all I could see was my child hooked up to drips.  

Exhaustion overtook me and my mind was on auto pilot. With three other kids at home (albeit almost grown up) I was like a headless chicken, running from pillar to post.  I dealt with this by going shopping for her in between visiting hours; as if by buying her pyjamas she didn't need and extra toothbrush and magazines would somehow confirm her recovery and magic the illness away!  Thinking about it now, I must have seemed ridiculous to my husband and children; my daughter was lying in a hospital bed and all I could worry about was whether she had crisp new pyjamas to wear!  By day two she had the colour back in her cheeks and her the swelling in her face was going down, by the evening she was talking to me and I even managed to make her laugh!  By the third day she was well enough to be discharged and back to the safety of home!  

As for the glandular fever; which by the way has no treatment and can last between three weeks and six month and in the worst case scenario can cause the spleen to burst or secondary infection of the brain, I was told that it was so far mild, and that yes whilst her spleen and liver are a little inflamed, that with monitoring and a lot of rest, she should make a full recovery.  She is resting on the sofa as I write this and her little sister is listening to her tell of her ordeal, thank God!  

So this Christmas, my happy Christmas is not going to be the massive turkey I have ordered for the extended family that can no longer attend because they might be in danger of catching her illness.  My happy Christmas is not in the decorations that my cat has seen fit to jump and pull at and is now kind of hanging awkwardly.  My happy Christmas is not in that sparkly dress that I had seen in the shop and meant to buy before I was taken up with hospital worry.  My happy Christmas is not about that wonderful new haircut that I was supposed to book myself in for!  My happy Christmas is in knowing that my baby is safe, in having her here, home with us.  My happy Christmas is in knowing how blessed I am to have my daughter, whole, cared for and alive!     

Merry Christmas to everyone and may your loved ones always, always be safe with you!

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

THEY ASK ME,

They asked me of my childhood, and I said that mine was a troubled one, a distant memory of fears and insecurities. Mine was the child who sat in a corner, sullen and quiet, watching as the world walked past. Mine was the hiding under the covers on a dark winter's night; dreading the darkness and the coming of dawn even more! Mine was the kid who ran home from school to the shelter of my room. Mine was the listening to the voices in the next room, and not daring to sleep in case I stopped hearing them. Mine was of imaginary friends who danced around me, spoke to me and gave me reason. Mine was the child who lived on dreams because the world was too difficult to figure out.

They asked me of my youth, and I said that mine was a youth of folly and wasted times. Mine was the teenager who pretended to the world, who put up a front just so that no one would hurt her. Mine was the kid who smiled at boys, fluttered eyelashes and pouted lips. Mine was the girl who couldn't believe in happy endings; they never happened in the life she knew. Mine was the girl who acted tough, gave it attitude and smoked like a chimney. Mine was the lass who could not see past her fears and hid behind them under the guise of anger. Mine was the girl who could not believe in love and lost a lot of love, and regretted much love.  

They asked me of my fears, and I said mine are the fears of hollow hearts and abandoned souls. Mine are the fears that eat away at the heart and break the spirit. Mine are the fears of secrets kept, of thoughts once thought and feelings never felt. Mine are the fears of reflection of the self, the mirror image that so cruelly stares back at me. Mine is the fear of the fear that lingers in my eyes. Mine are the fears that linger deep within my mind; of ghosts of past creeping into my life, of cries of far reaching me once more. Mine are the fears of truth; truth I know to be true about myself, truth I can not deny.

They asked me of my pleasures, and I said mine are the pleasures that are not of me, but a mere extension of myself. Mine are the pleasures of laughter heard, of hands clapped to the rhythm of a song. Mine are the pleasures of smiles and giggles, of innocent happiness. Mine are the pleasures I see upon their faces, the sparkle in their eyes. Mine are the pleasures of seeing their achievement. Mine is the pleasure of their first love, their first steps into the big wide world. Mine is the pleasure in watching their confidence and knowing they feel safe; knowing that they will grow and grow and never fear their own growth. Mine is the pleasure of my children's pleasure!

They asked me of my regrets, and I said mine are no regrets.  I would have had regrets if I had not been that timid child; the child that ran home from school and hid under the covers, listening to my imaginary friends as they drowned out the sounds of the row in the next room.  I would have had regrets if I was a dopey teenager; if I was meek and not as feisty as what I was.  If I did not flutter my eyelashes, or pout those lips of mine!  I would have had regrets if I had never feared; if the thoughts in my head did not frighten me or the image of myself did not scare me.  I would have had regrets if my eyes were always clear and no memory of past ghosts ever bothered me.  I would have had regrets simply because I would never have learned how not to make the same mistakes with my own children!

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

LET'S GET CLOSE AND PERSONAL!

Most artists of any kind bear a considerable amount of scars from life; those very scars are what makes them want to express their emotions into art form.  It is the fuel that drives them to create and showcase those emotions through various methods; music, art, drama, writing.  That scab that sits so roughly upon the senses, itching and smarting as the hands of time scratch away at it. Indenting a little more each time until a visible groove slowly appears.  And what is this scar, this scab that refuses to disappear? What is it that wrecks our very essence and turns us into the cynical creators that we become?  It is not love, nor hate, for love and hate are easy to come by and easy to lose.  It is simply the unforgiven!  

In the war of emotions, unrequited love, unquenched hate, and all the feelings in between, the only one that is hard to come by is forgiveness.  For it is not even an emotion, not a proper one. Forgiveness or the lack of it comes with a myriad of emotions, from sadness, bitterness, loneliness and even deep love or a dark, helpless need. All rolled into a mass ball of confusion, drenched in a loss of dignity and pride.  To forgive would mean to take your naked emotional self and bare your soul wide open to the wrong that has been done to you.  To forgive would mean to betray your own soul, to belittle yourself, to effectively admit that you are worth so little, measure so small, feel so irrelevant, that whatever has been done against you is okay by you!  To forgive would mean to abandon that last shred of defence you have left.  To give away the little power you have.  For in order to get to the point of needing to forgive you would have had to have been very wronged in the first place.  Forgiveness is the last defeat. If defeated how will one continue, how will one face another day, how will one create?

If one forgives it is like wiping from history the wrong that has been done, and if that happens, then what was the point of the wrong and the bad feelings you had to endure in the first place?  How do you live with yourself if you were to just let it go, all those years of torture, all those nights of self berating, all those tear stained heartbeats that drummed your sorrow would be for nothing, for no one!  

It is easier not to forgive, it is less questionable to hold on to a burning anguish than to let it go and have to question yourself.  In not forgiving, you know where you stand; you were wronged, therefore you shall not forget.  But if you did forgive, suddenly your position is weakened, you can no longer hold on to self assurance and doubt, doubt about your self worth, your integrity, your part in it all, will set in and you my friend will have to admit to your part. Much easier to wallow in the shadows of the wronged than to stare at yourself in the harsh mirror of self exposure.  Much kinder to be the victim than the fool.  Much sweeter to feel the pain of injustice than to endure the humiliation of error.  

The self is a proud creature and has got to be self assured in order to survive; it is the nature of the self to do so.  If not to gain grandeur, than to at least hold on for just a little longer, to survive a little further. 

But in not forgiving, in not letting go, we hold ourselves captive in our own emotional prison, and it eats away at us until one day it simply consumes us and leaves us but a shell, a hollow carcass that can never again be filled.  In not forgiving we are not holding power, but instead we are giving power away and living our lives through the person who has wronged us.  In not forgiving we are trapping ourselves in the moment for ever.  In not forgiving we are allowing our aggressor to own us, to own our souls and minds.  And we dedicate our souls to them, we dedicate our art for them, we create through them, through their bad deeds!  Not only have they wronged us, they now own us.  

Letting go is the hardest thing a person can do, and yet it is the most liberating thing you can do.  Letting go is when you can do, act and think without the memory of the wrong deed ever coming to your mind.  Letting go is when you can catch yourself unaware and realise that you have not thought about it for a very long time. When the silence of the night no longer bothers you, and your thoughts no longer invade you.  When the feeling of dread is no longer a part of who you are and your heart does not ache.  Letting go is simply dropping that person who has hurt you and letting them fall into the abyss of forgetfulness.  Because as long as you remember them, they live on and their power grows and the effect of what they have done will be ten fold each year.  And before you know it, that one bad thing they have done to you will be a lifetime of tears and heartache and a wasted youth. 

And as for negating that bad act by forgiving; that bad deed that the other has done to you, think about it, it's in the past, the hands of time have already passed over it and wiped it away....it is no longer there, and just like a burnt out star, it is just an echoing light in the blackness of nothingness!           

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

THINGS A WRITER SHOULD ALWAYS REMEMBER!

I have recently been a little despondent; my resolve, my determination, my ambitions to make it big in writing has somewhat dwindled and seems to be fast fading as I desperately await accolade for my work.  In an attempt to perk myself up and infuse a little motivation into my life, I found myself searching the net, late last night, searching for some literary inspiration, some guiding hand or words of wisdom!  I love writing, I live and breath words and in almost everything I encounter I come up with a scenario in my mind and a new plot for a book!  I am only ever truly happy when I write, and miserable when I don't!  But of late, my resolve has weakened and my faith in my own ability has faltered....it happens, I am only human!  And yes, I know I am a good writer, I know that I am published already and am 'living the dream' so to speak. Except the dream is not as....dreamy as I had imagined and sometimes, when I find it hard to get book signings or promote my work, the dream fast turns into a nightmare!  Common phenomenon amongst writers, I know.  We start off with quite a lot of self doubt and when we finally make it to the publishing houses, we are eager not to fail, this in itself makes us believe that we can and will fail!

But my bored and feeble efforts to search the net for some inspirational quotes have paid off, for in finding them, I found inspiration and new found hope.  There is nothing quite like hearing it from the horse's mouth, no one can explain you better than another writer.  So in finding this new found inspiration, I have decided to share and remind the rest of 'us' writers that we truly are magical and wonderful beings with a talent that is a pure gift from God!

  

Yes writers see the world differently, they really do see the world differently and are moody and temperamental with it.  But oh so brilliant at interpretation of it, that mostly our books are magic!  We weave magic in our words and bring life upon the pages.

 

 A good book is like a whole world for the readers to immerse themselves in.  Never forget the power in our fingertips, the power we possess, the joy we can bring, the thought we can invoke!

A writer is a being who has a lot of words inside their heads.  Just as a musician sees the world in notes and keys, an artist sees the world in shapes and colours, a writer sees the world in words, in scenarios and in spells that can literally transform peoples' thinking!

 

 I suppose the reason we are so passionate about our writing is the fact that in our writing there is an element of ourselves, hidden within the chapters of our stories.  In essence we are sharing our soul with the world, giving away secrets and allowing the whole world into our world.  failing is personal rejection!

The art of writing is actually and truly discovering what you believe!  Not what your parents have taught you, not what society wants you to believe, but what you know to be true, how you see the world. It is the most liberating thing in the world!

And what's more, here is a few things you must remember to keep you on track....

If you do not believe, really believe in your writing...(forget what the agents think, what the publishers say) if you doubt yourself for a moment, your writing will be...doubtful!

Writing is a skill.  making up stories is a talent.  Remember, like any other craft, practice, practice and practice!  The talent is there but the skills must be developed! If you can write a novel, then baby, you can write.  Now polish up those skills!

Every single writer on the planet has dark, blocked days.  It is a big effort to drag yourself to that computer and make something out of a blank page, especially when there is no guarantee that you will ever be published, ever be read or ever 

make any money!  The determination is the only reward you have!

And after all your hard work, guess what?The hard work has just begun!  You will need to dispel with your self assurance and take a long hard look at your work and dismiss that you thought brilliant and restore that you deemed good!  It is almost like rejecting your own child for what they are and making them what they ought to be!

This is the truth and probably the saddest part of being a writer; nobody actually cares that you are writing a novel, nobody is actually that interested in your unfinished work.  It does not matter to anyone that you have been writing a novel for the past year!  If relying on praise is what you are hoping for...well then baby, you need to find another job!

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

THIS CHRISTMAS

Christmas, the time of joy, the season of reflection and giving. Where we gladly put ourselves out and trudge around the shops endlessly searching for the right gifts for our nearest and dearest.  Where we joyfully wrap presents and lovingly place them beneath the tree that we have so carefully decorated; anticipating with great delight, the smiles on our family and friends' faces.  The turkey, that sought after turkey that we order weeks in advance and search the net for the best recipe, or the latest way to make perfect roast potatoes.  Such an infectious celebration, that even those of us who are not of the Christian faith participate, with fairy lights, bobbles and Halal or Kosher turkeys and ethnic twists on age old recipes! Well it is Christmas after all, and the whole world seems to be in celebration, cheer and laughter, that woody winter scent, nights spent in front of the fireplace, chocolate boxes and shortbread biscuits, why not?  This is the only time of the year, where it seems to me to be a time when I can self indulge without feeling guilty.  

Personally, I love Christmas, I love the smells, the feel, the sounds, the way the days close into darkness and the way the nights seem to last forever.  I adore Christmas, because Christmas is when the television channels way up and actually give us value for our money!  Shops are brighter and are adorned with rows upon rows of beautiful clothes; cashmere, wools, silks, sequinned dresses and sparkly heels!  Chestnuts roasting on the streets, and children singing in huddled groups.  I love Christmas!  I love Christmas dinner...yum!   But whilst we are all cheerful (rightly so) and engrossed in Christmas, please may I request that we all take a moment to give a thought...

This Christmas, give a thought to those around us, and please, let us remember them from time to time.

This Christmas give a thought for all the elderly; they once cared and looked after you in their youth and sacrificed for your well being.  They also once had made your Christmases special and many a times have they made you believe in the magic of Santa.  

This Christmas spare a thought for the beggar on the streets; just because you feel full does not mean that he does!  Just because you are able to work, does not mean that he can!  Just because you have surplus food that is thrown away each evening, does not mean that he has!

This Christmas, don't look down upon the man who sleeps rough; if he had a home to go to, he would have gone there!

This Christmas, spare a thought for our soldier who is stuck out in a foreign land defending our country so that the likes of you and me can enjoy our Christmas in peace! Spare a thought for him as he looks on upon the chaos and destruction, with only the memory of his loved ones to keep him going.  Our tinker soldier, defending us.

This Christmas, think for a moment of the broken hearted mother; whose son is not beside her, but in a far off land, weeping for him as she stuffs the turkey and puts on a brave face for the rest of her family.  

This Christmas think of the runaway, who is not a rebel, but a poor, defenceless kid, who has no choice,who still needs love.  Think of that kid and don't walk past.

This Christmas, think of them who are deprived, they may be thousands of miles away, but don't let that be an excuse for their suffering!

This Christmas, amidst your shopping, your festive preparations, your turkey basting and your cheerful lights. This Christmas, in spite of your busy schedules, and your shopping bags and that long night spent decorating that Christmas tree, please, please, stop for a moment, pause in your tracks, and spare a thought, a single thought, feel a single wave of compassion and shed a tiny tear...for our brothers and sisters of the human race!  For surely this is what Christmas is all about; thought for the human race; the human face!

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

WISE OLD OWL!

WISDOM DOES NOT COME WITHOUT A PRICE, NOR IS IT FOR THE FAINT HEARTED; WISDOM'S PRICE IS OFTEN INFINITE BOREDOM AND A PENANCE OF WATCHING THE REST OF THE WORLD HAVING FUN!

As many of my friends would like to nickname me; I am known amongst the group as the preacher!  They love me, I know, but they don't love having fun with me; I have been told that I seem to participate little and shake my head quite a lot when fun is being had.  Why, you (and I have often) ask, have I chosen this stick-in-the-mud attitude at the prime of my life. Have I taken up new religious vows or joined a convent of sorts?  No.  Do I profess to be holier than thou and have a squeaky clean background?  No.  Have I been blessed by a revelation and have sworn to be good, honest and true? No.  None of the above, in fact, I have a very bohemian appearance, quite a tolerant approach to all people, I believe in freedom of expression more than anyone.  So what then?

I am not judgemental, honest.  I am not a prude and I am no stick in the mud...well not in essence.  the problem I suffer is a problem which I think can be directly related to the fact that I am a writer.  You see, by nature of my ...nature, I am compelled to analyse and assess situations, I see potential and pitfalls in scenarios, I study faces and features and behaviours and in my mind, come up with an outcome to situations, personalities and actions.  It is not something I do on purpose, instead it is something that I find myself doing involuntarily.  The more adapt I become at writing, the more polished my writing becomes, the more intricate and complicated my plots become, the more my mind reasons and calculates and draws up a conclusion.

Ah, take me back to days of ignorance, where laughter and happiness were indeed real, where I could not see behind the masks of mirth that my companions wore!  Take me back upon the wings of illusion and let me soar up high into a bright blue sky!  The mist upon my eyes was the blessing in disguise; for now I see, I truly see!

And I find that this ability to read and see into scenarios has spilt into my real life; the more I write, the more I come up with morals in my stories, the more I see injustice, danger and untruth in the world.  Thus, compelling me to impart my knowledge on my friends and family.  I am beginning to sound like a pastor on a Sunday sermon, and the worst thing is, I can actually hear myself!  I can also feel my soul cringing as the words of so-called wisdom leave my pierced, opinionated lips!  Dancing on tables is no longer fun, getting tipsy is stupid and chatting up strangers is very dangerous. Entertaining any sort of trouble, be it a little Christmas debt or a sneaky white lie, becomes a potential for a disaster!  My friends have tried to understand, they have tried to humour me, they have even tried to appreciate me, but have begun to tire of me!  'Stop being a stick in the mud!' they all say.  I realise with great anxiety that I am probably turning into my mother!  'But I am not a stick in the mud,' I argue in my mother's voice, 'I'm only trying to warn you!' 

And as for my husband, he simply asks, 'What is the matter with you, you old crow?  I behave much younger than you, you never want to have fun any more!'  To which I puff my chest, pierce my lips and simply give a half hour long speech at the importance of being sensible, grown-up and mature!  

Read my novels though, and in them you will find, murder, sex, prostitution, fun and games and lots of foolish love!!  I guess I live my foolishness through the characters in my stories and reserve judgement for the world in which I live!

Where lovers' hands so easily entwined and lovers' promise too easily believed; what more can describe heaven, than a blissful union of two beating hearts?  The days of blind joy, and muffled voices and a clarity of the drunken soul.  

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

HOW DO I APPEAL???

Now, it's no lie that almost every author will write firstly for the pure love of writing.  Most of us, if not all, feel compelled by some obscure force to write and write and write!  Most of us see the world in different shades of colour and have a need to share with others.  We see characters enriched and have a desire to bring them to life upon the pages of our novels.  Nothing gives us greater pleasure than to create, animate and bring forth a character which is living and breathing and thinking upon page after page of a mini world, parallel to this, of our own creation.  Power in our fingertips, insight in our minds, stories at the tips of our tongues.  There is nothing that can compare to the power of imagination; because to imagine is to escape into a world of your own making, to let go of all inhibitions and spread our broken wings. To imagine is an alternative to reality and reality often drags!  

Now that's great; need met and desire fulfilled!  But now we come to the more difficult part, the part which every writer struggles or has struggled with at some point in their career; the appealing to others!  Remember, the writing part is the personal part, because that part was done in private, at the comfort of your own desk, in the safety of your own home. Now comes the real test, the bit where you have to put yourself out there and get someone to notice you.  Not as easy as it seems; for there are so many obstacles in your way, you'll soon realise that your resolve and determination are put to a very harsh test!  To mention a few, the obstacles in your way can vary from the style of your writing to the current market trend that's out there.  Not to mention that it is extremely difficult to break into the world of publishing; most big publishers do not want unsolicited manuscripts (which means, no author without Agent representation) and will not even give your manuscript a second glance!  Most Agents will be extremely picky (with good reason, they have to be sure they can sell your work) and they are often harder to obtain than publishers.....get the picture???  So one moves onto independent publishers in the hope of finding a platform.  And let me say, thank God for independent publishers, for they are a Godsend to most of us!  But then there is a catch, the catch?  you will find that you will need to do an awful lot of self promotion yourself!  Whilst the independent publisher will do a good job and give you very good treatment, they have not the bookshelf space a giant publisher might have in bookshops, nor the millions to put behind your promotion of that of the 'big boys', nothing personal, it's just a fact!  So the responsibility falls on you to promote yourself.  Easier said than done!

Don't ask me how it's done; if I knew I would be a millionaire by now!  The point is, one never really knows what or how to appeal to others.  You have tasks set out once you have published a book; mainly to sell as many copies as possible. And although your book is doing nicely on Amazon and other websites, you now need to spread the word to the masses. One way to do this is by book signing, but when you do approach shops, you are often told that the shop can not let you book sign because of blah, blah, blah!  Which basically means nothing to you, because they get the books free and only make a profit if they sell and never make a loss because they can send the books back!  Enough meetings with store managers and lame excuses can leave a writer quite disheartened!  You know you need to get the promotion but you can't pester the shop managers; you'll only end up making enemies and that is no good.  Remember, no matter how frustrating it may seem, you need the store managers' help at some point!  

The other way to promote yourself is to try and get yourself in the local paper; ring up, tell them you are a local writer and you've just been published!  Easy right?  Every local paper likes to write about a local writer, show some community spirit?  Wrong!  Basically, you are often regarded as wasting their time!  But come to them with a burglary story (as I did a few years back) and they will jump at your misfortunes, because it's juicy gossip!

The third way to promote yourself is to try and get yourself an interview on local radio....huh, have you tried?  It is like trying to get into Buckingham Palace!

The fourth way is to go on social media.  Yes, tweet, Facebook it and tumblr your way to the top.....um, right....okay, where the hell is the top???

The fourth way, of course, is to blog, get enough blog followers and your name will become popular.  

I personally have found this way to be effective, as many people on the web have   already approached me and expressed their pleasure in my blog!  At least with blogging, you know that you are reaching someone and yet you are sufficiently far enough not to be seen as pestering!

And as my friend Christine once suggested; perhaps a stint on Big Brother might do the trick!  Who knows, I might just put myself forward.......

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

THERE ARE...

There are stories to be shared, things that need to be said, people that need to be told.  There are a thousand reasons not to and a million reasons why we should.  Lest we forget and the suffering is all in vain,lest we comply with injustice and turn a blind eye.  

There are tears of despair, tears of anger and tears of regret. There are breaths taken in fear, breaths taken in desperation and gasps of anxiety.  There are breaths taken in sorrow as they predict the stories of the human race.  

There are stories to be told, names to be shared and things that need to be said.  As the hand of humanity beats against the rhythm of life, hearts beat to the rhythm of life, life beats to the drumming of the hearts, entwining in rhythmic

motion. 

Blood runs through veins, veins that run to arteries and arteries that run to the life force and saturate the human race. Imprinting and decoding and reinventing humanity.  

Seas that beat against rocks, rocks that crumble from the mountains and mountains that peak from out of the seas. All marking and shaping and coding and decoding and reinventing the life force. 

There is life that is born and life that dies, there is life which is brought about and life which is destroyed.  And there is life which lingers in the hollow eyes of memory, making good of its existence by haunting the rest for all eternity.

There are stories to be said, thoughts to be shared, things that should have been told.  Sweat that saturates the earth, tears that feed the plants and fear that clouds the skies.  

There are clouds that shelter the earth, rain that exposes the secrets, and lightening that jolts the people.  There is justice in injustice if hope is let go, and happiness in unhappiness if it serves the purpose.  An incorruptible corruptness in a world of manufactured dreams, where souls are ten a penny and tears are plentiful.  Where souls are bought for as little as an illusion and sold on at a profit to line the rich man's pocket; to keep him appeased.  

There are stories to be shared, love that needs to be told, things that haven't been said.  There is famine and war, there is pain and suffering.  There is the lost dream that lingers in the corner of the poor man's eye, the shattered hope that beats at the heart of the victim and the broken, wondering spirit that plays upon the mind of the lost.  

There is the lost world of make belief, the lost hope in the eyes of intoxication.  There is the sorrow that sits on the temple of the head, reminding us all of the inevitable.  There is the glare of the sun, exposing the secrets and the harshness of the night, under the vast and lonely universe. 

There are stories to unfold, hope that needs to be shared and things that must be told.

There are dreams in nightmares and nightmares in reality and reality which seems like but a dream.  There is illusion in deception and deception in the truth.  All held together by the poor man's hope and desperate need for salvation.  

There are ...there are stories to be told. 

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

ALONE IN MY BUSY MIND!!

Now, when life gives you lemons you make lemonade, right? There is always a positive side to every negative and the sun always, always shines, even if the skies are grey and overcast! The world spins to many different tunes and there is more than one way to find happiness.  In other words, there is room enough for all of us in this life!  Yet in my mind, in my writer's mind, amongst the jargon, words, ideas and half plots of stories that are all fighting to get out at the same time, I often find myself ..... well I often find myself beside myself with desperation and frustration and an unhealthy need to push ahead!  

The need to live and relive and act and react and bring to life the reality of my warped and confused fragile mind often overwhelms me to the point of mild depression.  Why? Simple, I am a writer; which means I have an over active imagination and a fragile self esteem.  I need to imagine in order to feel complete.  I need to create worlds at my finger tips in order to build walls of armour and fortresses of disguise.  My temper flares as do my plots and goes on a low as does my will to continue what I am doing!  I am basically the blank page on which I write and I shape and reshape myself image by plots and fantasies. I only ever truly belong when I am in my novels and the world, the real world, is but a fictional reality that I find myself forced to reside in.... insanity is never that far away!

Life in it's stark form tends to bore me and leaves me despondent, I need to create and alter it slightly in order to feel whole.  And though there is lots I love about my life, lots I appreciate and I do have a lot to be grateful for, this is a problem I have suffered from an early age; my imaginary friends always seemed to follow me around as a child, and when it came to choosing between them and the real world, they always seemed to come up trumps!  They understood me, they appreciated my quirkiness more than any real life person could, and yes, I am aware...it could be because they were merely an extension of myself, a world which I had created.

When days were grey, I could conjure up the sun and when friends were sparse I could have a whole crowd around me.  And criticism was not present in my world, only in the outside world.  Inside my mind, the world was how it should be....playing to my tune!  In my world the world was real; real in my perception and solid in my convictions.  In my world, I was able to explore dangerous situations safely, love without getting hurt, cry without shedding any tears.  In my world....in any writer's world, the world is a playground, full of adventure without limitations or taboos.  

I suffer what most writers suffer; I exist in two worlds, coinciding and colliding; often intruding on one another, sometimes crashing into each other and wobbling at my

sensitivities and making me temperamental.  I see the personalities of people as though I were looking through a microscope; I read several traits into one personality and understand far more the intricate body gestures and facial expressions.  I see human love, suffering, anguish and distress, I see poverty and wealth and read into all what I see.  And it overwhelms and overpowers and sometimes I just need to recreate it all on paper in order to make sense of it all!  To stop the story reel rolling, and to quieten the confusion in my head....I recreate it all in order to kill it all!

In order to revive it all again and make sense of the world in which I exist!  To quieten my dreams and sleep soundly, knowing that I have reinterpreted the world the way I see it.   Madness? Perhaps, or maybe just a different point of view. Whatever you want to call it, rest assured most of 'us' writers have the same predicament, live with the scenarios that play themselves out day in day out in our minds.  Dream of normality yet seek to find it upon the twisted pages of our stories.  It is how we make sense of the world.  And when we are not heard, when we are not picked up and read, it leaves us self doubting and empty.  When we pour our hearts and souls out upon the blank pages and nobody notices, it leaves us wondering, it leaves us doubting....it makes us invisible and renders us vulnerable.  

For what are we if not the ghosts that play upon the haunted house of the minds?  What are we if not the spirit that shapes and reshapes the cognitive thinking of our readers?  What are we if we are not able to pass in and out of people's senses and thoughts?  What are we, if we are not writing the world to rights?

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

TEN WAYS TO KILL A WRITER!

Unbeknown to many people and not much discussed in public circles; is the fragile and indeed risky state of a writer.  You see we all think of writers as strong, intellectual types with a vast insight in life that nothing can possibly bother them.  Yet we find those strange people are often plagued by a sense of great despair and a tendency to sink deep into depression.  Why, you may ask, as those delightful beings literally have the whole world at their fingertips; creating and dictating stories and worlds which dazzle and capture the masses.  The answer is quite simple; they being the creators of stories and worlds and characters and morals and myths, leaves them rather vulnerable and open to so many of the elements of human torture, mockery and criticism   The fact they are able to create, feel the need to invent, have a burning desire to play peeping Tom in fictional lives, is indication enough of the vast insecurities they themselves feel about themselves!!  They are not sure of their own self worth and justification they endeavour to seek it through 'fictional avatars'; for every writer will 
have a character in their story which has an element of their real self; you as the reader, have just got to find it.  And if you are lucky enough to actually know the writer personally, you will start to see a certain character emerging in all the writer's novels, under the guise of many, many names! 

And in spite of what the ordinary reader may think; these writers are so easily destroyed, so vulnerable are they in their insecurities that one can simply pick and pull away at one of their threads and completely unravel them!  For as writers, all they have is their carefully constructed image, their persona, their oh so fragile alter ego!  

THERE ARE SURE WAYS TO KILL A WRITER, AND NONE OF THEM INVOLVE GUNS!

1.  Putting them under mental pressure to produce a piece of fiction!  A writer is essentially an artistic being, and asking them to write on demand is a sure way to kill their creative side!!

2.  Belittling their writer's block and labelling them 'just lazy' is a sure way to keeping them blocked for even longer! There is nothing that clogs the mind quite like someone standing over you asking if you are unblocked yet!

3.  The key word is in 'writer', they are not, will never be and have never been domestic people!  Chores such as cleaning and cooking is a drain on their creative juices and frankly quite boring!

4.  Whilst their spouses may think it is fun to stay up all night and watch telly and can't understand why, since all the writer does is sit at a desk 'enjoying' themselves, they can't stay up till the early hours of the morning watching films!  A writer needs rest and lots of brain power, since, really, it does take more than a few brain cells to come up with an entire 

plot!


5.  I know it is tempting to bring that smug writer down a peg or two, but believe me, they are so weak, so fragile, that any personal criticism will tip them over the edge.

6.  One sure way to kill the artistic essence of a writer, is poverty!  Yes, yes, the art thing is lovely and very romantic...but even a writer would like to eat from time to time!

7.  Asking a writer if they are in the 'right profession' is a sure way to destroy their confidence!

8.  If there is nobody to read their books to, a writer will surely perish!









9. Not getting recognition from bookshops, critics, or even locals, is a sure way to make a writer feel invisible!

10.  Trying and succeeding to understand your writer will only result in self destruction on the writer's part!!