AUTHOR'S CORNER;

ASK YOURSELF; DO YOU REALLY WANT TO WRITE A NOVEL?

It's every writer's dream, right?  The finished product upon the shelves of bookshops across the country.  The accolade that comes with the mere title of becoming an author.  The fame and acknowledgement from your peers and an instant leap into stardom that one can only expect with becoming published.  It is the last bit of the jigsaw puzzle, the final nail in your enemy's coffin, all those who doubted you.  Makes sense, it's only logical that as writers, we have something substantial to show for our talents.  Every time you close your eyes, you can picture yourself upon the cover of a magazine, or your name up in lights amongst the other well acclaimed, well accomplished authors of your time.  At last people will listen, people will read, people will know you.  At last you will have a voice and your thoughts will penetrate and influence the lives of so many others.  People will read you on the bus, on the train coming home from work, thousands of people will pick up your book on a lazy Sunday afternoon and simply bask in your words and delight in your story.  Holidaymakers will pick up a copy in the airport shop, on their way to some far off land, to lie on the beach and smile at your literary abilities.  Sounds great.  You can now die a happy man!

THE LONELY TRUTH......

For every successful, well known, multi-millionaire writer out there, there are a thousand not so well known, (albeit successful) not so rich, and very frustrated published writers!  Writing is not a mechanical process, it is not a thing of logic, it is not a business proposition.  Writing is neither cathartic nor cleansing; it is not with the revealing of one's hidden secrets that fame and fortune shall unravel.  It is not a project one can put into process and expect an exact outcome, writing is not a money weaver.  Because, if you are writing for any of those purposes, then my friend, you shall be sorely disappointed!  Writing is an art!  And like any other art out there it is pure and unbridled, it is wild and can not be tamed, it will not yield to your will, instead, you may have to yield to it!  Art forms do not make money, they are just there for the pleasure.  The only reason we make money out of any art form, is because one has been lucky enough to have had a following at the right space in time, with the right kind of crowd and the right climate.  This does not mean that the others were no good.  

Don't take your writing as a business proposition, the minute you do, you will no longer be creative.  The moment you stop being creative, is the moment you will be stuck forever!  Don't think about your writing as the next best selling novel, if you do that, you will never write that best seller, because you'll be too busy thinking and not creating!  Don't measure yourself or compare yourself to other writers, if you know you can write, if you can feel it, if the words of inspiration are in your head, then that should be proof enough for you.  Don't ever think.

An author's life is not filled with awards and best sellers and book signings.  The truth is very few authors make it to that stage.  The truth is, it's long, lonely days in solitude and hard work.  It is many manuscripts sent to publishers and many rejections received.  It is chasing after book sellers trying to arrange book signings, or begging newspapers to give you a review!  And on occasion, if we are lucky, we might hit the charts, or be accidentally read by some film producer, or may be even die in a tragic accident and shoot to fame that way!  But on the whole, remember, it is an art and we do it for the love of the art!

We write because we know we can, we write because we have something to say, because we are able to say it in a way not many can.  We write because we have been gifted and we want to share that gift, we need to share that gift, even if it is with only a few others.  We write because that is what we were made to do!  We write because we love to write.  And every novel, every plot, every idea, every single word is heartfelt and real to us!

That is why we write!

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

MYSELF'S IMAGE IN THE MIRROR

(fiction)

In a moment of truth, at a point of time, in the split second between reality and imagination.  In that split second that lingers in the blinking of the eye and an image just barely seen from between the flutter of the eyelid; an image which is half real, half mad and grey in essence.  In a moment of truth, where the dusk and the night have not yet merged and have not yet linked, but stand side by side, almost touching like ghostly figures.  Where the last crow's cry can be heard of an evening as it flies off to seek refuge as the rustling of the trees hush the world into silence.  Where the sun's traces can be faintly seen upon a darkening sky and a bed of clouds gather in preparation for the moon.

In a moment of truth, when the shadows play upon the walls and the houses deflate and creak into restful slumber.  Where the dead feel rested and the living feel weary of life's great weight upon them.  In the moment of truth where heart and soul and mind berate one another for sorrows caused.  Where the human condition is apparent for what it truly is - murky,dark, sad and wanton. 

In a moment of truth, as I stand and bare all, my candle burning faintly and my image shimmering in the glass in front of me.    Where the ghosts have ceased to haunt and the spirits have flown away.  In an empty house, in an empty room with a single candle and a glass mirror.  I see her, I see her through the mist of sorrow.  I see her; wide eyed and ashen faced, staring back at me, and not even the soft candle light can hide her despair. 'Come onto me,' she beckons, 'come onto me and let us be one!' 

In a moment of truth, I see her, the child, the girl, the woman, the old maid!  I see the years in her eyes and the harshness upon her face.  I see the wind in her hair and the rain upon her back.  I see the tears in her hollow eyes and the words in her dried lips.  I see the daughter, the wife, the mother, the grandmother!  I see all of her and she is all nothing!  Withered and worn by time's passing hand.  Tired and forgotten by those she once knew.  Used as many women get used!  Fading, disappearing into the shadow of herself; no longer needed, no longer wanted, surplus and in the way! 'Come onto me,' she wails, 'come let us be one, let youth rejoice with age!'

In a moment of truth, where love's gentle hand has faded and passion's fierce breath has died.  Where memory has become the only sustenance for living, I see her, I see her!  I see past the old face and the crooked back, I see past the sad eyes and down turned mouth; I see her.  Her with her youthful glow, her with her smile so radiant.  I see the beauty and charm, I see the loveliness and laughter, I see her pretty eyes and full lips. 'Come onto me! she cries out to me.  'Come and join me and let us forever be one, let us join youth with age, sorrow with pleasure, let us infuse good with bad, happiness with despair and spark off life!  Come onto me, come on to me and let me live once more!'

In the moment of truth, where pain is so sharp through my soul, and the memories of loss and love are intertwined and the yearning of hope and despair are mixed with fear, I hear her and I take heed, 'Come onto me,' she whispers.  'Come onto me and bring me back to life, reach your hand inside the glass and pull me out, bring me back, let me breathe.  Join want with need, desire with fear, anger with joy and let us live, let us live!'

I see myself's image in the mirror and recognise her well; for she be me in years to come, and I am her before I take the journey.  We are not past and future, but instead parallel and intertwined and mixed and backwards and forwards! We are each other and not at all the other; for I am then and she is when.....  I look down at my pretty hand and admire my ring, pretty diamond ring.  I look over at my wardrobe and see my dress, white lace and long.  I look back at her and she smiles faintly, 'Come onto me, take me and run, run and don't let me become what you see now!'

I reach into the glass, take her hand, pull her out and she comes out with such force she stumbles on top of me and merges into me.  I run, run into the night, my dress hanging in my room, downstairs the wedding preparations are laid out.  I run, and she laughs; the young woman inside me, no longer old and battered by life and marriage.  I run, and take her with me; myself's image in the mirror!

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

THE DAY IT RAINED

(Fiction)

As I walked the walk and swaggered my body, hands in pockets and head held high, I could feel the edge of the knife rubbing against my fingers, threatening and dangerous; my only friend.  The streets so quiet, not a soul dared to roam.  It was a street that had belonged to the people but was now claimed by the demons of the night.  It was a street that had once held trade, mothers, children, life.  It was a street that had once promised a community a safe haven but now offered nothing but bloodshed.  I walked, I walked down the street with my head held high!  My trainers splashing in the puddles and kicking old newspapers, cans and the odd syringe.  Cigarette buts scattered everywhere along the edges of bloodstained cobbled streets.  I walked.  

I owned the night and the streets within it; all was my domain.  For in it I have found my family, they who took me in.  In it I have found the darkness to be soothing, the dirt to be cleansing and the shadows clear to see.  In it I can hide my fears and keep my tears from falling, in this darkness of the night.  And there you are, looking back at me, from your window, behind your curtains, don't think I can't see, because I can!  Look on, look on, mother, it's only me!

  For there was a time you ought to have looked, only that time has long passed; when I needed you mother, when I called out to you!

There was a time when you should have seen, instead you were too busy, busy finding love in endless men who came and went like ships in the night!

Men who loved you, drugged you, took your money and then beat you!  Men who hurt you until you obeyed their every whim!  Men who kept you a prisoner within the murky waters of their own self destruction!  Who made you believe that you were nobody without them, and had you begging, pleading for mercy!  

Men who tortured you with drugs and booze!

Men who belittled you and made you choose; they made you choose what a mother should never be asked to choose, they made you choose between them and me!

Who looked longingly up the stairs to where my room was and dreamt of sordid deeds!

And where were you?  Where were you when I called out to you?  When I hid under the bed and coward amongst old trainers and dusty socks?  Where were you when I could hear their footsteps upon my bedroom floor, or when they crouched down and peered at me as I shivered with fear?  You were getting high!  I prayed and prayed, but you were getting high!

But I was meant to be your baby!

So I started hanging out in the street where it was safe, with all the other kids that felt it was unsafe to stay home!

And we took refuge with each other and started looking out for each other, soon we became a family.  But where were you?  Where were you mother if not in the bed of some loser or in the arms of a bloke from down the pub?  Ah yes, you were in bed with a needle and well loved up by the effects of the drug!  

And when I stayed out late or got into trouble, you never bothered to ask me why.  When I came in late did you bother to ask if I was hungry?  And when social services came knocking at your door, it was me who had to clean up your mess, open some windows and pretend that we were happy families.  I even put flowers in a vase, all so that social services wouldn't take me away!

I was all alone and all you had was me!  What a burden to put on someone so young.  But You clung on, and so I clung on, in the hope that one day you might return to me; the mother you should have been.  For I was your child, I was your child...

And I clung on to you and I prayed and I hoped and I begged God for your return.  But you did not return.  So I went to find some love.  Down lonely streets and deserted alleyways.  In the arms of a gang that called me Bro, and made me feel wanted.

But I kept coming back, kept begging you for love, but you were too busy looking down a bottle or shooting up to take much notice of me.  You were too busy loving men who could never love you instead of loving the one person who could - me.  

I cried for you; bitter, salty tears.  I cried for you and all you did was stare down that bottle and curl your lip up at me.  I walked the streets crying for you.  Kicking up puddles and longing for you!  Wishing I was someone else, wishing you were dead!

But then something happened; it rained.

And then it rained...

And then it rained!

And it rained symbolically on my life and I knew...I knew then who I was meant to be!  I knew clearly; I could see myself, I could hear my name being called out as the wind carried it across the land!  I knew, I knew who I was!

I was not your child; I was a child of the wind, I was a child of the earth, I was a child of the rain!  I was never yours, never theirs, never belonged to any of your men!  I was a child of earth.  So I set myself free; by being me and not what everyone else expected me to be!

And now as I walk down that old familiar cobbled street, and look up and see your curtains twitching.  Now as I kick the puddles and take in the cold air through my nostrils, I smile.  I smile and my smile turns to laughter as I look up at the rain and let it drench me!  For blessed be the rain sent down from the skies.  I found myself the day it rained.

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

EASTER CHAOS AND SEVERE WRITER'S BLOCK!

Yes, that time is upon us once more; the time when every writer puts down their pen or computer and resigns her/himself to complete and utter chaos.  That time when every writer in the western world abandons all sense and falls down a twisted spiral of confusion and complete depression.  It is a time when all hope is lost, all morals are abandoned, all principals dispelled!  It is a time when dignity ceases to exist, sanity is thin and manners become a thing of the past!  Yes dear friends, it is Easter. and with it, comes the Easter Holidays!

Two long weeks of sunny bliss, with your young ones off school, nestling happily within the bosom of your love, holding onto your hands with their tiny, blessed ones, and looking up at you with loving, adoring eyes... and waiting, yes waiting, for YOU to entertain them!!

And they are lovely, of course they are, they are yours!  And the school knows this, and all its teachers cheer in happiness at the prospect of having two whole child free weeks, whilst they nestle happily in YOUR arms for TWO WHOLE WEEKS!  And further more, they want you, yes you, not the telly, not the Play Station, not the bike that you bought them last year, which they still have not played with yet!  No, they want you.  They want you to be there.

THEY WANT YOU TO TAKE THEM TO THE PARK!

Yes they do, they want you to take them to that local park and watch them play and run around whilst they completely ignore you. You obviously end up making friends with all the other abandoned parents!  Then of course there is the rush to that ice cream van, as they happily order everything off the menu and expect you to pay for it!

THEY NEED YOU TO ORGANISE THEIR HOLIDAY!

Yes, they want you to ring their friend's mum to organise a play date.  They need you to iron that one wrinkled beyond ironing shirt they have found in the back of their wardrobe, because that is the only shirt that will do for a play date!  Oh, and they no longer can be bothered to look after that family pet they had so wanted to have...so deal with it!

IT IS PLAY DAY, THEIR FRIENDS ARE COMING!

You bet, and guess who has been picked to entertain and amuse those lovely friends?  Yep, it's you!  Oh and some of them are vegetarians and others only eat meat!

YOU ARE EXPECTED TO APPEAR PERFECT FOR THEIR FRIENDS

Because all THEIR friend's mothers are super-dooper perfect and extra scrumptiously house proud!  Their mums bake their own bread!!

AND YET THEY ARE PROFOUNDLY EMBARRASSED BY YOUR LACK OF HOUSEKEEPING! 

It is heart breaking when you overhear your children apologise to their friends for how messy you are!  It is a shame filled moment!!

WHEN IT'S JUST YOU AND THEM, THEY FIGHT ALL THE TIME!

Yes, here is one of life's big mysteries, whenever you happen to find yourself alone with the kids, and there is no park to go to or friends to invite, and daddy is out to work, they seem to fight, fight, fight!  Oh, and yes, they make sure they fight around you!

GRANDMA TIME!

That's right, you spend most of the year avoiding your in-laws, making sure you see them only at Christmas, and along comes Easter and all of a sudden grandma is on your doorstep wanting to spend quality time with the kids.  She also wants to see how badly you are coping!

THE ERUPTION!

This usually happens in the last few days of the Easter break, so that without a shred of doubt, the entire holiday is remembered as you just being angry and grumpy!  You tried very hard to control yourself, and you smiled and obliged them, but something had to give!

THE RELUCTANT PHONE CALL TO MUM!

Yeah, you will, you'll ring your mum and let her know what a failure you've been and how much of a disaster the Easter break has been.  And she in turn will criticise all your mothering skills and will tell you she told you so!