Birth of a Book

Sorry for my absence for a few days, but the reality is that when it's sunny in England, you just gotta get out there and enjoy it. So, that's what I've been doing (when it's not too hot, anyway!). The weather here has been gorgeous, and after two rubbish summers I'm ready for it! But it's significantly cooler today, so I can finally line up my thought again.

A few days ago, I had a very exciting moment: I saw all my work come together in the shape of a book! OK, it's just a proof copy for reviewers -- and the cover needs a bit more work -- but it was still pretty exciting to see the stack of papers I'd been endlessly editing take a recognisable form. The glossy black-covered book felt so foreign that when I held it in my hands, I had to remind myself that I had written it. It'll be even stranger, I'm sure, once I see 24 Hours: London in a bookstore. I can't wait until that moment!

This is a baby step, but for me it felt like a giant leap forward on the road to publishing.

Happy Canada Day!

Yes, it's July 1, the one day Canadians feel it's actually OK to show we're proud to be Canadian. So what is Canadian?

I have pondered this question several times during my five years living in the UK, and my two years in Poland. What is it that makes us so different from our unforgettable neighbours to the south? And are we really that different?

I'm often mistaken for an American, due to my accent. I'm always quick to point out that I am, in fact, from a completely different country. But when people ask me what's the difference, I'm at pains to answer succinctly. Is it that we like hockey? No, Americans have that passion (obsession, some might say) as well. Tim Horton's? Nope, it's spread across the States. Crazy cold winters and lots of snow? Again, it's like that in the US, too. Perhaps it's the way we say 'about' (I've never understood that one, but apparently it's different!).

I'm not sure Canadian is something that can be defined. Perhaps it's in the way we react to events that find their way through to our little peaceful piece of the world. Like the 9-11 tragedy, when the people of Gander, Newfoundland -- a town of only 9,900 people -- took in 39 trans-Atlantic flights forced to land there, with over 6,600 passengers and crew, opening up their own homes and even organizing sight-seeing outings for those stranded.

Or, indeed, in the referendum of 1995, when the Quebecois voted on the possibility of Quebec independence. Over 100,000 Canadians from across the country travelled to Montreal to show their desire for Quebec to stay Canadian. And it did, with a narrow majority voting to remain in the country.

I don't know what it is but I do know this: I'm proud to be Canadian!

Summer in the City

Seems it's either feast or famine when it comes to weather in London! The heat has made me wilt somewhat, so I leave you with this rare sight from BBC London weather.

Hidden London: Ye Olde Mitre Pub

It's been awhile since I've done a 'Hidden London' post, but I tracked down this pub yesterday and it is so hidden, it deserve to be found.

The Man and I made a voyage to Hatton Garden, London's centre for diamonds, yesterday. We were on a hunt for wedding rings, but I knew Ye Olde Mitre was around there somewhere, so we decided to try to find it. After looking at some exorbitantly prices rings and wandering the streets for awhile, we finally decided to ask a jeweller where on earth this elusive drinking hole was to be found.

Turns out he was the perfect person to ask. He had a drink at that pub when he came to interview for his diamond apprenticeship at age 14. He pointed us in the right direction, and off we trotted.

The sign on Ely Court, off Hatton Garden.

Sadly, the pub was closed (it's only open on weekdays), but it was definitely worth a look. Apparently part of the bar is an old cherry tree that Elizabeth I danced the maypole around.

The passage-way back to Hatton Garden.

The facade of the pub.

WAG: The Results

WAG #16 Results and WAG #17 instructions below. All are welcome to join next week’s adventure!

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group 16 was “True Love” Go people watching and select a couple. Write about the “secret” part of their relationship… the things about this couple that they don’t show to the world.

The Writing Adventure Group is on Facebook. Join us there too, and get weekly reminders so you never miss an adventure.

————————–
How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Gail Stekler (New to WAG!)
Dan Powell
Frances Wookey
Mickey Hoffman
Christine Kirchoff
Paige Bruce
Marsha

Next Week:

“WAG #17: The One That Got Away”
From your own point of view (or the point of view of a stranger you observe) write a short scene about someone from the past who comes into the picture back suddenly. It can be an old boyfriend/girlfriend, a childhood friend, or anyone you haven’t seen for many years. It can be a sweet reunion, or a total disaster! It’s up to you.

Deadline: next Tuesday, June 30th.

On the Road (or Sidewalk) Again

Spotted about five minutes ago, out my window. Inside was a dapper man in a suit, beeping at all who slowed his progress.

He zipped by fairly quickly!

WAG: What Lies Beneath

I've been bad, bad, bad at doing the writing adventure group's exercises lately. But hopefully, I shall redeem myself with this attempt. This week the assigment is to select a couple. Write about the “secret” part of their relationship… the things about this couple that they don’t show to the world.

This week, I was inspired by this article in the oh-so-reputable Sun newspaper. Honestly, I don't know if they try to be entertaining, but they certainly succeed.

So here goes.

-----

'Honey, did you get it?' He lowers his voice and leans towards her.

Her eyes dart around the room. She nods. 'It's in the back garden. I gave it some lettuce. Isn't that what they eat?'

Her husband shrugs. 'I dunno. It won't be around be around for long, anyway. I've got the BBQ fired up. Jim and the boys are coming round at nine. It's gonna be one hell of a feast!'

She digs in her purse and holds out a paper. 'Here's the receipt. We can return it in fourteen days if we're not happy.'

'Honey, it ain't gonna be around for fourteen days, innit? We're 'aving it tonight!' He scans the paper. 'Hang on a second. Hang on! What the hell is this?' His finger stabs the paper.

She leans over. 'What? Yeah, I dunno, I just signed where I needed to. I didn't actually read it.'

His face is red. 'WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WE CAN'T EAT THE HORSE?'

Silence.

Finally, he says: 'We'll do it in secret. We'll roast it in the oven. I don't care how we do it, we're eating that horse.'

The Great Drinking Debate

Today I'm over at Pond Parleys (thanks for the invite, Toni and Mike!) debating drink. Head over and join in the fray!

Here's a taster (no pun intended!):

It's my first week in London. Straight from the Canadian hinterland (otherwise known as the country's capital, Ottawa), I saunter into a pub for my first real night out in the big city. My friend and I eagerly head for the bar. It's quarter to eleven, and the night is just beginning.

'I'll have a glass of house red,' I say, opting for the cheapest option on the menu. I've yet to start working, and my Canadian bank account is dwindling fast.

'Sorry, last call was fifteen minutes ago.' The bartender's bored with me already. '

What?' I look at my watch. Has time suddenly shifted forward by three hours? Surely no pub would close at 11!

Click here to read more.

Summer Sales... Already!?

Yesterday, while tooling around on High Street Kensington, my eyes were drawn to a large sign in Warehouse proudly proclaiming clothes for under £20! Under £15! And -- surely not -- under £10! Yes, the season of summer sales is upon us, even though we've yet to truly experience summer-like weather.

Not that I'm complaining. My meager budget barely allows me the extravagances of Primark, let alone the high street. Still, every summer I seem to end up buying things I don't need and, in retrospect, I don't even like. A moth to a flame, I was drawn inside the store, my eyes glazing over as I took in the row after row of bargains. I plucked two dresses from their hangers and plodded my way over to the fitting rooms, my legs moving as if of their own accord.

Pivoting in front of the mirror, one refrain managed to push itself through the consumerism-induced fog of my brain: Do I need this? I tore the dress off as if it was poisoned, hung it up and shoved it at the sales assistant. I would not be tempted; I would not buy yet another useless item I couldn't afford.

Out on the sidewalk, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had escaped, unscathed. Just another two months of summer sales to go!

Living in the Back Pocket of 8 Million People

Life in a big city has lots of benefits: the sheer amount of things to do; the diversity of its inhabitants; and the fact that you'll never get tired of exploring. But it also has one major drawback: noise.

I live in a row of Victorian terraces that backs onto another row of Victoria terraces, parallel to ours, with only small gardens in the middle. This means we have a perfect conduit for all the sounds of the neighbourhood to travel, ricochet and echo their way up and down the red-bricked exteriors of the buildings, straight to my ears.

There's the neighbour who lets his dog out three times a day to bark, endlessly, at God knows what. There's the American couple who live somewhere nearby, having a BBQ in their courtyard. The family torturing their children with French lessons; the birthday party with 50 screaming kids; the graduation do where for some reason, they just couldn't seem to stop playing Deacon Blue... and on, and on.

It's interesting, these slices of life that seep through our window. It heightens the feeling that we live in a community, that there's people around us, even if I still don't know them after five years of living here! The mingling of accents, of customs and traditions, is right there -- we don't even need to leave our flat.

I could do without the barking dog, though.

Hats and Horses

The Royal Ascot mixes tradition with outrageous fashion. For lack of anything that can really top it, I bring you this. Scroll through the series of ten to get the full picture.

BBC and Poetry

BBC Radio 3 is a wonder. No commercials, great classical music -- and poetry every morning (for six weeks, at least) at breakfast.

The Man and I always turn on Radio 3 on the weekends. Slowly sipping coffee while listening to concertos and debating the day ahead is our favourite way to start the morning. Lately, our ritual taken on an added significance with the BBC's poetry series. Read by the poets themselves, time seems to stop as we pause in whatever we're doing and cock our heads towards the radio, waiting for the words to fall through the air towards us.

Yesterday's selection was 'Shanky' by Katrina Porteous:

Shanky

Shanky is all England:
A barn-conversion.
Strangers in four-by-fours. Forgotten

Names: the Butty Meadow. Shanky Hall.
The nugget of a chapel.
Faith in ruins.

Down the Long Nanny Burn
A green gate leans.
Dark, witchy hawthorns

Point along the leat
To Shanky Mill,
Its bricked-up windows, walls

Empty, its rafters open
To the swifts, the rain;
The knotted fabric of the farm

Shrunk, first, to one man
Alone in his tractor cabin,
Radio on; then

To no one
But the nostalgic, who like it here
At nightfall, when

Black cows wallow in the burn
And the low sun
Floods everything golden.


Last week, we listened to the hypnotic voice of England's new poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, as she read her new poem 'Premonitions':

Premonitions

Dedicated with love to the memory of UA Fanthorpe

We first met when your last breath
cooled in my palm like an egg;
you dead, and a thrush outside
sang it was morning.
I backed out of the room, feeling
the flowers freshen and shine in my arms.

The night before, we met again, to unsay
unbearable farewells, to see
our eyes brighten with re-strung tears.
O I had my sudden wish -though I barely knew you -to stand at the door of your house,
feeling my heartbeat calm,
as they carried you in, home, home and healing.
Then slow weeks, removing the wheelchair, the drugs,the oxygen mask and tank, the commode,
the appointment cards,
until it was summer again
and I saw you open the doors to the gift of your garden.

Strange and beautiful to seethe roses close to their own premonitions,
the grass sweeten and cool and green
where a blackbird eased a worm into the lawn.
There you were,
a glass of lemony wine in each hand,
walking towards me always, your magnolia tree
marrying itself to the May air.

How you talked! And how I listened,
spellbound, humbled, daughterly,
to your tall tales, your wise words,
the joy of your accent, unenglish, dancey, humorous;
watching your ash hair flare and redden,
the loving litany of who we had been
making me place my hands in your warm hands,
younger than mine are now.
Then time only the moon. And the balm of dusk.
And you my mother.

Churchill's Castle

After residing in Eastern Europe for two years, where crumbling castles litter the landscape like... well, litter, such structures don't hold the same curb appeal for me as they once did. My one and only castle (OK, palace) experience in the UK was so disappointing I never again repeated the experience. Until now.


With the rain and cold scuppering our more ambitious travel plans, we decided on a day trip to Blenheim Palace, just outside of Oxford. The accidental birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill, it looked impressive enough from the outside to warrant a visit. So we piled into the car and a mere 50 minutes later (thanks to The Man's Cairo-style driving), we drove through the gates and up to a toll-booth. Turns out that despite being a UNESCO World Heritage site -- an entry fee of a mere £17.50 must be paid. Sulkily, I handed over the wad of bills.



Blenheim Palace.



But despite my sulkiness, I have to admit it was worth the price. The architecture of the palace is stunning, and the interiors do not disappoint. Filled with paintings and tapestries and with a grandiose library and dining room, it's a veritable feast for the eyes. The gardens are groomed to within an inch of their lives, and even the man-made lake looks idyllic.




The Italian Gardens.

After taking in the grounds, running through the second-largest hedge maze in the world and scaring the butterflies, we headed back to London -- £17.50 poorer but richer in culture and heritage.



In the centre of the hedge maze.

Wigmore Hall: Music Not For the Masses

My parents have departed after a rainy week in cold, cold London (all good weather always seems to vanish the minute they set foot in the country). Despite the brutal return to Autumn, we managed to squeeze in one of my favourite things: a concert in Wigmore Hall.

In the heart of quiet, staid Mayfair, Wigmore Hall never disappoints. From the minute you enter under the glass portico and spot the sea of white heads sporting suits and ties, you know some serious music will be played here. The intimate hall and great acoustics mean you never feel far from the performer, as if you're right on stage with them. Last week, we were lucky to see Bobby Chen, pianist extraordinaire.

We settled into our plush seats, perusing the cupola over the stage, and wondering just how old this Bobby Chen was. On the programme, he looked to be about fifteen. No sooner was the question out of our mouths than the couple in front of us turned around. He was thirty, they said, and we believed them: they had been his guardians when he first moved from Singapore to Surrey at age eleven. What followed was a conversation full of interesting tidbits about this child prodigy who had grown up to be every bit as successful as predicted. Apparently, after his guardians took him to Windsor Castle, Big Ben and the like, he asked them to 'stop taking him to interesting places' -- he just wanted to practice his piano.

And he was amazing. From Debussy to Prokofiev, he wooed the audience and we gave him a standing ovation in return. Meeting him with his guardians after the concert, he seemed humble and down-to-earth, slightly uneasy in the presence of so much admiration.

Once again, Wigmore Hall did not disappoint.

WAG: The Results

WAG #14 Results and WAG #15 instructions below. All are welcome to join next week’s adventure!

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group #14: Do Overs”. Think of a time where you’d like to change what happened - whether it’s to get that witty retort in or to say something you never got the chance to say. Write how it should have been and compare it to the reality.

The Writing Adventure Group is on Facebook. Join us there too, and get weekly reminders so you never miss an adventure.

————————–
How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Nancy Parra
Nixy Valentine
Dan Powell
Frances Wookey
Paige Bruce
J.M. Strother - Mad Utopia
Peter Spalton
Christine Kirchoff
Brenda M
Marsha
Mickey Hoffman

“WAG #15: Best Tool For The Job”

Thanks to Paige for the topic idea! Paige’s idea was to have the topic this week be about writing tools such as a keyboard or favourite pen, but I’d like to expand this to be any type of tool, whether it’s a gardening tool or a jackhammer or a toenail clipper. Describe a favourite tool in concrete terms, but also show how you (or whomever it belongs to) feel about using it, and how it leaves an individual or particular mark on the end product.

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #15 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear! If you do not, I will use the name as it appears on your email.)

Deadline: next Tuesday, June 9th.

The Way Things Weren't

This week's WAG is to write about an event in reality, then change it to what you would have liked it to have been (yes, I'm aware that is a very awkward sentence construction). I must apologise to the other WAGers; I have been very lazy about commenting on their posts and will try to do a better job in the future!

Last year, I worked part-time in a luxury spa to earn some cash while starting out on my writing journey. The job showed me a lot about the inner sanctum of the very wealthy (and vain), who stunned me with the level of patronisation they could reach. I was called 'dear' with a sneering tone; told to 'shut up', asked if I could spell the surname 'White'... and on, and on. Having been trained in the service industry of North America, where the customer is always right, I also endeavoured to kill them with kindness. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't -- people used to getting their way aren't generally that impressed with smiles instead of compliance.

But just once, I would have loved to have stared them right in their beady, Botoxed little eyes and given it to them straight: Listen, lady (or man - sometimes they were the worst!), I don't care how rich you are or how important you may be. You're hideous, you behave worse than a three year old, no-one likes you and no matter how much cosmetic surgery you have, you'll never be beautiful! Or happy! SO THERE!

Oh, to be so ballsy.

Getting Married in London... The Saga Begins

I promise not to turn this blog into a blow-by-blow description of my upcoming nuptials, but getting married in a foreign country definitely presents an interesting insight into the psyche of the nation.

Like why, for example, I need to have an 'interview' with a registrar of the borough (the part of London) where I live. Or why I need to wait sixteen 'clear' days -- with my notice of marriage posted outside Chelsea Town Hall -- to see if anyone objects to me marrying before I can actually do the deed. Or, indeed, why the registrar needs to know the occupation of my father!

So many questions, so many questions. I should point out that none of this is because I'm not a British citizen; with settlement status, it's exactly the same procedure a British citizen would undergo. Perhaps I'm just being naive (having never undergone through this whole rigmarole of getting married in Canada), but I believe that in my home land, you set the date, get a license within a week at most, the guests come, you sign a register and that's that!

It's more complicated here, for sure. The Man and I want to get married on the South Bank (borough of Lambeth) but we live in Kensington & Chelsea. Let the fun begin! First, we must go to Chelsea to give our 'Notice of Marriage'. Then, we have to provisionally hold our venues, get in touch with Lambeth, get a registrar from there to give us his/her availability for our date, then confirm our venues... then send out the invites! By the time this dance is over, any hope of finding a mutually convenient date for all parties is a moot point. You just hope you get married; sometime, somewhere!

Luckily for us, after chasing down (some might say stalking) a registrar from Lambeth, and after an 'interesting' interview with a registrar from Kensington & Chelsea, everything seemed to come together! Or at least, no-one's objected yet!

And why does the UK need to know my father's occupation for me to get married?

The registrar's answer: 'Because we're a bloody chauvinist country!'

Saturday, Soho, Pizza and Jazz

Can you get a better combination than that?

Last night, The Man (soon to be 'The Husband', although I think I'll stick with 'The Man' as 'The Husband' just freaks me out!) and I took a dive into Soho for a spot of jazz. More specifically, we were checking out a potential jazz duo for our reception. We'd never been to Soho Pizzeria but any place that doesn't charge cover to listen to jazz and lets you stay for hours as you munch pizza is a big plus in my books!

The Jane Parker duo turned out to be perfect for a summer-night boat ride down the Thames. Smokey-voiced, she belted out jazz classics and even agreed to have a go at interpreting a Bellini classic for us during our reception (good luck on that one, Jane!). The pizza was inexpensive (for Soho, anyway) and flavourful, and our Corsican waiter was spot-on with his service. I could barely believe we were still in Soho, but the nearby group on a hen night was a harsh reminder.

The Man watches Jane Parker at Soho Pizzeria.

After dinner, we crossed the street to Kingly Court. Just off of Regent Street, it's a small, hidden area with bars, restaurants and shops that neither one of us had been in before.

The coolest map I have ever seen at Kingly Court.

Inside Kingly Court.

Mannequin in shop window, Kingly Court.

As the surprisingly warm night started getting cooler and the sky darker, we headed back out to Piccadilly Circus and down the buzzing streets to our car.

Piccadilly Circus.

More Nice News!

The Man proposed!

Yes, after five years together, he popped the question on the spot where we first kissed, on the anniversary of the night we first met five years ago. It's safe to say that I wasn't expecting it; in fact, I had to collapse on a bench afterwards to recover from the shock!

Never one to celebrate occasions like birthdays or anniversaries, I was pleasantly surprised when he told me he'd booked a concert at the Royal Festival Hall, then dinner afterwards at the same restaurant we went to on our first date. Usually, I need to do a countdown a good month in advance to ensure he remembers any important dates.

It was a great concert with the London Symphonic Orchestra playing Brahms and Tchaikovsky, and a warm night as we strolled by the Thames to the restaurant. After consuming our dinner and wine, we wandered over to where we kissed, he asked me to turn around while he fiddled with the ring, and when I turned back to face him... he proposed!

We're planning to get married in the middle of August in a small ceremony with family and friends, and we're keeping it true London-style: ceremony in a Dali art gallery on the South Bank, then reception on a boat on the Thames. London has played such an important part in both our lives that we want to celebrate it, as well! Here's to life, love and London!

Dali Universe, County Hall, South Bank.

Missing, But in Action!

Thanks to everyone for the congratulations on my upcoming London book! I've been severely neglecting my blog due to -- well, life -- but now that the long weekend is behind me, I hope to be back on track soon!

Meanwhile, here's a photo of Hyde Park last Sunday. It was a glorious day!

Month of Good News!

I love May! I love May! I can't say it enough.

May has always signalled new beginnings to me: It's the month I first moved to Montreal to start my first 'real' job after graduating from my Masters; the month I came to London. And now, it's the month where two amazing things have happened. I'll ration the good news for maximum impact (and annoyance, I'm sure).

So today is Good News Bit Number One:

I have a book being published!




24 Hours: London, an hour-by-hour listing to all the cool and crazy things there are to do in this city, is set to be released in the UK in August 2009 - with other parts around the world to (hopefully) follow! If you're in the UK, you can pre-order your copy through that behemoth beginning with A that I shall not mention for fear of annoying independent booksellers.

I kept it quiet in case something went awry, but now that the copy is laid out, the cover designed and it's 'pre-orderable', it might just be safe. The book was a ton of fun to write and research and it totally rekindled my love for the city. It is indeed a great place to live.

A few of the cool things in the book:

- London's ecological dance club, where the lights are powered by the movement of dancers on the dance-floor.

- The Kniterati, a monthly knitting book group.

- Colin Firth's coffee shop.

- An artists' collection funded by KLF with the money didn't burn (literally!).

- A 24-hour beigel shop once frequented by Mick Jagger.

-Ghost theatres, ghost hunting, and ghost stations.

And oh, so much more!

If you or someone you know is coming to London... well, you know what to do!

WAG: Memory Lane

This week's writing assignment is to describe something from memory. It's going to be short, as my mind is operating under a considerable layer of fog these days!

----
Her hard, puffy cheeks are frozen into a permanent smile. I try to comb her hair, but the yarn-like strands are too thick to even pass through the comb. My heart sinks in disappointment -- hair-styling is one of the things I'd been looking forward to most. Her body is soft, pliable; stumpy arms and legs jammed into a pinafore. She smells like a foreign combination of plastic and baby powder. I sit her down on the bed with the rest of my stuffed animals for company. Ten pairs of blank black eyes follow me around the room, and I flee to the safety of humans.

Oxford Street Slalom

Today was unusual. Not only did I leave my flat (yes, there are days I don't go into the outside world), but I actually -- voluntarily -- went to Oxford Street, the Queen of the Consumerism. I had an errand to run just off of the dreaded stretch. Heavy-hearted, I took the Tube and alighted at the centre of commercialism itself: Oxford Circus. Quick as a flash, I darted across the busy road and onto Great Portland Street, leaving the retching buses behind me.

Errand finished, I was determined to make my way back to the flat as fast as I could. I picked up the pace, negotiating the traffic, eyes focused on the roundrel lighting my way home. Oh -- what's that? Miss Selfridges? I'll just duck inside. Ooh, TopShop! The bright colours were a siren song temporarily blinding me. Zombie like, I trailed through the racks of clothing, my hands drawn out to touch the soft shiny fabric.

No. I must be strong. Back up the escalator and out onto the street, I dodge the demons of commercialism: shoppers clutching their treasures, possessed by their possessions. They fix me with their eyes, hitting me with their bags as they pass by in an effort to make me succumb.

I duck, I dodge. I try to cross to the Tube entrance, to take cover within the musty-smelling cavity, but my way is blocked by the side of a bus proudly displaying a Mango advert. I avert my eyes, push through the stand-still cars, and breathe in relief as I run down the gritty stairs to the Tube.

The Dreaded Form

Months after I originally started researching my application for British Citizenship, I still haven't submitted the form. Why? A combination of procrastination, lack of funds, and... fear of forms.

I hate filling in forms of any kind, especially those with the designated boxes for each letter. I have a 'form phobia', I guess. My hand-writing has always been notoriously messy -- in primary school, I almost missed the school-bus once because I had to stay behind to practise the letter 'q'. Then there was the day I was deemed 'bright as a button, but oh, so messy.' (Yes, I am traumatized.) So being forced to constrain my letters within the neat lines of a box is scary.

I'm also petrified of making a mistake. What if I miss something out? What if I spell something wrong? This fear goes all the way back to when I was completing my university applications -- rumours were rife of people getting rejected simply because they wrote outside a box.

I hate forms. Forms hate me. We are not companionable. And if I ever want to be a British citizen, I need to face the dreaded form with the pen as my sword.

WAG: The Results

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group #11 was “Scaredy-Cat” Choose a stranger and observe him/her for a little while. Now give them a phobia. A full-on, jump on the chair, scream like a little girl, unreasonable fear.

And the results are...

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Dan Powell (New WAG Member!)
Alexia Brown (New WAG Member!)
Nancy Parra
Peter Spalton
Frances Wookey (New WAG Member!)
Christine Kirchoff
Nixy Valentine
Sharon Donovan
Melanie Trevelyan (New WAG Member!)
Iain Martin
J. M. Strother - Mad Utopia
Marsha
Carol

Next week’s Writing Adventure:
“WAG #12: Memory Lane” Thanks to Lulu for the topic idea! For this week, describe something by memory. It can be a place, a person, whatever you like. Include as much detail as you can as well as your impressions. If possible, then go and see this thing, and also describe how your memory of it was different from the current reality. What had you left out? It also might be interesting to include how your memory of it is different from someone else’s! No limits on this one! No rules to break!

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. Deadline: next Tuesday, May 19th.

WAG: Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid

This week's assignment was to pick a stranger and assign them a phobia. Over the course of my regular Monday-night journey to my writing group, I encounter many souls to which I could easily assign one phobia or another. But one particular individual stands out.

My writer's group is in Marylebone, central London. For me, this necessitates the Tube to Baker Street, then a 10-minute walk down one of my most hated streets in London: Marylebone Road. I hate, hate, hate Marylebone Road. The wide lanes of speeding traffic, the few and far between crossings where you only have about five seconds to scuttle across the road, the dreaded tourist-swamped Madame Tussaud's... all conspire to make this one of most unpleasant locations in London.

Last night was one of the windiest nights I can remember, making the walk even more hideous. I picked up my pace, practically running down the road. I noticed a man lumbering down the sidewalk ahead of me. He jerked to the right, then the left, then back to the right again, as if he was dodging invisible bullets. I looked behind me. Nothing there. Was he crazy, or was I? Was there something for which I, too, should be pulling evasive maneuvers?

I rubbed my eye, trying to dislodge an errant piece of pollen the wind had smacked into me. Then, I looked up. With every gust, pollen streamed from the leaves above, hurtling through the air like miniature bombs. I looked back to Zig-Zag Man, still cavorting in front of me. With all the grace of an elephantine ballet dancer, he was trying to shield his body from the raining pollen. Nose streaming, eyes running -- for him, pollen was the enemy, representing long nights in the no-man's land of the sofa so his other half could sleep, the constant invasion of the cough into his throat. He would not give in to its insidious ways; he would fight against it at all costs.

Sadly, though, resistance was futile. He was felled by a sneeze, and with an anguished snort he succumbed.

Five Years in London

Hard to believe that I've been here for five years. Yes, time has flown by, but in another way it feels like a lifetime since I've left Canada behind. I landed in London with no job, knowing no-one.

Five years and three jobs later (what can I say, I get bored easily), I feel like this city is my home. I'm doing what I love (writing -- the only thing which doesn't bore me!) and living with a man I love. It's a good life.

I didn't know what to expect when I first came here. I didn't have any expectations, really, other than I just wasn't ready to settle in Canada. I'd gone back to the homeland ready to find a job and get back to reality after a few blissful years in Europe. A year and another university degree later, I knew I couldn't stay. So I set my sights in England, where I get a working holiday visa and find a teaching job.

I met The Man the week after I landed, got a job a month later, and life just sorted itself out. Yes, there have been bumps along the way but I have never regretted my decision to come to England. It's been good to me, and London is the icing on the cake. There's so much to do in this great city -- much of it for free. It's the longest I've lived in one place since I left the city in which I was born, and quite honestly I can see myself here forever.

Five years ago, I arrived not knowing the future. I still don't know what's in store, but I know it's in London.

Birdsong

Quite honestly, I've got nothin' today, so I'll leave you with this advert which always succeeds in making me laugh.

London Love-In

For the past month I've been working away on a non-fiction project -- a London travel guide -- for a deadline of today. It's been a great deal of fun and hard work, and has completely rekindled my love for London. I always knew it was a great city, but researching art collectives, late-night plubs (a unique combination of pubs and clubs all in one) and quirky museums has really made it evident that London is a city like no other. Of course, nothing in London is really 'hidden' anymore, but if you're not a local with five years to uncover it, you're probably not going to find that 24-hour Italian cafe or the world's longest playing composition (1000 years).

It's ironic that all of this comes just days before my five-year London anniversary. I arrived in the city on May 11, 2004. When I left Ottawa, the trees were barely coming out and spring had only just started. In London, everything was green and the air was balmy. I remember the drive from Gatwick to my flat in Highgate through the early morning M25 traffic, the mist rising from the hills. Later that day I wandered down Camden High Street, filling my eyes with the grungy shoe shops, tatty market ware and the prerequisite punks -- and I couldn't help smiling. I was in London, everywhere I looked was something interesting, and I couldn't wait to start my new life.

Five years later, I still have the same sensation (although this time on Kensington High Street, in west London). I love being surrounded with the history of the city, the push and pull of people from around the world expressing themselves and trying to make their way. The fact that museums are free, that you can wander through plethora of markets city-wide, that you can part all night in an undeground vault... and more.

I love London!

Toast, Ostrich and Bran Flakes

When I'm writing, getting hungry is just plain annoying. These days, as I'm trying to get through a seemingly endless (albeit interesting) stream of information, I really can't be bothered to fiddle around in the kitchen, let alone leave my flat for supplies. So, I usually end up eating something cobbled together from various leftovers in the kitchen. This week, I think, I hit an all-time low.

Yesterday I had dried ostrich meat.

OK, so it was biltong from South Africa, brought home (and forgotten) by The Man, but still. What's worse is that I actually mixed the meat with the one remaining egg we had left to scramble. Sounds disgusting but actually, it wasn't too bad.

Today I resorted to toast sprinkled with Worcestershire sauce, since we were sans butter. And then there were the days last week when I plundered the (generic) Bran Flakes, tearing through the large box at the speed of light.

I think I need to get out more.

Bank Holidays = Rain

People go on and on about the unpredictability of British weather, but there's one thing of which you can be sure: when there's a bank holiday, there's rain.

Sure, it can be sunny for weeks on end before the long weekend. It can be sunny on the Saturday and Sunday. But Bank Holiday Monday? Clouds will appear as if by magic, and liquid will drop from the sky. It's as if you can't have one without the other.

Last May, the Man and I planned a long weekend in Devon a workmate's housewarming party. The workmate had just converted a barn in a small village and wanted to have a big outdoor feast. We left London in the pouring rain. It continued to Bristol, through Exeter and all the way to our small B&B in Coleford, where it finally let up. Fingers crossed it held off, we trekked down the winding country road to where the party was to be held. Mercifully, we had a few hours of respite - and even some blue sky! But the next day - Bank Holiday Monday, to be exact - poured so much we beat an early retreat back to London.

I leave you with a few photos of the elusive sun (from last year). I'd like to summarize what I did this year for the Bank Holiday but it's more conducive to sleeping than reading.



Strolling through deserted village (they were all at the party).

The country road to the party.



A small cottage we ran across on the way.

The Curious Case of the Misplaced World

Oops. I meant 'word'.

This has been happening to me with increasing frequency. My mind tells my fingers to write one word, but instead they end up typing a completely different one! It's not a typo. It's like my brains and hand are disconnected.

Today, I was writing an email in which I meant to write 'looking out my window'... it ended up as 'looking out my winter'.

Is this just me? Do I have wrong-word-itis? Is my hand struggling for power against my mind? And is there a cure?

(Oh - happy May Day!)

Wag #9: The Results

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group #9 was “Warning!”

And here are the results.

————————–

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Pallavi Agarwal (On Facebook)
Iain Martin
Peter Spalton
Nancy Parra
Nixy Valentine
Christine Segina (New WAG Member!)
Gunnar Helliesen
J. M. Strother - Mad Utopia
Christine Kirchoff
Sharon Donovan
Marsha

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

“WAG #10: The Professional” As we go through our days, we’re surrounded by people doing everyday jobs: the guy that reads the gas meter, cashiers, bank tellers, security guards, doctors, circus clowns… This week, your assignment is to observe someone doing a job (their profession should be one you don’t know that much about). Describe him/her and also what they’re doing, why they’re doing it (as best you can tell), and how. Feel free to use your imagination, but don’t forget the concrete observation! Special thanks to Lulu for this week’s topic idea!

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #10 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!) Deadline: next Tuesday, May 5th.

Want a Cool Accent? Just Have a Brain Operation!

I'm having a brain-dead day so I'll just leave you with this little gem from today's Independent.

BRAIN-OP ENGLISHMAN WAKES UP WITH FOREIGN ACCENT

Doctors were stunned when an Englishman awoke from a brain operation in the UK and started speaking with a thick Irish accent.

Chris Gregory was born and bred in Sheffield, Yorkshire, and has no family ties with Ireland.

But when he came round after three days on a life support machine in the intensive care unit, he spoke in a Dublin accent for almost half an hour.

Seeing his wife Mary standing at his bedside, the 30-year-old landscape gardener said: "You're the fabbest girl I know", and sung her a version of 'Danny Boy'.

But his accent had disappeared by the time relatives arrived at Sheffield's Royal Hallamshire Hospital the following day.

Now totally recovered, Chris and his new wife are planning to take a trip across the Irish Sea for the first time.

Mary, 36, said: "I just couldn't take it in at first, it seemed so comical, but it didn't matter at all because I'd been so worried about losing him altogether.

"Chris's Yorkshire accent had vanished completely, and he was talking like an Irishman all the time."

Specialists have linked the phenomenon to a little-known condition called Foreign Accent Syndrome which can affect the control of the lips, tongue and vocal cords in extremely-rare neurological cases.

Mr Gregory said: "I just don't a remember a thing about it - I wish I'd been able to listen to it all, but I don't have any recollection of what happened when I came round.

"I've never had any connection with Ireland or the Irish people, that's what makes it so odd, but I'm looking forward to going over there for the first time."

The syndrome was first discovered and named in Norway in 1941 when a young woman injured in a bombing raid woke up speaking with a German accent.

This article is from The Belfast Telegraph

What accent would you have, if you could choose?

WAG #9: Banoffee Pie Horror!

The assignment:

Choose an unfamiliar object (in other words, one you have no history with) that strikes you as beautiful, appealing, or somehow desirable etc… some ideas might be: a child, a sunset, an attractive shop window, a scenic view, a piece of art, an appetising meal in a restaurant… and write about it in such as way as to make it unappealing or even disgusting, frightening or repulsive to your reader.

My attempt:

It sits on the table, mocking me with its very presence. Squidgy bananas, soggy loaf and stringy, finger-sticking toffee -- who was the sicko that came up with that laughable combination? Its roundness is comically perfect, like a drop of goo flung onto a surface, thick enough to hold its ground. The cardboard-coloured cream icing, sitting rancidly atop, jealously guards its spoiled treasure.

Never have I detested banoffee pie more.

The Great Rubbish Bin Mystery

For the past few months, I've been plagued by the mystery of people rummaging through the rubbish bin across the street from my flat. I sit at my desk, look out my window, and watch normal-looking person after normal-looking person walk by the bin, take a rummage through, then walk off. What oh what is in there? Obviously not much, since I've never seen someone walk away with something. Yet day after day, it seems to drawn people in.

There aren't many rubbish bins on London streets -- many were removed in the 1980s after the IRA bomb attacks. So the rubbish bin is one of only a few on my very busy street. Still, surely that can't be enough excitement to merit a poke through its contents, can it? It's certainly not in my books, anyway.

One of my favourite bin-pokers is a small round man. He's balding on top but he's valiantly trying to make up for it by cultivating patches of curly hair on either side of his scrunched-up face. He trots past the bin at about 8 a.m., performs a search with great concentration, then trots off. He seems to enjoy it as much as anyone can enjoy rooting around in rubbish.

I could go over and take a look, I guess. But then, I'd be one of them. And who knows what happens once you succumb to the siren of the bin?

It's Crude to Be Rude

I was motivated to write this in reaction to something I witnessed today at my local Tesco's at Notting Hill Gate. In fact, I've witnessed similar incidents more than once: Customers deriding the staff who are only doing their jobs. It's dreadful to watch and, as a former member of the service industry, makes me very, very angry. In my previous part-time job, I was told to 'shut up', called 'stupid', and had my accent insulted. But I'm an educated woman with plenty of other options. I didn't need that job and could just laugh it off.

Most of the people who work at my Tesco's branch are immigrants. They probably don't have a lot of other choices available, and they likely don't make much money. They can speak English (at least all the ones I have encountered over my many visits there for the past five years). Yes, they do have bit of an accent. But it's not exactly a hindrance to scanning a grapefruit. Yet the number of times I have seen customers mock their accents or speak in loud patronising tones is cringe-worthy. And I'm certain those being mocked don't find it as easy to laugh off as I did when it happened to me.

I was standing in the queue with my £3 bottle of wine (among other things) when two men entered the store -- a big guy and his side-kick (possibly his son, but if so that's really messed up). Big Man jumps the queue -- a sin comparable to serial murder in British society -- and heads straight for the middle-aged Asian woman behind the till.

'Why couldn't 'e buy them cigarettes?' Big Man asks loudly in a strong East-End accent. He points toward Side Kick who's busy examining the floor.

The woman explains quietly and politely that it's Tesco store policy not to sell cigarettes to anyone unless they can prove they're over 18. I steal a glance at Side Kick, who looks about 16 max.

'I can't understand a word she's saying,' Big Man shouts back to Side Kick. Side Kick shrugs and the woman, now red-faced, repeats her explanation. The queue, by this time, has now grown exponentially and of course everyone is desperately trying not to look at the scene unfolding in front of us.

Big Man shakes his head. 'Nope, still don't get it.'

It's like a scene straight from 'Little Britain'. By this time the poor woman looks like she's about to burst into tears, and I'm about to clunk the idiot over the head with my wine. I don't want to break it, though.

'She said: HE CAN'T BUY CIGARETTES UNLESS HE CAN PROVE HE'S OVER 18!' I say loudly and clearly to Big Man before I can stop myself.

Big Man swivels to face me. He stares for a second then shouts over to Side Kick:

'Why does everyone in this bloody store have an accent?'

WAG #8: The Results

WAG #8 Results and WAG #9 instructions below. All are welcome to join next week’s adventure!

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group #8 was “Rose Colored Glasses“.

The results:

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Cora Zane
Nancy Parra
Peter Spalton
Christine Kirchoff
Gunnar Helliesen
Pallavi Agarwal (On Facebook)
DMW Carol
Marsha
Iain Martin
Lulu
Melanie Trevelyan

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

“WAG #9: Warning!” Last week the topic was to make something ugly sound beautiful, so this time let’s do the opposite! Choose an unfamiliar object (in other words, one you have no history with) that strikes you as beautiful, appealing, or somehow desirable etc… some ideas might be: a child, a sunset, an attractive shop window, a scenic view, a piece of art, an appetising meal in a restaurant… and write about it in such as way as to make it unappealing or even disgusting, frightening or repulsive to your reader. If you did last week’s topic as well (Rose Colored Glasses) I’d be very interested to know which of these was harder for you!

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #8 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!) Deadline: next Tuesday, April 28th.

WAG #8: Rose-Coloured Glasses

The assignment:

Go out and choose an unfamiliar object (in other words, one you have no history with) that strikes you as ugly, repulsive, annoying, etc… some ideas might be: a wad of squashed gum on the pavement, a dead squirrel on the side of the road, an ugly sign, a loud construction site, a tacky sculpture in a charity shop… and write about it in such as way as to make it appealing to your reader. Really sell it! Use whatever words you want and cheat as much as you want, but do your best!

Hm. I'm sitting here, struggling to think of something. Double hm. Triple hm. (Don't worry, I'm not going to go on in this vein for too long.) Well, I'm going to resort to something I saw last night on the Tube. You can always count on the London Underground for something repulsive.


The aromatic fumes grab my nostrils and turn my head. A succulent bit of roasted beef pokes out of a brightly coloured carton. Kermit-green lettuce clings artistically to its side and little bits of meat-mess adorn the bun. Oh, the perfectly toasted, golden bun. Sure, it's half gone but that just makes it that much more valuable.

My belly grumbles in response. Um, um... Burger King.


Right, I just need to make it clear that I DID NOT eat this. Yuck-o.

An Wardrobe Guide to Nationality

The city has come to life again after its long grey winter. Tourists are back (not that they ever went away) and bare skin is being, well, bared.

Sitting in the park yesterday and sipping my white wine, I devised an interesting game (for me - The Man soon tired): What nationality? Using only what the person was wearing as a guide, we would try to determine from where the individual hailed. The only drawback was that: a. Said person had to be speaking as they walked by so we could hear their accent/language; and b. We had to know enough of that language to identify it or the accent.

Here are my observations (yes, yes, it's a stereotype, I know):

Americans: Very easily identifiable, mostly because of their shoes. White sneakers, on both men and women. I have yet to see a British person wear white sneakers (or trainers, as they're called here). Also fanny packs (known as bum bags here - 'fanny' here means, er, the frontal part).

Canadians: Who knows? I can't actually tell the difference between a Canadian and an American accent. But mostly like Americans, I guess (treasonous, I know).

Italians: Sunglasses, sunglasses, sunglasses. Big ones. Jeans and short trendy jackets.

Spanish: Lots of clothes. The temperatures in London are equivalent to their winter.

French: Scarves. Tied in the way that only French people can tie them.

Polish: Red hair. I will never understand why a 60-year-old woman (for example) would want carroty red hair. It's a mystery to me.

Arab: Well, the head-scarves were a bit of a giveaway, although that doesn't necessarily make them Arabs.

Thus we exhausted our linguistic knowledge.

Hidden London: Cheshire Street

Graffiti on a door in Cheshire Street, East London.

It's been awhile since I've posted about my beloved adopted city, so I figured to get back on track I would post about Cheshire Street - just off of Brick Lane - in East London. I'm not sure how 'hidden' it is, given the amount of market stalls and shops, but I'm guessing most tourists don't even know it's there.

It's easy to get caught up in the hubbub that is Brick Lane on a Sunday afternoon. But if you take a dive away from the curry houses, you are rewarded with stalls flogging everything from cheap underwear to £5 plimsolls. Fresh fruit is sold alongside tatty leather jackets and vintage shops line the street. It's a totally different vibe than West London - in fact, you feel like you're in a different country. The infamous Kray Twins once owned a pub there and Reggie Kray's funeral procession even went down the street.

You could easily spend the whole afternoon on that one grubby stretch. But curry fumes were calling, and eventually we succumbed...

Tip: Check out vintage shops I Dream of Wires and Beyond Retro.

Multi-Task? Me?

Back in my university days, I was the Queen of Multi-Tasking (if I do say so myself). I was a member of the university track team, the president of my sorority (yes, I know, laugh if you must) and had a part-time job in my last year. Not to mention my near-obsession with getting good marks (Type A and all that). I juggled everything without even thinking about it.

--End bragging--

I look back at my former self with awe, because now that I'm writing full-time I find my multi-tasking abilities have deserted me. I used to be able to go from running in a track meet, to studying for a Spanish exam, to chairing a meeting -- all with no problem. Now I can barely switch between two projects! Whatever has happened to me?

I like to think it's not me, it's the writing. Creating is all-absorbing, not to mention tiring. It's hard to immerse yourself so fully in one world, pull out to another, and then dip a toe back in. I'm finding I'm not able to dip a toe. I need to spend a few hours -- at least -- to do anything productive.

I admire those writers who can edit multiple projects at a time. But multi-tasking, for me, is not an option. I'd love to hear from other writers. Do you work on lots of different projects at the same time? Do tell!

Good Things Come in Strange Packages

The show is more well known for dancing dogs and other oddities, but this clip from 'Britain's Got Talent' proves that it's not debatable - Britain has got talent. It's just how it's packaged that's the problem.

Susan Boyle, 47, says she lives alone with her cat, has never been married and has never been kissed. She can barely string together a coherent sentence. Her dream to be a famous singer seems laughable -- until she opens her mouth. This clip is a firm reminder that talent can come in many shapes and sizes, and that sometimes dreams can come true.

Enough schmaltz for today! But watch the video - it is heartwarming.

Back to the (Blessed) Daily Grind

I may have mentioned before that I am a big fan of routine. Without my writing routine, I putter about aimlessly, waste time and find other, more interesting things to do -- like clean the kitchen floor, for example. I need routine to anchor me.

The past few days have been action packed with everything from Spring Awakening (brilliant, by the way) to tree climbing in Hyde Park (not recommended). But I still missed my routine -- my morning coffee at 7:30, daily tweeting and then settling down at my desk to being the daily slog (or flight) towards 3,000 words. The Easter 'holiday' brought home to me how much I really do love my writing life.

As my brain is still revving, I thought I'd share with you some photos from the past few days.

The stage before the start of Spring Awakening.

Cheshire Street, off of Brick Lane, East London.

Tower Bridge.

Turkish Delight at Spittalfields Market, East London.


Kensington Gardens. Note the added feature of steam rising from the forbidden pile.

Rowing on the Serpentine Lake, Hyde Park, where an offering of a mobile phone was made (involuntarily) to the goddess of the lake.

The monstrosity that is the Egyptian Escalator at Harrods.

No Sign of Life

I'd love to post a witty and amusing update on my London Easter, but unfortunately I'm brain-dead from a weekend of speaking in French and pidgin Arabic. My brain is currently resetting and regularly scheduled programming will recommence tomorrow.

Happy Easter!

The next few days will be packed with houseguests from Egypt, France and the North (hey, it's like another country up there anyway!), so I likely won't have time to post until Tuesday.

So... Happy Easter! Have a great long weekend.

WAG #6: The Results

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group #6 was “Overheard”.

Don’t forget! The Writing Adventure Group is on Facebook. Join us there too, and get weekly reminders so you never miss an adventure.

And the results are...

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Cora Zane
Adam Heine
Christine Kirchoff
Nancy J Parra
Mickey Hoffman
Sharon Donovan
Iain Martin
Criss
Lulu
Jon Strother
Marsha
Carol

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

WAG #6: Imaginings. This one is people-watching with a twist. Observe a stranger and sketch a brief background for them, including a secret. Then describe why they are in that particular place at that particular time (where you ran into them) and how it will affect their future. Feel free to be creative, but don’t forget to describe the concrete reality that made you pick them in the first place! (Thank you to Christine Kirchoff for this week’s WAG topic!)

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #7 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!)

Deadline: next Tuesday, April 14th.

WAG #6: Overheard

In all the excitement of last night's UFO, I forgot (gasp) to do my WAG! This week's assignment was to write about a conversation you overheard.

The following conversation takes place between a young couple, standing on top of the Pillow Mound and staring up at White Horse Hill. They have strong Essex accents (think Vicki Pollard but from Essex) and disgruntled expressions.

Man (shielding his eyes): Is that it?

Woman: That bloody well better not be it.

Man: We've been had. That's not a horse. That's a bleeding squiggle.

Woman: What the F$&^? It looks like a McDonald's logo.

Man: Stupid Iron Age.

Woman: Maybe they had different horses back then?

Man casts Woman a withering look and they toddle down the Mound.

Man (half-way down the Mound): I wonder if they had beer?

Unidentified Foreign Object

The Man arrived home today with a lovely, squidgy package he received from a client in Rome. Wrapped in green foil, we prodded and poked it as we debated what it could be. Cheese? Coffee? Chocolate? Our minds whipped through the possibilities like kids grabbing candy at a sweet shop.

'I think it's a soft toy,' The Man said, trying to downplay our expectations.

'Naw.' I was sure any self-respecting Italian would never give someone a soft toy. It must be something to eat. Something delicious.

Sniffing the air for clues, we tore open the wrapping. Only to reveal...

OK, so it's a bad picture. But the reality isn't any more illuminating. Is it cake? Is it bread?

We squinted at the tag to try to shed some light. Of course, it's in Italian.

So there it sits, forlornly, on the table.

Our own little UFO.

The Voices Inside My Head

Re-reading Stephen King's On Writing, I came across a sentence that really rang true for me. The first draft, we write to tell ourselves the story. The second draft, we tell others the story.

Right now, I'm 55,000 words into a first draft of a novel. I have no idea how it's going to end! My protagonist has a choice to make. I know what I'd like her to do; I'm just not sure if it's right for her. I tried to plan the whole novel before I started writing, but I didn't feel like I knew her well enough to make the decision. I still don't, but I'm edging closer. I hope by the time I reach that point, she'll do it for me.

Sound schizo? It is, in a way. Characters tend to do things that you never suspected; that you didn't even know they wanted to do. Sometimes when I'm writing, I think: Where did that come from? I love that feeling, as if they're alive and exercising their control.

Ah, the voices inside my head. Am I telling myself the story, or are they telling it to me? (Hums the theme to the Twilight Zone...)

London Today

Kensington Gardens.


Vicarage Gate, W8.

What Day is it Again?

It's finally spring in London. Leaves are tentatively unfurling; pale winter skin braves the soft sunshine. As I shimmied down the street to the local M&S for my evening meal (yes, my life is just that exciting), I noticed my local pub was so full, punters were spilling out onto the street. What's going on? I thought. Then, I remembered: it's Friday.

Remember those delicious days during the summer when you were young? The days that just passed by, unremarkable except for perhaps a rain shower here or a thunderstorm there? Without a reason to leave the house for anything except play, there was no need to know a Monday from a Wednesday.

Without a 'regular' job now, there is seldom anything to mark the difference for me between weekday and weekend. When I was in the corporate world, each day was duly counted off until the wonderful Friday arrived. Friday night was the height of bliss, knowing that two whole days of freedom lay ahead; Sunday night was the depths of gloom, for coming quickly was another heavy week to struggle through.

Now, every morning when I wake up, I feel a trace of that holiday-like excitement. I have the whole day to do what I want --write! Who cares what day it is? Although not every day is a joy (and sometimes I want to bang my head against my desk until an idea falls out), at least I am in control of me and my life -- no matter what day it is!

**I reserve the right to retract this post at any time in the future, should I feel the urge to return to the corporate world. Well, you never know!**

WAG #5: The Results

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group #5 was “Life in Motion”.

Don’t forget! The Writing Adventure Group is on Facebook. Join us there too, and get weekly reminders so you never miss an adventure.

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Cora Zane
Iain Martin
Christine Kirchoff
Nancy J Parra
Sharon Donovan
Nixy Valentine
Lulu
Jon Strother
Marsha Moore

Next week’s Writing Adventure:
“WAG #6: Overheard” Another people-watching exercise this week! This time, let’s listen! Choose a stranger and do your best to overhear what they say, and then write it down. It can be on the phone, to someone else, or even them talking to themselves. What does their voice, word choice, or tone tell you about them? Feel free to write their exact words OR write it as you would for fictional dialogue.

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #6 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!)

Deadline: next Tuesday, April 7th.